An Autumn Night in Boulder

Photo: Boulder Boulder by Katerha

patchouli scented pathways

stone sentinels stood steadfast

Chaco covered Pearl Street set ablaze

planetary alignment, hidden in the stars

you brushed against my hand

enough to feel the warmth of skin

as we were wondering through that foreign land

street venders peddling wares within

I bought an artisan’s amethyst ring

a solitary remembrance slipped on tight

as the buskers began to sing

we whispered promises with hearts alight

our childlike laughter of organic origin

created atmospheric disturbances

in those simple moments we became like puritans

beyond the rigidity of archaic formulas

sipping fare trade coffee in the moonlight

stepping into the new familiarity of one another’s presence

hoping endlessly for an extension of this night

returning to us our once forgotten adolescence


Tonight I'm linking up with dVerse where we are celebrating OpenLinkNight... if ye be of the poetic persuasion and spin a few rhymes link up with us. Cheers, hoping to see you at the bar! 

The Muse

inky veined

and muggy too

elementary words flowing through

I am the absence

you are the arrow

targeting this windblown sparrow

unambiguous are the moments

we become a secret creature

forming substance from seeming nothingness

plucking remembrances

from things branded in the brain

the violent acts of living, bleed inspiration

breathe words

from the one born of fire

buried by an earthen father in skin

again and again

union of spirit and flesh

resurrect this vessel’s ability to congregate thought

I am here

but a little while

I beg the stilled silence for oneness

whispers down the bone

creep into subconscious want

become again with me, a creature of beauty

raw symbiosis

we, with stuttered fingers

find each other’s pace, and the words come

slowly and surreal

we dance with black and white

pages of prose and poetic utterances

written by strangeness

creations borne of this madness

I am a writer

Linking up with OpenLinkNight @dVerse  Where Tashtoo has the bar. If poetic community is what you crave, join us you should, I'll buy you a verse ;-) 

Stilled and Silenced

there are no children to pull off freshly painted walls tonight,

no needy husband’s hands to fence with

this night belongs to being

in a noisy silence

autumnal evening sounds

assaulting ears bent toward quiet

cricket song and the last of the cicada concerto

remnantsof a living earth preparing

for the hibernation of retreating into oneself

linger here at the dusk of summer’s end

maples bowing low and heavy

offering palm sized leaves

only southern trees can grow

and hereI sit amongst the California red grapes

and their blended blissful bounty

in gratitude for their harvest

blue velvet sky bleeds violet lines

with the surrender of the sun

I am in silence

I am at rest

I am whole

the fearfulness of truth

with this, a tiny revelation comes

reflectively hidden in stars

strewn ‘cross the blackening sky

heralded by twilight’s whispered presence

bound to human rest

a Sabbath understanding

there is Holiness

in the simplicity of stillness

I am awake now

these quiet eyes do see

purpose in solo revelry

secrets tucked into my heart

like tissues in pillow cases

for moments of weeping

draw them out

during the dark night of the soul

for it always cometh

amidst it’s plight remember

this stillness and grope for peace

with muscle memory

cultivated in solitude

one by one

and become again

bound to quiet understanding

and begin with the hope

of dawn’s promised procession

crickets quiet, owls steal away

and with the son’s arrival,

the first fat rays of presence

define us once more

as those who dwell among the living

drawn into the warmth of day

and remind us we belong there

in reverence we draw light with breath

and exhale luminous awe

from ominous oneness

and in that moment we shall

be still and know

Linking up with dVerse, we are looking at the moments of solitude... these are mine. 

This Quiet Absence

there is rhythm in the reckoning

of soul and body to it’s maker

designer of fortune and fate

I am the daughter of

a wayward father

lost in the translation of relation

we are one with the furthest point

of self same poetic expression spoken

into existence by prophetic utterances

and I am, we are

at the beginning again

circled ‘round and ‘round the question

is there truth in the utterances of men

or politics all

in all and through all, save one

and in Him only truth

truth sustained by mortal men

is fragile, and fallible

perfection in grace alone

provokes the soul to live

and flesh to breathe

bold and beautiful blindness

thrust  into me like a dagger

sing vibrancy into my voice

solidify my understanding

rewire my hardwired thinking

help me to begin again

loving is the act of learning

and learning the act of submission

to thoughts greater than those of one’s self

begin again with me

in this quiet absence

birthing substance from silence

fashion me new wings of understanding

from the debris of dissension

and we too shall be free

Linking up with dVerse Poet's Pub for Open Link Night. 

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.