Suisunes Woman

when waters were clear

and elk foraged, fearless on 

high bluffs, she waited

for her husband

flowing swiftly 

with catch of salmon

he rode the western wind 

as her eyes guided him

while high above 

gathered the feathery 

souls of the old ones,

returned from sea, 

honored guests,

to the evening feast.

The People of the West Wind

Suisunes once lived

beneath the Twin Sisters.

Ascending beyond the vineyards and twisted oaks,

they still drift through morning mist,

and walk the sacred paths

of their fathers.

Guardian oaks still embrace the People.

Meandering branches lean low,

give clambering children

an easy climb

high to where acorns

fall in the western wind

to feed

their hungry

souls.

AUTHOR'S NOTE: 

The Suisunes people, called The People of the West Wind, lived for over 10,000 years in the area where I now live... but they nearly died out within a generation of exposure to European missionaries seeking to save their souls. They would have eluded the attention of the Spanish longer had they not given refuge to escaped mission Indians.  In 1810 several dozen of these gentle people committed  suicide rather than submit to the Spanish.

If you listen carefully in the morning breeze you can still hear their laughter.

Flow

It flows

over highways
dripping down
lamp-posts
through gutters,
pounding
storm drains,
filling
narrow lanes,
past dark houses,
past high-tension
wires, driving
through
constraining fence,
unfettered
it fills
the green hills
and rolls
through folding slough, past
low bridge and causeway,
ever lower
down to Suisun Bay,
unstoppable
like a swimmer’s blood
pulsing through throbbing vein,
reaching for Gate of Gold
to break free,
to become
one with
One.

(19 April 2011)

Simplicity of being

Photo: Brian Federle, Lanterns, 2014.

"....it is of the very essence of Christianity to face suffering and death not because they are good, not because they have meaning, but because the resurrection of Jesus has robbed them of their meaning.” 

Thomas Merton

*********

The moon fades, 

clouds enshroud stars

pale trees glare 

ensnared by winter winds 

blanching at death's edge,  

and yet you whisper 

gently in the rain, 

promise me gifts 

of disease and pain

to strip me clean

and pure again.  

O, make me

your sacrament!

pure essence,

of eternal gain.

(11 Sept. 2011: rev. 5-17-2018)

Evening Meditation

Our apple tree is exuberant tonight,

its white blossoms flare within emerald shades

of our big cottonwoods,

and the flashing red finch descends

busy among the bursting white flames,

when suddenly, by a small boy enraptured,

it poses as the guardian halcyon.

Love in April is like this,

measured in flashes

of red wings in trees

and scored in lines of

molten sunlight, pouring

through our knotty fence

into the silky darkness

of our star drenched night

(4/5/2010)

Quiet Morning, March 24

 

You’re painting in the kitchen

as John Denver sings his misty, old love songs

while by the shed

spring flowers burst into red and purple and white,

as the March sun rises and grief declines

to memory.

So here I write, our dogs

nuzzled close and warm

and contented.

North Wind

 North wind 

rushes and blusters

in the bright March sun,

scatters 

winter’s chill,

hints of the heat 

to come.

In Arching Waters

In arching waters

the black bird dances

with graceless step,

head jerks, probing soft soil,

penetrating wet grass

when rearing back primitive eyes

it raises ivory beak

and offers a shining prize,

living, writhing.

captive

to mother-sky.

(4/28/12)