Mt. Pisgah

THE FIRE GODDESS, PELE

In her sleep she twists and turns churning from the depths of the earth.

Her moon pearl liquid eyes look to infinity, her flaming rock oozes

as she wakes and rises from a long sleep.

With the changes of the tectonic plates she shifts from side to side

and Mauna Loa comes alive smoking and smoldering on the crater’s rim.

Flashes of fire and golden balls of hot rock explode in the blackened skies.

A thin line of red gushing molten lava pushes up and out

and down over her mountainsides.

Pele is alive and steaming still as she flows out into the ocean

doing her dance of destruction and rebirth.

I've been reading Blue Highways by William Least Heat Moon about his road trips across the US and this poem about one of my own road trips comes to mind. With the price of fuel going up and no end in sight those days of road tripping will soon become a thing of the past and will be nothing more than fragments of history in my personal archives.

In The Spirit Of The West

As storm clouds gather over the Rockies

in Montana and Wyoming

snow blankets the western Black Hills.

On Rosebud Reservation

in South Dakota cold wind penetrates

my bones and red sumac paints the yellow bluffs

where wild horses once roamed.

Farther east cattle graze on the prairie

with dumb cow mentality among alfalfa

and hay bales.

Old ghosts and memories linger

in my hometown.

Seeing family and relatives I hear

the word God spoken again

and find it hard to stay for more

than three days.

Driving west through the night

I cross into Wyoming

heading for the Little Big Horns.


The next day I hike up

to the Medicine Wheel

with fresh snow on the trail.

Cold winds blow and heavy clouds

bury the afternoon sun

as I sit and pray to the Great Mother

for better things to come.

Below Medicine Pass

at Five Springs down in the meadow

the morning sun radiates warmth

after a cold night

and I write a letter to a loved one.

A short trail leads me

to a waterfalls where I listen

to it roar over the canyon walls.

The spirit of the west speaks to me

in many ways-

the many becoming one.

I haven't had much time to post anything lately now that my spring work is starting up though it's been slower than usual due to the wacky weather. When the temperature hits the high mid eighties in one day and drops thirty degrees the next you know something is wacky. Call it global wackiness and it's only going to get more wacky. This is just the tip of the iceberg so to speak and they are disappearing also as well as thousands of other species. And what can we flawed humans do about it anyway except try to sway some political minds towards renewable energy? Turn off the lights and appliances and drive less? Time is of the essence and we are running out. Sunshine rain cold wind hail snow and sleet all in one week, now that's wacky.

The Sacred Bell

I call this piece creative non fiction. Some of it has been taken from my own personal experiences and other parts of it have been slightly fabricated and the names have been changed to protect those whom I write about.

Feelings of animosity begin to build about Lynn because of her no response no action- hiding out from me, leaving me one too many times to wonder what’s up. She promised to bring me the meditation bell from her shrine. I took that to mean a very deep loving generous gesture on her behalf. I thought of it as a sacred gift but she procrastinated too long giving it to me. I thought I must either take the humble approach and wait and wait and wait maybe forever as if it was never going to happen or I could take the assertive approach and question her about it. It wasn’t just the bell but other things as well, plans with her that always fell through because the bell was not ringing true. It seemed as though it had lost it’s meaning and sacredness. I was ringing my own bell and came to the realization that I had to communicate with her somehow so I composed a letter questioning her about the issues that had been lingering there in my mind for quite some time.

A week before I decided to compose the letter to Lynn I met Teresa out at Davis Nursery. I had only heard about her through my good friend Anne. As I entered the nursery I casually sought her out not even knowing what she looked like. There was a slender woman with graying brown hair and dark complexion like she spent a lot of time under the sun or maybe it was her heritage. She appeared to me a bit tense yet enjoying her work as she stood there sticking labels in the 4 inch pots of annuals. Then I heard another fellow worker call her Teresa and I knew that had to be her. Was she anything like I had envisioned? I asked myself. I hadn’t really formed an image in my mind of what she might look like. I proceeded on towards the perennials randomly picking out two crocosmias, two day lilies and two echinecha purple cone flowers. What else I was going to plant in the yard behind my house I had recently purchased I didn’t know. There were so many possibilities calling out to me in the splendid array of colors, oranges reds golds and violets but the most important factor was picking the right plant for the right place. What would do well in the full sun. Could I count on the back yard along the west fence to get the full afternoon sun? What should I plant in the shade garden directly behind the studio? Would the hosta and ferns do well there? But I needed some flowering colorful blooms in that area also. It was as difficult as trying to find the right woman. I could search the rest of my life trying to decide. The different women that entered my life came and went , some as fast as I met them, others became long time companions but I hadn’t had a lover in years and couldn’t even conceive of what it would be like to actually be in love with a woman again. I sat the crocosmias, the cone flowers, the day lilies and the hostas on the cart and gradually worked my way towards the front of the nursery, stopping to gander some more at the hydrangea. Maybe one would look good in the far north corner behind the garden shed but I decided to wait on it. Then there was the multicolored gazanias popping out at me for $.50 a pot. They were labeled annuals and all this time I thought they were perennials because I planted some one year and they came back the following year bigger and bushier than ever. I thought about Lynn how she was like a slow stubborn blooming beautiful exotic tropical flower that I thought would never reach full bloom. We had met two years ago and our first conversation just seemed to flow like the right plant for the right place but I came to find out as time progressed that she was a very unpredictable one at that. Sometimes it seemed the more fertilizer and water and I gave her the less she showed any signs of growth so I figured maybe she was more of a drought tolerant poor soil kind of plant that needed very little care. Sometimes it seemed it was better just to forget about her for awhile and not give her any attention because when I did her petals often times would close up. She was a quite a mysterious flower. One day she might open up for me and look quite vibrant and full of life starting to unfold beneath the old growth stems but I became so attached to her that she decided to quit blooming and began to turn brown and wilt.

I approached the front counter and there was Teresa ringing up orders while I waited in line. She appeared to me as some exotic tropical flower also but one that needed much nurturing to survive the present elements. When I sat the gazanias down on the counter I mentioned to her the fact that they were labeled annuals and that I planted some last year and they came back just like perennials. She responded by saying something about the weather and how it was so out of balance that annuals acted like they were perennials and perennials acted like they were annuals. Then we began discussing the weather and how we didn’t like the heat and humidity. She said we could consider ourselves lucky though compared to the all the heat and the floods they were having down in Texas and the tidal wave in Papa New Guinea. She finished ringing up the total price of my purchase. As I started to leave she said, “ Oh my name is Teresa,” and I responded, “ Hi I’m Joe. Oh you must be Anne’s friend who was coming out to help plant in the garden.”

“ Oh how did you know?” She responded. “ Well Anne told me she knew someone by the name of Teresa who worked out here. “As her round brown eyes lit up some more she said, “Well it was nice to meet you. Maybe I’ll see you again gardening sometime.” There were other customers standing in line behind me and she needed to tend to her business.

I went back out to the nursery again the following Saturday to buy some more perennials wondering if she would be there and if she was how easy it would be to approach her and take up where we had left off, exchange phone numbers. As I entered the nursery I spotted her over in the annual section among the tables of petunias, watering them down. I proceeded back towards the perennial greenhouse to find the lithodora, daylilies and rudebeckias. Maybe we’ll connect and maybe we won’t, I thought. I pulled my cart to the front checkout counter. She was behind the counter ringing up customers’ purchases. I could sense she was even more tense and distraught. When I came to the counter it was as if she hardly remembered me from the last time but as I began handing her the label codes of the perennials to enter on the computer I said - I can’t even remember what I said; it was probably about the weather again because it was a hot day and she mentioned how uncomfortable she was working in the heat and she had to pull weeds the previous night after closing and said she was getting too old for that. I mentioned that I had taken a hike up to Iron Mountain last Thursday and it was hot up there also. She responded, perking up her ears and said, “ Iron Mountain! Where’s that? I’ve heard of it before.”

“Oh it’s east of Sweethome before Santiam Pass. It’s noted for its wildflower meadows. They’re at their peak right now. It’s a spectacular place to hike.” I explained. “I love to hike. I haven’t been anywhere the year and half I’ve been here!” she exclaimed with enthusiasm.
“ Well would you like to go hiking one of these days?” I asked her casually.“I’d love to! I haven’t seen anything.”, she replied. Customers began lining up behind me at he counter and I knew I’d better cut our conversation short and say goodbye but before I did I said, “ Well, if you want to go hiking sometime you’ll have to give me your phone number. I usually take Wednesday or Thursday off.” “ That’s my days off too!” she responded excitedly. Had I crossed paths with someone who struck a resonant chord in the same octave as me? Even though she appeared on edge I sensed grace and harmony hidden somewhere in her soul beyond all the turmoil and violent storms she appeared to be going through. Maybe I was a calm mild breeze to her and maybe she was just what I needed, a place to say my prayers and dive into.
I called her on Tuesday morning only to get her outgoing message. Her voice on the message sounded more grounded and smooth. I had planned to take Wednesday off to hike Brice Creek. I left her my message telling her if she was still interested in joining me to give me a call. I’d be up until 11:00 in the evening. When we spoke out at the nursery she told me she was in the process of moving again. I heard from Anne that she had moved several times in the year and half that she was in town so I assumed that maybe she was too occuppied with moving to find time to go on a hike. Wednesday morning I got up and decided to go to work instead since I hadn’t heard from her, thinking that I’d take Thursday off instead. She called Wednesday morning after I had already went to work and left a message saying she was ready to go hiking. When I got back from work I played back the message and called her and left her a message telling her I ended up going to work and was planning to take Thursday off instead thinking it would give her time to receive my message and call me back but she never called back. I spent the rest of the evening finishing the letter I was composing to Lynn. Thursday morning I dropped the letter in the mail and did a few other errands and then drove to Brice Creek trailhead. There was a mild breeze blowing and the sunlight filtered through the the tops of old cedar and fir in the shaded forest where the continuos steady rhythm of the creek rushed through my ears and I had time to sit still and listen for the ringing of the sacred bell.

Road Kill

I was coming down off the hill rounding a curve on my way towards town when something dashed in front of the car. It was there before I had time to even hit the brakes. The right front fender hit its hind quarters and it spun around and it went down in the ditch over on the other side of the highway. I quickly stopped the car and got out. My heart was pounding fast as I walked over towards it. It just lay there on its right side with its eyes open looking up at me sympathetically as if saying, I know you didn’t mean to injure me. I looked for trails of blood but didn’t see any. It just lay there with its beautiful brownish tan coat, its lungs expanding and contracting at a rapid rate. I ran up to the nearest house and knocked loudly on the front door but no one answered. I ran back down to the road where the doe was still lying and breathing heavily. Then an old guy in a pickup truck stopped and got out and walked across the road where I was standing. “ Oh you hit a deer did you?” he said. “ Yeah I’m afraid I did. It’s the first time I’ve ever hit a deer,” I replied. “Well, it happens every now and then on this road. Most likely something was probably chasing her,” he said as he moved closer and bent down over the injured animal to check it out closer. He put his hand on its side. “Looks to me like it just got the wind knocked out of its sails. I think she’s just stunned a bit. She’ll probably get up and walk away in awhile. I don’t see any blood. I think she’s going to be okay,” he said, trying to reassure me that it was not seriously injured and I could go on my way. I drove on into Portland after the old fellow convinced me that the deer would be okay. After spending a few hours there, doing some grocery shopping and grabbing a quick lunch I was on my way back home. As I approached the hill and rounded the curve I looked for the deer in the ditch where it had been lying before but I didn’t see any sign of it. I pulled over to the shoulder of the highway and got out and walked over to the spot where it had been lying. It was not there. There were no traces of blood anywhere. The old man was right. It was just stunned and in shock and needed some time to gather up its strength and wits before getting up, I thought. I let out a sigh of relief. I got back in the car and drove a few more hundred yards up the road and then I spotted the brownish tan coat in the tall grass in the ditch. I stopped and got out and walked over to it. It had been moving along on its side struggling to get up but couldn’t. Its ribs must have been broken and probably its hind legs. Its frightened eyes were wide open looking up at me. It was suffering tremendously now and was kicking its front legs slowly pushing its way along on its right side there in the tall grass. I knew I had to do something quick. I ran up to the house I had knocked loudly on the front door of before and pounded on it again. An elderly woman finally answered and I told her what had happened. She said she would call the Fish and Game Department because that’s what they did around there when a deer got hit. I waited for five minutes or so while she dialed the number. “ I told them what happened and they said they’d send somebody out right away,” she told me. I went back down the road to where the doe was. It had stopped moving now but was still breathing heavily, gasping for a few last breaths in its agonizing struggle to live. I knelt down beside it and put my right hand on its side feeling the last bit of its life, trying to comfort it, its eyes full of fright still looking up at me. It was beyond the point of struggling anymore and was just hanging on and waiting for the agony to end. It was still warm but was breathing harder. I put my hand on its head trying to help it relax, trying to let it know that I cared for whatever good it would do.
A man and a woman from The Fish and Game Department finally arrived. The woman bent over it in the ditch examining it more closely. “ It’s most likely got some broken ribs and internal bleeding,” she said. “We’ll take care of it from here.” the man told me. He walked back to the truck and came back with a rifle. “ We just shoot them in the brain. It puts them out of their misery real quick. They don’t feel a thing.” he said. They told me I could leave now. As I walked back towards my car I heard the shot ring out and I felt a little better knowing that it was no longer suffering in its painful agony to take another breath. Call it a mercy killing. Like the old man said, something must have spooked her though to run out into the road that fast. I examined the left front fender and grille of my car. There was only a minor dent in the fender and the grille was pushed in a few inches. The damage to my car was hardly even noticeable but another deer was dead and I would be carrying the guilt of killing that innocent helpless animal who was only trying to cross the highway and make it safely to the other side. It was just so sad that it had to suffer so long afterwards before it finally died.

I must interrupt my poetic ramblings about my mountain sojourns

to honor the fifth anniversary of all those standing up to injustice

and speaking out against the illegal occupation and slaughter

of the Iraqis and their homeland.

WHOSE WAR IS THIS

Whose war is this and who

owns the occupation?

Not the sick, the wounded or the poor

the unemployed and the elderly with

their benefits cut off or

the homeless whose population

keeps growing.

Whose war is this and who

owns the occupation?

Not the war torn civilians and casualties

over in Iraq,

not the US soldiers who will never

come back

or the ones that do receive no medical aide

but are missing an arm or leg and

a brain and shell shocked beyond

recovery anytime soon.

Whose war is this and who

owns the occupation?

Not the children who will be paying for this war

in taxes for decades to come

and not the churches who preach the gospel

in Jesus name

not those who have listened to

Martin Luther King

and march for justice and

equality of all beings.

Whose war is this and who

owns the occupation?

Not the children who have been taught

to love their brothers and sisters

everywhere in the world

not the strong and courageous who stand up

to injustice and hatred.


Whose war is this and who

owns the occupation?

Not those who respect life and the earth

not the mothers who are about to

or have just given birth

and those who have chosen

not to.

Whose war is this and who

owns the occupation?

Not those who believe in true democracy

and those who work towards energy dependency

not those who try to protect our land, water and our air

and not those who believe free trade should be fair

not those who labor too many hours for

such little pay

and not those who envision

a better way.

Whose War is this and who

owns the occupation?

Not the working man or woman or the well educated

or the uneducated and those less fortunate

finding it hard to make ends meet

not the small business owner nor the teacher the gardener

the fireman and the social worker and the care giver

and the common man and woman

on the street.

Whose war is this and who

owns the occupation?

Those who reap the profits from oil

and stocks in military defense

those big media conglomerates

the energy company swindlers

and global empire builders.

Whose war is this and who

owns the occupation?

The admirals and generals in the Pentagon

and the hawks who have never fought

in a war at all

and the CEOs who live in billionaire

gated communities but still

want more.

Whose war is this and who

owns the occupation?

Those that are afraid of life and afraid to die

and live in constant fear and do not dream

those who do not know what it is like

to be a good human being

and do not understand what the words

love and compassion really mean.