Viral Morning

Morning rises in day speckles
multifaceted green hue and blend.
Trees tall of evergreen break
the blue sky into silhouettes –
pointy pine needle etchings
carved into patches of bright sky
still cold from the chill night.

All in a spring morning –
bird call, little girl scream
delighted bike riding fast
leaving parents behind on the road.
Verdant vegetative bursting, virus
spreading, water seeping down
to seas and shadowy depths.

Morning and the green filtered
sky cannot hold the silence –
waiting and fear falling as rain.
I hold these in my own green life
through this lovely and cold
viral spring morning.


Portland, Oregon – May 6, 2020

 

Dawning Day

In deep night, darkened sleep
I sail on the spectral wings of phantoms
who carry me to enthralling realms
dizzying orbits of dreams loosened
from the moorings of time
spinning in an ocean of space.

The pale light of morning presses
against the shuttered glass, the quiet,
when even birds do not yet call.
I open my eyes to a shimmer –
darkness leaving without a word, in silence,
as portents of labyrinthine sleep
order themselves into the light of day.

So often, as sleep vanishes into fading night
I wish a few moments more
for I doubt the meaning of the day before me
wonder if it will be kind?
Shake it off, illusion of night!
The day dawns new as never before
I in it, I it’s being with all else in it –
light, sacred, enchanting – without end.


Portland, Oregon – September 11, 2018

“Only that day dawns to which we are awake.” Henry David Thoreau, Walden.

Seal Rock Morning

Seal Rock Mornng

I know what is out there –
the ocean and its profound depth
pounding in waves against headlands
rolling in swells beyond horizons.

This morning an enveloping gray
shrouds the deathless reaches –
waves press upon the shore,
white billow sprays follow
perfect curls of falling water shattering
as blue crystal on crystalline fine grains of sand;
beyond, the slow rise and fall of deep water
tidal motion in moon drift.

What is faith if not remembering
brilliant blue beneath an azure sky?
More than this.  Nothing without this –
the implacable gray veil
masking infinite swells,
blue in the colored world
gray on an oceanside morning
black in the deep night sky.


Central Oregon Coast – August 20, 2016

Photo is my own, taken August 20, 2016 over Seal Rock beach, Oregon.

Tahoma – White River Morning

DSCN0018

Morning fire at White River camp.

Tahoma’s face in glacial ice
blooms over the still camping ground –
a volcanic flower rising
above the valley, in cedar
blanketed, in fir, spruce, hemlock;
it opens in ridged fields of ice,
as petals in colors of snow
unfolding on drowsing campers
who wake in frigid morning slate,
yawning beneath the evergreens
as first light through the dawn filters.

Awake, awake! Time waits for you.
Blow your mortal breath on these sticks
until hesitant flames quicken
into the life and warmth you seek.

White River’s silted grit and seethe
hidden in shadows of cold dawn
rushes in crumbling rock and scrub.
In her rumbling and scurried flow
she waits for none who stir their fires;
spreads herself over valley floor
gathering gravel, stones, boulders
into thunking cacophony
telling of time and its passing
to the Salish sea and beyond.

Awake, awake! Time will not wait
for you to blow on your morning fire.
A path leads across the river
to the high country camping ground.


Portland, Oregon – April 28, 2016

“Tahoma” is one of the native tribal names for what is commonly called Mt. Rainier (Washington state -USA). “Ti’Swaq” is the name chosen by the Alliance to Restore Native Names. It means “the sky wiper” because it touches the sky.

The photo of Tahoma and the White River valley is my own, taken from White River campground on a late summer day.

The Universe

The universe wanders in dark fields
spreading flaming stars
as poppies strewn broadcast
flung on the breadth of emptiness
breathing being into the still alone
crystalline expanse, the emptiness
and the all.

Mornings waken in twirling reels
reflecting light from spinning worlds
twilight seas of streaming currents
thrill the shimmering cold and dark
in sensuous flow, rhythmic
without impedance friction
barrier resistance,

except –  a memory,

a chaotic dream before awakening, urgent,
of birth without will
or desire to be;
desiring the silence, still,
without time, space, or need.

But came the spark from nowhere
uncalled for unsheathed flame
without mercy touching
the silver ball
blasting it to bits,
flinging it far
casting it out
never to return.

If I look into the night sky
or through the fragrant flowers of spring
I sense a being not unlike myself
wandering in unknown fields
spellbound in majesty
riding currents of soft air
into a dark, open, limitless space.


Portland, Oregon – May 10, 2016

Broken Has Morning

Broken has morning
every morning past –
once whole days
shattered into billions of memories;
blasted into archives
of paper, pixel, sound wave
receding far into space
gone.

All the mornings
brilliant streams of light
held hands, prayer hands;
sunlight on the wall –
fluttering light
from the open window
and blown curtain.

Broken has morning
giving the new day
again fresh in January cold
dripping fir, birch, cedar
just like the first morning.


Portland, Oregon – January 31, 2016