My mom, Raynette Forister Eitel, passed away in September of 2022, age 85, drifting away into dementia. It was tragic to watch this woman who loved words, who was a poet, fade away into wordlessness after a lifetime of crafting poetry. To honor her, I’m sharing some of her poems. To read more of her poems, keep coming back here.
We grew up in Colorado Springs, at the foot of Pikes Peak. That lovely mountain dominates the city with its beautiful blue skirt, pink top, and snowy-white hair. A scar near the base, from an old gravel pit, hardly detracts from its beauty (but even as a little girl, I hated that someone had defaced it even a little). Every winter a team of climbers summit the mountain and, when we ring in the New Year down below, they set off fireworks from the Peak that, on a clear night, can be seen all the way to Kansas. The white blanket of snow reflects the glorious lights from the fireworks. You really should make a point of seeing it once.
I learned to ski on that mountain. Every day as I grew up, I ran to look out at the Peak from the window of our home and never ceased to marvel at it.
Queen Mountain (published in Colorado Springs Free Press, 1961)
by Raynette Eitel
She stands silently,
Smiling down upon us.
Sun and snow she tosses
Down and down forever,
Her gift of love—as though
She doesn’t hear our grumbles,
Grinding our teeth at nature.
Griping that it’s blowing,
Growling at the snowflakes.
She slumps shamefully,
Half her sparkling crown
She loses to machinery—
Scrape, scrape, screeching
Up her very self, it tears
And scratches a pathway
So nosy, noisy beings
Can strain and swear and
DAMN their heating autos, and
DON their winter jackets, and
DELVE into a snowbank.
She scoffs searingly.
At those who reach her summit,
Squinting down upon us—
The valley-her domain.
She cloaks her highway richly,
Wrapping ermine clouds securely,
Chuckling as cars chug downward—
The drivers, flatland farmers,
Fearful lest they fall.
She sighs sleepily—
Her crown a fire of fury
As King Midas comes to call.
And now no more invasions
Save us who love her beauty
Born of golden glory,
Mingled with dark pine trees,
Reaching for the sky.
She sleeps softly.
Covered, oh, so gently
With Heaven’s great white blanket
Unspoiled by any touch.
And to one more invasion,
She shows but cold indifference.
Bold men in annual pilgrimage
Can’t intrude upon her rest.
She stirs slightly—
Her crown in all its glory
With blazing jewels exploding,
Their colors flashing skyward,
And we stand staring upward,
Our hearts bowed down and prayerful
Praise Hosanna for this mountain!
Writing Rhetorically 