Deodar

deodora-2

“We wish to become a pine tree with the wind singing in our branches, because we believe that a pine tree does not suffer.” Thich Nhat Hanh, The Heart of the Buddha’s Teaching.


We live under the canopy of the Deodar
with long, horizontal, drooping branches
overreaching our home, calming our senses;
a green and lush canopy of cedar stillness
in graceful boughs, undulating, breathing
with each push of air, each alighting bird.

How little we know of life in our several seasons
but that we care, we love, and we suffer.
We imagine what may yet bring suffering
and with every stir of a portending wind –
flutter, breeze, gust, or gale –
we search for ways out of its grasp.

Over us the Deodar resides, layered
in long limbs hovering in somber reaches,
from whose masses of green and gray
come solace for suffering as it suffers not.
From its heights it drips rain in nourishing showers
wafts about it a green swirl of silence
like whispering words about living and dying,
of nirvana and the end of suffering.


Portland, Oregon – February 17, 2017

The Deodara cedar is common in Cascadia and in our own yard in which two younger versions are ascending to 20-30 feet near the giant in my photo.  Interesting that the name “Deodar” is from the Hindi deod ā r < Sanskrit devad ā ru, equivalent to deva god + d ā ru wood, or, “wood of the gods.” The OED uses “timber” of the gods.  This noble appellation is apparently given due to the hardness and durability of the wood.  Nice to know!

Photo is my own, taken on February 17, 2017

Concentric Circles of Life

Round – the ageless and infinite womb
where from stars spun, worlds emerged,
when forms of light and dark came dripping
wet with blood and the waters of birth.

Birthed, blue-green cloud enshrouded
eons of grass growth and sea flow
millennia in pursuit of thought and love
beyond what creation requires.

Blessed land, sea to shining sea,
buffalo grounds, salmon rivers, first peoples –
stolen, ravaged without mercy
justice silent in the sacred fields.

Winter in Cascadia’s volcanic heart
beaten by Pacific ocean surge and tide;
lulled in the whisper winds of desert
lost but to those who hear its voice.

City in steel glass gridded paved and numbered
bleeding into rivers, Columbia and Willamette –
names without meaning for waters
emptying into the one ocean of life.

Sticks and stones on bare ground
space for holding human life rhythms
awestruck lives moving under a vast canopy –
stars in the night sky, luminous days of glory.

My wife – lovely in age and grace –
sharing sacred ground, soft wet skies
years flinging us about, dropping us here
from places we once knew – memories.

Grandchild coming to be a young woman
growing before adoring family eyes –
giving her this world, making it safe for her
before she sets out upon its seven seas.

My own orbit spinning about
in the garden, among the words
often lost, forgetting the names
walking about, looking around.

God.  Somewhere, in faith desired –
angel whose face we cannot see
spirit hovering close, unknown
immanent, like soft breathing, near.


Portland, Oregon – January 26, 2017

Tender Repose of Our Ancestors

This piece is my reflection on the concluding line of my poem “Continuous Awareness” (January 23, 2017).  I published it but did not know precisely what the line meant.  It simply “felt” right.


Words entered my fingers without thought
in the evening cold, begotten
as if from the pregnant and shivering air.
“Tender repose of our ancestors…”
where forgotten times and stilled loves
become created life again, speaking.

Words work themselves out of our past
try to say who we are, what we mean,
speak of roads we might travel
remind us of those we must travel alone.
They stumble, fail, fall short of the mark,
tell of promontories seen only in dreams,
memory shards of orchards in spring sunlit bloom,
cold light of blue dusk in a wintry wood.

What did I mean when I wrote the words?
They.  They live in my presence
suggesting words for remembrance –
what they saw, wished for, passed on
so to live in the light of the glory world.

What might I do for them this night
but write as they tell me in words?
They fall to me, drifting into time –
nothing more but to catch them when they come.


Portland, Oregon – February 3, 2017