Now into the cold rain-laced wind letting fall on my ragged coat what comes - rain, snow, needles of pine, rare sun splash. Barely do I feel these gifts swathed am I in layers of wool and down. In the still shadowy silver days a gloaming presence unfurls, held in the thin veil of drizzle and chill fog - ghostly luminous, humming wind songs. I think to myself, "The Spirit?" An electric and vinyl turn playing tunes and lyrics from other worlds on my own worn and plastic hide? I, inside of my usual and ordinary life, hear, within the swirls of the winter-swept leaf-laden lonely and lovely air songs I do not know but wish to learn. _________________________________________________________ Portland, Oregon - January 11, 2022
Winter
What Will I Miss, if…?
On the land and for a time has come a dusting of snow and freezing cold. Winter sun scratches at the horizon in low light - late to come, early to leave. I plod about the house and yard to find the things that must be done - daily chores and mundane tasks, this to fix and that for later leave. The end of the year, beginning of waiting for daffodils and first leaves. But what I will miss if only for these I wait while all around burgeoning life seethes? Inside even my old self as upon the muddy ground does come some new stirring that, if I sleep too long, will likely be gone before spring awakes. ______________________________________________________________ Portland, Oregon - December 27, 2021
Solstice Day
In just a while I have to go Into the rain and cheerless cold And leave this warmth that comforts me Before the coming of the snow. For just another moment more, Until I do another chore, I'll watch the rain as it comes down, I'll wait beside the open door. No one can say what's there for me Beyond the hills, beyond the sea. So close to home I'll stay today Where I may love and I may Be. And on this dreary solstice day Into the world so dark, so gray I'll go, but just one minute more Before I'm off and on my way! ________________________________________________ Portland, Oregon - December 21, 2021. This poem is my attempt to mimic Robert Frost's perfect, "Stopping By Woods on a Snowy Evening." No one can match the brilliance of his work, but it was fun to try given the parameters he set for his piece. It's a challenge because I'm not used to sticking to a strict style in terms of rhyming patterns and syllabic rhythms.
What We Need
Fox sparrows kick under the snowberry thicket, while chickadees peck about in cedar needle duff flinging fallen leaves with abandon, foraging under the gloomy gray November cold sky. Squirrels, furred and fattened, are not slowed while brush rabbits, calm, chew grass blades or just lie low, waiting, on what I do not know. Winter quickly comes in rain and cold. I've done what I could for the creatures - fallen leaves left to molder on the ground, twig and branch brush heap piles for the bugs. Here, a pile of small rocks lies still by the fence, there, cut logs on the ground, decaying and soft growing lichen as green moss on rock slithers. It is time to let the yard and all its inhabitants fend for themselves while I tend my own inner life within the stillness that only winter can bring. I'll be glad for the season's lights hanging about reminding me of how we all are finding the way through our own thickets where we may hide and where we may find what we need for life. ______________________________________________________________ Portland, Oregon - November 23, 2021
Life on the 45th Parallel
I live here – kicking along the 45th parallel
between tropic tangle and arctic ice.
A warm hard rain pour in January
greets me in the saturated morning
while I watch from in between, getting wet.
This winter drizzle, chill damp nights,
belong to the realm of burgeoning –
frizzled messes of underground roots
plunging chaotic where they cannot be seen
entwining with others of their kind
where leaves and flowers are born
in the dark cold wet wormy wild ground!
I should go inside where it is warm
with electric gadgets to keep it all safe.
But where then the dark dreamy winter
in these temperate climes and soggy bogs?
Out here, creatures are beginning to stir –
bugs in every downed log, caught
in the tangle of brush by the back fence,
within the rock pile gathering emerald green moss.
All the wonder of life being born and I…
I am pushing out waves of steamy breath
somewhere along the length of parallel 45
under forgiving stars on this winter night.
________________________________________________________________________
Portland, Oregon – 45° 34′ 18.44″ N – January 14, 2021
Winter in Cascadia
The earth moves beneath storm fronts
bearing sacred gifts of snow and rain
falling as if from tender hands
windblown over the land –
drenched, dripping, drowned
in emerald green down – winter
making its way in dun and drear.
Portland, Oregon – February 11, 2020
Darkening Days
Perhaps it is the settling in of winter
I mean when I write of darkening days.
Yes. That is what I mean.
Or, the darkness descending
on one growing old.
I mean that too –
I am one within the other.
I wake in the night
open my eyes to see
darkness. I wait for fear
as when I was a child.
Fear does not come, only
silence as at the end
of a difficult journey
when I lay down my coat
take off my hat and shoes
and sit to gather my breath.
I search for understanding of darkness
unfolding in many forms and disguises.
Each day might reveal some new thing
about what is coming, what lies
in and beyond the seamless
sacred realm of darkness.
Portland, Oregon – December 11, 2019
Sentient World
I sit outdoors in every weather
letting come, inside or out, what comes.
Today it is steady rain and chill.
I take cover in the garage
sitting on a camp chair
before the open door.
I see down the long drive
the last oak leaves hanging on
in the face of December
soon to fall to winter’s floor.
Out in Cascadia’s realm I am
being drawn into the phenomenal world
scented in the calm and quiet of natural life –
wild and mysterious in sensual appeal.
Wool cap and down jacket, warm boots,
fingerless gloves for work –
finger tips getting cold now.
The steady rain turns to a slow drizzle
as my thoughts slow and still.
I hear whispers out there, seekers
searching for listeners.
The sentient world
trying to tell me something.
Here I am.
Portland, Oregon – December 7, 2019
When It Comes
Listen, when silence comes.
See shadows move
through darkness.
Cold and winter breaths
still, wreathe round
small birds in tangled branches
above stones on a path.
Portland, Oregon – November 12, 2019
Seeing through Fog
Pacific northwest winter mornings
shrouded in fog – cold, dense, dripping
from evergreen branches, fir and cedar,
sifting through blurred spaces and still swirls.
I see what is out there in the reaches
beyond the gray shadows laying
silent in the movement of days gone
away, lost in memory, shaken
awakened from the depths of slumber.
As a child I lay in bed
listening for the sound of trains
passing in the night; in the darkness
to the deep and resonant sound
from across the bay, of a foghorn
wakening the night, putting me to sleep
as if it were my own mother
coming to calm the terrors of my night.
Portland, Oregon – February 19, 2019
In Cascadia 