Tag Archives: Camping

The Ocean Welcomes Me Back

She knows me.

Though, I haven’t seen

All that she is…..

All her anger and angst

Frozen at times, treacherous.

I know her

From the safety of my footing.

She can pull me, She pulls me, I am pulled

Not by ebb, but by longing

A craving for our meeting.

She allows me to see her.

I am but painted doll

Easily tripped into a fall.

We are cyclic, together.

Friends as we are

 

I see her placid face

Fierce, reflecting sky.

Her cheeks aged, rippled

As they were at the beginning.

She’s my crone

My witch of calm

Curled slightly

With wavy hair

Rebelling,,,,,

The straightening of her tides.

Her voice, mesmerized magnetic

To my metal ears.

Grounded by emotion

She nudges me

To a rhythm depth tone.

My womb vibrates

With her motion

At the same time

I am her birth.

 

Her movement is mine

I am she, like her,

The invertebrate

With liquid body

Skin of whatever color

You wish to call me

We are deep in wrappings

Around dense mineral

Earthen cultrate creatures

Terrestrial mud makers

That simple creation act

Pottery, clay, and figure

Shaped by moisture

Solidified by solar storm.

 

I feel like she is forever

Whose depths

I know by kindred.

We raise our spirits

(For me, this once)

To mist and cloud

Transform, evaporate

Until our salt

Is yanked from our souls

And we fall

To new fawns

of phosphorescence

 

 

If I were to say

“Listen to her”

You would have

Already heard

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Aftereffects Of Fire

Here, where fire once raged

Our voice is diminished

As if our speech leaves through

Lungs weighing only of paper

And this trail we have carved

To stand next to old giants

With charred arms

Comes with symbols and words

Revealing deepened ruts

A string of infinite finites

 

With sunburnt shoulders

We watch the eyeless sun

That harsh gardener….

Pierce through a ghost canopy

Wishing to reclaim its spent dust

Thinking only of its collection

….Cold baubles of gravity

 

All witnessed by the moon

Who never blinks once

While we lay naked

Underneath its glow

In several forms of desire

Waxing, waning,

Silver, blue, and crescent

Its face constantly upon us

 

That burning face in the night

We claim as eternal muse

And use as fire for the poetic

Inventing expressions

To lay upon Luna, leading us

To scramble and patch together

scrapings and scratches

Producing representations

Of a once noble fir

Which lies deep in our lush memories

Salmon River Spring

Cool kiss from the forest

Stirs an inner revival

Charged by its music

Fresh from the source

That drums upon rocks.

As if my very bones

Were strewn underneath

The stream of Orpheus

Whose rhythms sink

Past thirst, deep within

My core, my atomic spirit

Embedded in my soft clay.

I am as tall as shadows

Of family fir and cedar.

Old growth is in my pitch.

I cup my hands, tightly

Holding what all life desires.

My fingers are born

Into this song shape

Olympic Peninsula Beach–How To Miss A Highway

To get to the beach, we hike

Through the smell of pine

So thick, we can taste it.

The trail is carpeted with needles–

We think we’re the first humans

To arrive on a new planet.

Trees older than Columbus

With golden brown skin, black bark, tar

Pillars of a wild palace.

The sound of Highway 101

Fades behind us, reminds us

Where we came from

Aberdeen, Long Beach, Astoria

The cozy rainfall of Portland

 

 

Then it stretches before us

That untamed beach,

Ocean, greyed-out by sky reflection.

Sand, a mess, tossed, turned.

The raw shore, green, dense

Mangled, perfect.

The wind, never ceases

If it did, it would be Armageddon

Heaven, or science fiction

Which are the same things

As far as the peninsula is concerned

 

We have our backpacks on.

Nylon and aluminum, easily bent and torn.

The infrastructure.

Yet, they hold freeze-dried ice cream

Dried pad thai with tofu

Foam pads, a pipe and a little stash

The bare essentials.

At night, we tie our packs to tree limbs,

in case of tofu eating bears

Stoner cougars, sweet tooth coyotes

A wildlife piñata

 

The rain hit

This is no Portland sprinkle

This is a northern coastal drenching.

We set up the tarps, plastic sheets

With nylon rope, rocks as anchors

Tucked ourselves in, wedged against wind

Until the morning arrives

As grey as the ocean

Our supplies gone, the tree limb too

Our backpacks found strewn

In the shrubs

 

My car keys, safely in my pocket

jab my leg.

We listen for the highway.