Last Flight

blue sky abundance,

billowed expectation

that wanting creates

lavish thoughts in

sky the shape of forgetting

clouds the color of silence

it is there that I loved

in your fragrance, absence

of earthen understanding

alabaster transparencies

heaven in the hindrance of

light,  quiet, cold and

absolute…

refraction of vision

of day sky sewn together

with condensation

malformed tundra and

a terrestrial drop off sans

oceanic sounds that

fling things into

abysmal need

the want of which defy

Maslow and his hierarchy

snake river gorge and

a buoyant regret not even

switchbacks can confuse

blue, like the wide eyed

wonderings of a childlike

exploration of humanness

gripping with the

fattened fingers of leisure

apathy divines the truth

of prophetic expectations

repetition is the pattern

only choice can break

slip between conscious

choice and the automation

of routine and there

lies observance

descend again into

a reclusive innocent awakening

opaque weariness

give yourself permission

for shedding shards of

substantial solitary existence

just breathe

Linking up tonight with dVerse Poet's Pub Take the time to join us if you will. Poetry and community abound. Thanks for visiting and hope to see you out there! ~A

An Oregonian Experiance

Mt. Hood taken from the plane

the natives speak with northern language

the song of the American settlers

carving glacial pathways from east to west

not as much Minnesotan or Michigander,

more like those in Ohio with their approach

to words and meanings far beyond their

level of perceiving it, and my own, foreign to them

this young, urban and sprawling city with

children generations gathered together

upon the remains of the lava flow

formed the land that shapes their lives

in the pew I hear talk of culture and my

southern conditioning is apparent in my

urgency to yell out during the sermon,

my deep fried Amens and Right Ons

that pepper congregational behavior

we are creatures of our conditioning

of the culture and places we inhabit

and here, in central Oregon I feel a settling

in my spirit that reminds me what the scent of

home is like, and I am at peace

humidity of Tennessee a memory and I am pleasantly invited

into the outdoors like my Colorado used to

Juniper and Pine, and how I pine for home

hiking sandals and yoga clothing seem the normal

attire here, espresso on every corner and

local organic produce a staple in every home

breweries under Hooded every dark flavor of hops

birthing center advertisements the size of

hospital billboards back home, and the

contempt for western thought and medicine

has been added to the water supply straight

from these once volcanic mountains

three Sisters overseeing the desert children

and in them lies the possibility of a new

awakening, like giving birth to

life outside the environmental need for it

Mt. Jefferson towering over, as a reminder

of what this place was once, and what it may yet be

in the seat of a Bend lies a craving for

something beyond verbalization

an elevated understanding of life

and the pursuit of all that is good and wholesome

a utopian craving creeping up the spine

elongating the understanding that

this too, was a place without form

until the one who formed it gave it

meaning and in it lies the possibility

that one day the children of this land

will become the children of the Lord over it

in these thoughts lie my prayers

awaken, become, breathe, and return to

this place and it’s people that which

you have received, and in doing so

support your local organic farmers

Linking up for Poetics at dVerse Poet's Pub. The prompt is to observe and describe something you see. I'm in Oregon for the week visiting my sister so these poetic observations of my Oregon experience thus far. Join us, won't you? 

Once Hidden, Forever Remembered

she walked quietly, arms folded
soles upon her land of birth, reflective
her Mother’s adornments remain upon it
las cosas sagradas, like the altars she erected

2000 anios El Senor Sufrio Por Nosotros
it reads, the old wooden cross my Grampo built
Daddy took my picture in front of it
for the purpose of remembering

la casita, now overrun by mice,
descendants of those my Grandma chased
broomstick held high, Aunt Jemima
stood inside on a shelf like a guardian and reminder

we are not without our own
cartoonish popularized prejudices

Spanglish is spoken now, in my generation
English rules my Father’s
Spanish my Grandparent’s
Indios, Latinos, Chicanos. Familia, all.

soy Americana,
con sangre de enspanola
y sangre de la tierra

I walked beside my Grandmother that day
upon the land, the farm de Los Romeros
we walked together and remembered,

toy trees and warm tortillas,
hand rolled cigarettes and poker for pennies,
the multicolored stones in the half walled porch
seeming to hide inside them the stories of us all

in the corner of the yard a Statuado of Jesus
el Sagrado Corazon alive still, with thorns and flames
delivering forth the lifeblood of the stories de la familia

speak them, hermanos
whisper them to your children, primos
tias y tios, never let us forget
we were of this place once
this place where earth meets sky
in the stories lie our
cultura, rich and deep.
once hidden, forever remembered

we lose part of ourselves lest we remember,
speak these stories, dear ones,
stories of blood and water
they are the origin of our belonging

Linking up with http://dversepoets.com/ for Open Link Night.