… “Nature is not a place to visit. It is home.” — Gary Snyder
Clackamas River — Oregon
~ inspired in part, by Gary Snyder’s “How Poetry Comes to Me” ~
Peering over cliff’s edge
into the glass-green stream
down river
from the cascading falls
I watch trout
slide in
then out
of the soft break of a bolder’s shadow
across the stone canyon
cut by this persistence of current
an Osprey alights
treetop
a focused sentinel
measuring the timing
and tactic
of his imagined next meal
drawn by this breathtaking canyon
down the steep stone face
through the White Aspen
Douglas Fir
giant Golden Chinquapin
and Oregon Madrone
I descend
keeping a steady pace
bent-knee’d and cautious
with boot tread
and leather palm
I throttle and steer
through an ample incline
of base gravel
I’m followed
by a fine dusted slide
of clattering pebbles
and dry conifer needles
down down
I come
to a stream-side grass patch
then alertly
hop — rock to rock
‘cross the dance of crystal chill stream
to a small clearing
Pearsony Falls — Oregon
in this wilderness canyon
midst the quiet rush
of the Clackamas waters
the hushed murmur
of breeze
through tall Ponderosa bough
and the ambiance
of living breathing nature
I make camp
here to rest
and meditate
in this sacred realm
of the 4 directions
mesmerized by this eden
Vale’s Bend, Clackamas River — Oregon
an unburdening begins
in commune with the 4 elements
with the forested earth
the brisk mountain air
the pure clear waters
of glacial melt
and I
have brought the fire
The Narrows, Clackamas River — Oregon
night falls
star-cast and chill
settled by this night’s fire
I sense spirits approaching
carefully
rip’ling ‘cross the crisp white water
hesitant over the moonlit boulders
staying just outside my campfire’s light
just out of clarity
my muse invites them
to come
to join
inside the ring of light
in my heart
I feel words
whispering like a song
I listen openly
carefully
peacefully surrendering
to the inspiration
for which I’ve come
I breath out
a quiet thank you
then I write
as these words
begin falling to my paper
“ And the seasons, they go round and round, and the painted ponies go up and down — we’re captive on the carousel of time” — The Circle Game, Joni Mitchell
“The Carousel” — Anne Wipf
Sitting, lost in a daydream, when through the deep caves of thought I hear a voice that sings — “we’re captive on the carousel of time, we can’t return, we can only look behind…” Briefly disoriented, I remember that I’ve been listening to music, to Joni Mitchell’s live album. She is singing “Circle Game”.
I fall again, deep into thought, now contemplating my life, how the years have spun by, wild as a top — faster ever faster. It’s left its patina etched deeply into my face. I’m no longer a young man. At 75, I’ve known triumph and tragedy, both left their mark. I’ve borrowed, bought, and sold — strayed through several shades of grey. But have I leveraged away my soul, just to play this fleeting game? Is all I’ve lost worth what I gained? Am I happy? Questions begin spinning round, and round, and round.
“It’s no use going back to yesterday, because I was a different person then”.
Through the Looking Glass — Lewis Carroll
Photo by Brooke Shaden
When Nancy seeks worlds fantastic
beyond wonderland she’ll go
her imagination is so elastic
her spirit so enthusiastic
she opens and lets her mindscape flow
to magical fanciful ports of call
no longer merely earthly mortal
she floats high above the dreamer’s wall
in wing-ed fantasy’s enthrall
she flits through mystery’s portal
she sees visions quite enchanted
worlds her rich dreams beget
marvels she takes not for granted
forever in her soul implanted
wonders she will not forget
“Well do (you) know what it’s like to have a graveyard as a friend,‘cos that’s where they are boy, all of them. Don’t seem likely I’ll get friends like that again”.
Talking Old Soldiers — Elton John, Bernie Taupin
“Autumn By The Lake” — Leonid Afremov
L ife’s too short and passes fast
we hold on tight to make it last
the ones we love leave too soon
quickly as an afternoon
of a splendid day in fall
that we struggle to recall
life’s too short and passes fast
we hold on tight to make it last
as memory grows overcast
the heart longs for the times that passed
as life’s moments fade away
sadly nothing can belay
the fog that settles with time
dulling what was once sublime
as memory grows overcast
the heart longs for the times that passed
R elentless din of crawling prowling night
pours steaming through my window
midnight intrudes damp and searing
insistent
scalded air too hot and thick to breathe
the full moon — sweats
a heat to suffocate
blades beat and drone overhead
promising relief
in vain
sweltered darkness lays heavy upon me
unbearable
I toss in labored half-sleep
gasping for cool relief
restless
I inhale deep to fill my lungs
seeking satisfying breath
only to bake them in cruel heat
no relief
salted droplets trace my spine
baste my neck
pool in the hollow of my fevered chest
bloom and seep
from beneath the smother
of matted soak atop my head
to weep their way ‘cross smoldering brow
into my eyes
and sting
in this nocturnal furnace
night clings and stifles
even dreams are scorched
simmering in August
what’s with all this buzzing chatter
you’re bump and thump and all a’clatter
worrying with the frontporch light
steaming on this august night
such racket over a minor matter
Passion —
let it flare fire red
red as the doors
of back alley Paris
that conceal the carnal
intertwined
on a star-burst night
in the velvet grip
of sweating conquest
ripe with release
coursing with hunger
for the tender flesh
of reckless youth
white hot
as a deflowered bride
burning with the lust
of an august first-night
impaled on the horn
of promise and desire
there will be no truth
in these minglings
only raw bleeding need
and the quenchless thirst
for bittersweet
forbidden nectar
so when you hear
the whispers whispered
know that it was so
and so it will remain
in the lithe loins
of the skin slaves
aflame
behind the Paris red doors
“The Earth is a very small stage in a vast cosmic arena” — Carl Sagan
There is a break in the tree line, behind my former home in Oregon, opening onto a secluded path, which winds up into the forested foothills of Mt Hood. I love to walk on moonlit nights, wandering up through the towering trees. About a half mile trek, along the trail, lit by moonlight, filtered dreamlike through the canopy, brings me to a hidden lake. It nestles captivatingly in a clearing, embraced by a stand of proud Ponderosa’s. Secreted loons eerily lodel. The absence of any light pollution, allows the night sky to explode brilliantly, full of stars.
I love to perch on the trunk of a downed cedar, fallen by the lake’s edge. I gaze up into the night sky, expanding out forever above me. The moon paints the intimate woodland dell in a soft sterling glow. It is a serene, almost sacred experience. And the stars, so many stars — billions and billions of stars, sparkling and spangling and glittering to eternity! It is absolutely breathtaking! And this spectacle is captured, in crystalline clarity, by the mirrored surface of the lake. Above me, below me, as far as I can see — star-clustered infinity. I’m transfixed in a dream, lost in time, mesmerized – adrift in the cosmos.
a night sky of stars
reflecting like diamonds
on a mirrored lake
