Tuesday, July 24, 2012

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

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

Sunday, July 22, 2012

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? 

Tuesday, July 3, 2012

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.