I went over to Sisters for the Folk Festival last weekend and saw and heard some good artists, some more well known like Joe Craven, Susan Warner, Todd Snider, Alison Brown and Peter Rowan and then some more recent upcoming artists like Anastacia who sang her own ballads and played guitar and harmonica. She is making a name for herself in Central Oregon. Tom Prasada-Rao and his wife sang some nice harmonies with an Eastern Indian influence and a blend of folk songs of spiritual insight with a strong message about the times we are living in. The Belleville Outfit cranked out some great sounds of hard driving combination of bluegrass,swing and folk rock. They had the crowd up and dancing. I choose to stay at a campground 6 miles out of town surrounded by Ponderosa Pine and sagebrush. To my surprise there were very few campers there and it was quiet except for the traffic out on the highway close by. It was sizzling hot in the mid 90s the whole weekend. But the weather started changing late Sunday afternoon as Alison Brown was closing out the show at the Village Green. The clouds began moving in and the temperature dropped considerably and it looked like a thunderstorm was likely. When the festival ended my friend Jules and I decided to stay Sunday night and I joined him at the city park in town and split the camp fee with him there. We waited out the pending storm that never came and hiked Black Butte on Monday. I was told there was a fire up there this last July.

Black Butte after recent fire

On Turning 58

Maybe it was the day before or the day after that was of more signifigance
like Mother’s Day
Maybe it was the sunny warm but breezy afternoon on my bike heading out to the wetlands preserve with native grasses and wild birds where a flock of marsh wrens wheeled above me against the white clouds
Maybe it was the tulips springing to life in vibrant red and orange hues
Maybe it was the mustard greens and spinach and lettuce in my garden beginning to show signs of growth
Maybe it was a chocolate latte at the coffee shop hanging out with my old Taurean comrade, Dan whose birthday is two days before mine
Maybe it was getting together with two women friends, Vicki and Eva who are also Tauruses and celebrating over a quiet dinner that was neither on my birthday or theirs but a few weeks later
Maybe it was receiving a package in my PO box from my old artist and poet comrade Professor O with a card of a Japanese painting on the front wishing me a bright sunny day full of creative adventures though I really had none
and the chocolate bar and a CD of a recording of a friend’s band in Santa Rosa
Maybe it was picking up the phone to retrieve a few messages from friends saying happy birthday even though they didn’t have time to get together
Some remembered and some didn’t and that’s the way it is and
it wasn’t my 50th or my 60th, only my 58th reminding me that I am a year closer to death to be rid of the pain and suffering of the world
But also was a reminder that I am still very much alive even with minor health problems
It was telling me it’s time to make some changes in my life for the better
while I’ve still got some time left unless something unforseen should arise
that I am not prepared for
For time is of the essence in this fast moving world of chaos brutality
cruelty love and compassion and beauty
It is here and gone like a glimpse of the sun between rain showers and gray skies
and I am content to stay home and listen to some Mozart, prepare dinner and drink a glass of wine rather than going out on the town

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.