Moon of the Red Blooming Lilies

Outside my window grows the summer
sweet garden – resplendent, redolent, still
in the morning dew damp chill.
She does not know about the hours, how
a clock tick captures in mechanical tock.

She knows the sun’s arc, pouring
rain, warm sweet laying ground
under silver white moon urge
tide surge and nights sweeping
over flowers unfolding in rose, lavender,
sweet pea, all the tall grasses –
unfettered by segmented time
broken moments of loss or dread.

I?  I know about time, succumb
as if it were my only
spun and twirling destiny.
What few seasons come and go
that we bloom –
flowers of creation’s fertile desires –
Unfolding under the moon
of the red blooming lilies
without time but this.


Portland, Oregon – July 9, 2016

My title, “Moon of the Red Blooming Lilies” comes from my recent reading of Bury My Heart At Wounded Knee, a classic telling of the tragic story of the destruction of the native peoples of this land, from the side of those who were destroyed.  The author, Dee Brown, does a masterful job of telling the story.  He often added the names of seasons as the native peoples called them.  In this case, the “moon of the red-blooming lilies” corresponds roughly to July.  It is a book I should have read long ago and recommend highly.

 

Tahoma – White River Morning

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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.

What Waits?

What is it waits for me to do
when all I cannot do?

Before me lie gardens of green and time
fertile, spring sweetened in the evening
when my life, blown as wild grasses,
bends westerly towards the sea.
Even the moon, three-quarters in the night sky,
sends me a line on a cascading arc
to pull me along where I must go.

What waits for me to do but my own self?
Not the garden or the wheel of time –
It is I, this moment, who must do
and wonder whether there will be another.


Portland, Oregon – May 18, 2016

Another Life

I am alone with the quiet and the chilling sunshine
the ticking clock and wind-blown light
nothing to do that must be done.

I’ve left my work life behind me
paid days of anxious scribbling;
spreadsheets, meetings, report drafts, coffee
while I gazed out my cubicle window over the Salish Sea
plied by ferries moving white and green across the sea’s deep blue.
Or, I looked long into the dense fog of winter dark early mornings –
fog creeping silent up to my own window high above
so that neither ferry nor sea could I behold –
just a gray shimmer quavering shadow,
ghostly hovering there before my eyes,
suggestive of an unknown, future, less scripted life.
I watched, as the mindless gray gave way to a full and lustrous winter crisp moon
crackling white in the cold dark morning.
Its brilliance washed the water’s expanse with a rippling shimmer of moonlight,
illumining the churned and opalescent wakes of ferries,
shining as if on ships making their ways to heaven across a vast sea
to where the moon itself lives when it sets over the western horizon.

Oh, how I then complained of my tedious days of work,
the numbing aspect of time ground to a halt.
My companions allowed me to expound at length,
on the baffling politic of management concern!
These are such companions as one needs in life,
who see you through the hours of countless working days
and are content to have you return again the next
in spite of all manner of gruff, and you understand they are true –
the good fortune of work, forgiveness there, and a task, well done at the last.

Still, it is the moon over the sea
the sun’s shine on the mountains snow-capped peaks
the ferries slow movement over the water
and the curling, implacable fog I remember
from the days when I was paid for the work I did
unlike today, with its ticking clock, its windblown light
and with nothing to do that must be done.


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Portland, Oregon – February 23, 2016

The picture, above, is of a small portion of the Salish Sea, otherwise known as Puget Sound, on which sits the great city of Seattle.  The photo was taken through what was my cubicle window by a colleague who now claims that view. I thank her for this.

Ice Storm

1798141_487808021330387_1494130555_nIce covers every green leaf,
blue berry, bare branch –
clear, heavy, bending, breaking.
The weight of water, freezing flow
as if time were captured
the glistening moment caught
in a watery transparent shroud –
cessation, ceaseless, sensate time at last!

Frozen form, fractured,
snapping in the wind,
breaking in sharp shards
into the bright air,
crackling onto the brittle snow below
time, once again, set free.


Portland, Oregon – February 2014