OREGON MISTS

Days pass like Oregon mists;
speaking in sotto voce
of the endless cycle
of being and ceasing to be
of cataclysm and aftermath
of awkward instants and
long afternoons.

 

SNOWFALL

I awoke to the silent deluge . . .
falling
headlong
the bleached blood of martyr and rogue
spilled without regard
. . . by cruel Edict!
And as naturally torn from the maiden
wrapped in fear
a sacrifice to newborn gods
who wear it like rouge.
Yea, it is the blood of all
that falls
milky white
upon our mother’s breast
sup and sustenance
sap and soul
the phantom of redemption
made whole.

 

THE FOUNDRY

The massive hammer blows beat a steady rhythm, refining, transforming the white hot bloom . . . the devil’s flesh . . . and devil’s work it was. It took possession of the souls of men who worked there. Wages? Something for wives and children. No, it was the fires of hell, the searing heat of the river of iron pouring from the furnace, the cacophony of foundry noise, the knowledge that their lives depended on the uncertain sobriety of the furnace master. That’s what held them.

 

WHITE WARRIOR

White warrior
adrift in aquamarine
shoots soft arrows
in another time.

Tribesmen in dark robes
stand mute
awaiting
a new council fire.

Mothers of the multitude
stand guard
over innocence
shedding bright colors.

All
wrapped in echoes
All
wrapped in stillness.

 

IN MEMORIAM

Instant bird sound!  Half remembered
I hold my ears
Brief screech of violent death
Pierces.

 

FIRST STONE

This first stone
stone upon which
stone shall rest
until the wall
shall be a sight
for all to behold
must be set straight
by loving hands
when it wants to fall back
into primeval slumber.

 

UNTITLED

What is love without loss?
A pale shadow.
And what is joy without suffering?
An impulse.
What is life without death?
An impostor.

 

BUDDHA’S TREASURES

A life
by itself
is a small thing.
One of Buddha’s treasures.
But a life
that touches many lives
with love
is the Buddha.