The green grass of spring become flaxen yellow remnant lining the drive and the stony paths. I did not cut the grass as I have done but let it be. It lived wild for a time among weedy things and dandelions. The dandelions flower still towering about the wilted grass. Which are lovelier I cannot say. Perhaps it means little to write of dead grass and dandelions. Yet here they are along the drive. _____________________________________________________ Portland, Oregon - August 9, 2022
The Wall
Mornings I sit, facing the wall within silence but for birds. It is a practice I observe after rising to meet the day. Before me, the wall in dull paint yet it is my past and future I see streaming by as if in a parade until I breathe and see again the wall. They've all gone before me who've sat facing the wall - Buddha, Jesus, Francis, Julian. What did they see when in mornings they woke? ‐----------------------------- Portland, Oregon - August 2, 2022
Nature
We shall take a walk in the woods where nature we will meet in fern and fir and wildflower where fungi blooms abundantly. There will be wildlife as well hidden in growth below stealing about without a sound or cracking sound of branch above. If we have not woods to roam then may we search the heavens for nature blooming brilliantly in starlight forests strewn. I would have the woods to walk when I can and if I'm able. If not I'll turn my aged eyes to fields of night where stars are born. ‐---------------‐----------------------------------- Portland, Oregon - July 27, 2022
The Stars
They are more than we imagined –
the breathless born stars;
infinitely more aswirl
galaxies spinning and wild!
What our eyes cannot see
we might have fathomed to be
if only we had the darkest night skies
through which to see the heavens
splayed out in silent glory.
We have but poor vision
poorer desires, poorer hopes.
We illumine the night to see
only ourselves playing and longing
on the parched fields of earth.
We think it cold out there
closing our windows to the night
pulling down the shades
turning out the lights
that we may sleep and dream
of stars and worlds far away.
‐‐—————————-
Portland, Oregon – July 19, 2022
Thinking of the recently revealed images taken from the newest space telescope. Also thinking of Vincent Van Gogh’s, Starry Night. I believe he saw, mystic that he was, what was really out there.
Fellows
Some with whom we walk we know - our familiar companions in life. Then there are those we do not know who walk before, behind or even beside us whose faces and names only others know. Who are they who walk with me but those who share what I think to be my solitary path - not the same, never the same - like unto mine, who, if asked, would nod their heads, knowing? I can imagine their faces turned to me with smiles of sadness or simple nods understanding that we will never meet, not in this life, these days or hours, but at a time, God only knows. I must thank them for being here with me these fellows whose faces I'll never see. We have all been given a length of cord stretching through our labyrinthine ways that others will take up when we are gone. ________________________________________________________ Portland, Oregon - July 12, 2022
In Between
On this summer's eve I am
not where I was or would -
in between there and then -
spring gone autumn calling.
When will I rest in this place
between where my thoughts go -
memory or expectation -
and find peace within myself?
Does it exist, that sanctuary
for my body and soul, my heart?
Is there a haven where wars end
where suffering has no home?
Now the sun is setting and still,
as evening turns to night, I wonder
if now is just a place in between
or the place I've always longed for?
‐‐----‐-------------------------------------------
Portland, Oregon - June 23, 2022
Fox Sparrows
They winter here beneath
the snowberry thicket
as if it was their home.
In late spring they fly away.
To where, I do not know.
I will wait for their return
when autumn turns to gold
with cold coming strong winds
when again, beneath the thicket,
they will poke and plod about.
I like to think they know me
these little brown skittish birds
who scurry about under the pine.
I do not know that they do not
know me nor do I need to know.
-------------------------------
Portland, Oregon - May 26, 2022
Living Words
They are unspoken
written not nor rhymed.
Living words telling tales -
Sounds of wind, wave susurrus
in deep green valleys,
on rocky headland shores.
Breaching leviathan hisses
herds drumming the tall grasses
breeding in blooms of life
among an enthralled audience
of rock, thistle, coral, and star.
How they love to hear the sounds!
__________________________________
Portland, Oregon - May 24, 2022
The Green Gate
Through the green gate grazes
the setting sun on pastures of blue.
Beyond the thicket wall spins
the world round its radiant hue.
Within, it is still across the garden
where I sit in evening repose.
This evening silent solace
serene in the last lights of day.
Let it stop that I may catch
the whirl, the wild, and the wind -
to see the green gate open
on a world transfigured and reborn.
___________________________________
Portland, Oregon - May 19, 2022
The Secret Cause
There is a secret about our lives hidden in our days and dreaming nights. It lies before us having been born when we were born and began. It is the path where no one has ever gone and no one will ever go again, the one we make for ourselves each moment when we think no one knows or cares. Each step a choice among the thousand choices picking our way through briars and brambles on a way that once seemed clear and straight but now we are lost on tortuous holy grounds. We find ourselves in the thrall of liminal space held within the arms of broken time where the past flies fast away where what comes we cannot always choose. Shall we believe in the lives we've led given all arguments to the contrary? We must. We must hold to the way we began when we fell from darkness into light. We do not know the secret cause travelling with us through our days though it is ours alone, our dear companion, cherished and named - our soul. ___________________________________________________________________ Portland, Oregon - April 25, 2022 This, from Joseph Campbell in "Thou Art That, Transforming Religious Metaphor:" "The secret cause of your death is your destiny. Every life has a limitation, and in challenging the limit you are bringing the limit closer to you, and the heroes are the ones who initiate their actions no matter what destiny may result. What happens is, therefore, a function of what the person does. This is true of life all the way through. Here is revealed the secret cause: your own life course is the secret cause of your death."
In Cascadia 