Wednesday, December 22

Flowering

Flowering

Now; silent, stillness.
Riding the Wind-Horse of change,
wisdom's beauty blooms.


- Posted using BlogPress from my iPad

Friday, October 29

Through the thinning veil

Keep
Hold
Stand

In the heart of the Keep
Hold close those that you love
Stand firm with those
Unable to stand alone.

Keep
Hold
Stand

Keep the connection from the past
Holding hands we bring
Each other into this moment;
As you stand with us
We stand with you.

Keep
Hold
Stand

Keep the fire bright
Hold the bell sound
in your heart
Stand tall for all
is within you.

Keep
Hold
Stand

Keep to the calm
Be the center of the henge
Hold fast to
the wisdom of the stones
Stand. For you are sacred

Keep
Hold
Stand

Keep to the journey
You hold the infinite
in you hand.
Stand fast, behold
the coming change.

Keep
Hold
Stand

Tuesday, October 26

The Myst

The myst. 

Perhaps the myst that surrounds us is our friend. 

A brilliant creation of our own making.

Traveling with us, in each and every moment. 

Stalwart yet tender. Sensitive and tenacious. 

Brightly colored. Chosen with love and care.

Wrapping paper. Not obscuring, nor obfuscating. 

Heightening each moment of discovery. 

Accentuating this joyful precipice. 

As we unravel the mystery. 

The love, that we already are.

Haiku for Fall

Leaves guided to earth
Fall breeze brings colorful paint
Who will count them all

Seconds

Each day I get closer to knowing nothing at all. There is wonder there. Beautiful. Gentle. Like really good home made meat loaf and macaroni and cheese. No knowledge required. Just eat. Enjoy. Go back for seconds.

Rabbits

Boxcars bang louder
Cold air making metal sing
Bells of industry

The rabbits ignore it all
Smart rabbits


Joyfully

Starlight crisscrossing
Delicate paths guide my mind
Slugs march joyfully

There is a season

To every thing there is a season,
to every thing there is a purpose, …

Just in the last minute
at least
an acre of rainforest has been
destroyed.

Are we certain,
so damn
cock sure of ourselves
that in that acre of intense diverse life
lived not the cure for AIDS, or Diabetes
or Breast Cancer?

Perhaps it matters not;
it is forever lost to us.

Just in the last minute
at least
one young person’s life has been
destroyed.

Are we certain
so damn
cock sure of ourselves
that in this youth, of intense diverse life
lived not the cure for AIDS, or Diabetes
or Breast Cancer?

Perhaps it matters not;
that child is forever lost to us.

How many deaths will it take
till we know,
That too many people have died.

It matters to me.

Sacred

Ideas evolve. Life evolves.

No ideas are sacred, however, all life is sacred.

Monday, October 25

Soft Breath

Soft
Moonlight

Silver
Curves

Touching you
Caressing

Lips
Exploring

Sweet
Textures

Our
Fullness

Waves
Crashing

Silence
Breathing

Again?

Sunday, October 24

Raven's Highway

Raven's Highway

Slender raven walks
Bright ebony wings gleaming
Fall feels more like spring




- Posted from Bilbo the iPhone

Concert

Pausing, the rain waits
Movements from a symphony
New opus each night


- Posted from Bilbo the iPhone

Tuesday, October 5

It matters to me

To every thing there is a season,
to every thing there is a purpose, …

Just in the last minute
at least
an acre of rainforest has been 
destroyed.

Are we certain,
so damn
cock sure of ourselves
that in that acre of intense diverse life
lived not the cure for AIDS, or Diabetes
or Breast Cancer?

Perhaps it matters not;
it is forever lost to us.

Just in the last minute
at least
one young person’s life has been 
destroyed.

Are we certain
so damn
cock sure of ourselves
that in this youth, of intense diverse life
lived not the cure for AIDS, or Diabetes
or Breast Cancer?

Perhaps it matters not;
that child is forever lost to us.

How many deaths will it take
till we know,
That too many people have died.


It matters to me.

Saturday, October 2

The myst

The myst.

Perhaps the myst that surrounds us is our friend.

A brilliant creation of our own making.

Traveling with us, in each and every moment.

Stalwart yet tender. Sensitive and tenacious.

Brightly colored. Chosen with love and care.

Wrapping paper. Not obscuring, nor obfuscating.

Heightening each moment of discovery.

Accentuating this joyful precipice.

As we unravel the mystery.

The love, that we already are.




~ An iPad message: be | a curmudgeon

Location:NE 152nd Ave,Portland,United States

Saturday, September 25

Perfect Storm

Perfect Storm

Wet
From your soft whispers

My ears drink in
the delicious nectar of your words

Sweet lips 
stir deep passions

Scirocco winds envelope us
the storm grows hot

Following the perfume
I seek the source of your wet

Velvet folds swell and open
my tongue translating 

Sensuous runes
on your outer gates

My lips utter silent words
the ocean rises and swells

Plundering deeply
into your Storm Temple

Scorching waves crash
Thunder and lightening erupt

Joining, we are
the perfect storm

Thursday, September 16

Fall approaches (a haiku)

Fall Approaches

Geese soaring Northward
Reflections on the river
Sights from bus window

Sunday, June 13

My Place




Naked

            I like rain. There is sublime joy from walking in it. Unique is the passion play between warm, fragrant earth as it opens to receive the powerful spring rainstorm. To me it sounds like homemade Fajitas with peppers, onions and fresh spices sizzling in a cast iron frying pan. There is however, a particular kind rain at the Oregon coast, specifically in Newport Oregon, when wind and rain combine, such that, within a half a mile of the coast that it will rain in a curious sideways fashion. As if the world had been tilted ninety degrees. This horizontal rain has its own beauty, but after three straight days of it, I too was ready for some change. It was, after all, the second week of June. Nearly summer. I was jittery. Jumpy. Though not a coffee drinker, which I know in Oregon, is just plain wrong, but nevertheless, it was like I was on my fifth double mochaccino. Whatever that is. I needed to get out of the house and fast!
            Backing out of the driveway I see the sun is just starting to break through the clouds and in the distance I see a double rainbow. Commonplace here at the coast, but no less unique and beautiful. Left at the end of the block takes me to Walmart and right takes me across the Yaquina Bay bridge. Walmart is the safe bet. Indoors. I can get in a decent walk and grab some milk or orange juice, or something, anything, so they don’t look at me with that, “what you didn’t buy anything” grimace. I choose right, towards the bridge. At seven am, only the very top of the bridge is visible through the fog. Were it not that I knew this route by heart, the nearly hidden left turn, that even on the brightest of days is more mirage than entrance would be impossible to find. Friends have told me, “this must be some kind’a magical place all right. I had to turn around three times.” Anyone who has driven on Highway 101, knows that by mid May, that the parade of RV’s, makes turning around on Highway 101, an all day affair.
            Turning down the gravel road, I laugh at the very small sign that reads, “Nature Area.” I giggle again. I am so close to the Pacific Ocean I could spit in it, but the city of Newport wants me to know I am near a nature area. If they only knew. For this so called nature area is indeed magical. It is one of those few places that if you’er not meant to find it, you just won’t. I know Newport natives that have never heard of it, or have looked for it and never found it. I get reports back like, “nothin’ down that road” or “found the gravel pit” and “ya sure that’s the right road?” Oh it’s the right road, and for me at least, it is exactly what I am looking for. I park my car near the small, pressure treated bench, where I put on my serious old school style heavy hiking boots. Two layers of socks, my arcane bit of lacing and tying, and I am ready. I grab my two most stout walking sticks and my knapsack from the trunk and head down the trail.
            The pea gravel sounds like frozen snow as my boots crunch loudly. Knock, knock! Anybody home, they announce. The improved part of the trail goes on for about a half mile ending at a utilitarian, redwood colored bridge made of pressure treated lumber, held together with stainless steel screws and nails. To the left of me, is a solid row of tree sized rhododendrons.  Tightly packed together, with their leaves, blooms and branches all interwoven, like one of those English formal gardens that you see on PBS. It’s a nice walk, but, my path today does not lie down manicure lane. The wisdom I seek is to found at the end of much different trail.
            About three hundred yards down the gravel trail I turn right in between two medium size aspen trees. The trail winds around a bit and the Aspens and “Rhodies” are replaced with larger and larger pine and cedar trees. Some would call this old growth, but the proper term is mid-growth. Most of the trees here are replants from the early nineteen hundreds. There are a few old ones here, but most if not essentially all of the great ones were felled in the logging boom of the late eighteen hundreds. It is dense in here. Each step I take it grows darker as the canopy blocks out the sunlight and the trail is slick with fresh mud. My heavy soled boots swish and slide, and then slurp as the thick mud only reluctantly lets go. There is wildness here. An unkempt yet uniquely organized amalgamation of green and growing things. Grove-like patches of Chanterelles, Hen-of-the-Woods other fungi become plentiful. Some are quite tasty, but most will kill you before you can say pass the salt please. I arrive at the place I call Sentinel’s Gate. Following my usual ritual, I place both my palms on the heart of the sentinel. His exposed heart beats still, but his mortal wound from the logger’s saw is still raw and rough. My fingers search out the undulating pattern of the many rings and they feel the fear of the painful, jagged horizontal saw cuts that murdered him, from who knows how long ago. 369 rings, last time I counted in 1998. The colony at Plymouth Rock was less than ten years old then. Even trees that most would call old and dead will speak to you, if you are patient, open hearted and willing to listen. A word of caution though, you may not always like what you hear.
            Past sentinel’s gate the trail winds down into the valley. Today the path is treacherous. Mud, fallen branches, and newly exposed roots make me glad I brought both walking sticks. It is midnight dark now. Only small shafts of sunlight hit the ground as they illuminate the maze of glittery silver trails left by hundreds of slugs. Mastodon sized, a few Banana slugs slink in front of me. I am forced to choose each step very carefully. In places the moss and lichens are thick, lush and brightly colored. deep iridescent greens, electric yellows remind me of 1960’s deep pile, shag carpeting. Reaching the valley floor, I turn south as the trail climbs equally steep up to the top of the hill. You cant’s quite see the ocean from here, but the thick salt air tells you it is very close. I take time to rearrange a few rocks and branches to make a place to sit less painful.
            After removing my boots I give my toes a chance to scout out a spot to begin my meditation. Quickly stripping my remaining clothes, I sit cross legged, naked, as I fidget a bit. Giving warm bare skin, a chance of melding with, colder than I would like, very wet ground. Focusing on my breath, thirty years of daily practice, is new again in this moment. Mist rises from the valley beneath me and the pungent smell of peat mixed with the salt air, can mean only one thing. The earth is opening herself up, yet again to to receive the coming rain. For a moment or two the valley is eerily quiet. There is a depth, a palatable prayer-like quality to the silence. Suddenly, sheets of rain echo and boom as it races towards me across the valley floor. I am wet. Truth and wisdom of this day, rise from within me and through the vehicle of the rain, penetrate me. The rainstorm rages and consumes me. The line, a manufactured delusion really,  between nature and my individual self blurs and vanishes. I am the rain, and the rain is me. 

Saturday, June 12

For someone special

The song of your voice
echos in my heart,
each time I say your name.

I see two elder tress.
Over time we have grown close together,
each in our own different part of the Great forest.

The leaves and the tiniest of
our branches have discovered each other.

It will take time for our branches
to fully intertwine.

I want to savor and enjoy each moment of that with,


YOU!

Friday, June 11

Response to the book Night


When I first saw it, I knew what it was, but my mind had already suspended my belief that it was possible. So it is, I believe, with many things in our lives. We see something, but we do not see it. We see the object, but we fail to, or choose to, not comprehend all of what is presented to us. When I was ten, for example, if you had asked me what an elephant was I could have told you. I loved elephants when I was younger, and to this day I feel they are amazing creatures. Back then I would have even shown you pictures I had drawn of elephants. But nothing prepares one for the first experience of seeing an elephant. The grace combined with immense size. Subtle, delicate seeming footfalls, and a massive trunk that can, with great skill and tenderness snatch a peanut from a child's hand. So it was to be on this day. I would see it, know what it is, but it would take hours, for the meaning of it, to sink into my soul.
            It was Mother's day 1978. I had been at this intersection of South Home and Madison  Avenue since three in the morning. The art of selling roses on Mother's day in this Chicago suburb was a very serious business. In about 45 minutes, other flower dealers would show up and demand that I leave their corner. Some florists even hired thugs, who would wave guns in my face, in order to persuade me to walk away. I would not. This is my corner, and I had the permit from the City of Chicago to prove it. Unless I left voluntarily, this corner was mine. On almost any corner in Chicago on any Mother's day, even the most inept would easily net over $1000 today. My corner, for some reason was different.  On a bad Mother's day, this was easily a $5000 corner, and hence the reason for all that added interest in me, not being there.
            Here, at the intersection of Home and Madison, at an unassuming traffic light, across from the Sears store, was the intersection of three great and historical neighborhoods. To my east was Cicero. A sometimes quiet, but still rambunctious area that never quite lived down its notorious Mob influenced past from the 1930s and 1940s.  Still, on almost any Sunday afternoon, in this Italian, very Catholic, American enclave, the air would be filled with the smells of long simmered Ragus, Bolengenaises and freshly baked garlic bread. From open kitchen windows, decades old recipes broadcast each Grandmothers love her for family. By ten in the morning, a dozen or more immigrant Grandmothers had, in perfect broken English insisted that it was their house I was having diner in that day. It made for a really long days, but I would never have Italian food this good, this lovingly prepared ever again in my life.
            North and west of me was the ever so proper neighborhood of Oak Park. This bastion of liberal Protestant bankers and lawyers was home to several homes designed by the architect, Frank Lloyd Wright. I was pretty naive back then, but I never once saw any cars, befitting the required luxury of Oak Park, in the Sears parking lot.
            South and west of me lie the pre-imminent Orthodox Jewish community of Forest Park. At this simple traffic light, three of Chicago's great communities came together, at least on the map. I had walked the streets of these neighborhoods many times. In Cicero, and Forest Park I would be welcomed as if family. Although my first experience in Forest Park was on a Saturday, the Sabbath, and due to my ignorance I thought it to be as snooty as that of Oak Park. I came to love this older Jewish neighborhood. In my experience Italian Americans and Jewish Americans had much in common, in a word, community.
            By seven am, in my little corner of Mother's day in Chicago, it was already hot. The air was still and thick. Laden with moisture from nearby Lake Michigan. Listening to radios, through the open car windows, the weather report was not good. It would be at least 100 degrees, higher in the suburbs. By noon the asphalt was softening, and my black and white Converse were beginning to make the sticky floor sound that you hear in movie theaters from too much spilled soda and candy. I saw the first one, as the man in the Buick Regal handed me a fifty for two dozen roses. It stared at me, yelled my name, I knew what it was, but my brain was not willing to surrender. I saw another one, and another. I had to stop. Catch my breath. My mind now reeling, wanting desperately to explode, and forever not have to retain what I now knew. Two more passed by me in the hot steamy sunshine. Then three. Finally, forcing my self to look, really look.
            They were all the same. Faded, by thirty plus years as living testament to an unbearable tragedy. These faded, blue-black tattoos, spoke louder now to me than any voice. Look, they cried. Do not turn away. See. Understand. I did not want to. The one inch tall square, block letters, reminiscent of third grade letter practice, were numbers. Seemingly random, but the meaning was clear. Prominently displayed on the left arms of both men and women, uncovered by rolled up sleeves, in response to the days roaring heat. These people, some of whose faces I recognized, were survivors. Holocaust survivors. Living testament to how horribly low we as human beings can become, when we choose to turn on our brothers and sisters. The heat on this day was oppressive.
            By three pm, I had made $7000, and still had a good three or four hours left to sell. But I could go no further. I walked across the street to the Sears. Leaning against the decades old red-brown bricks, and there in the shade of the painted steel over-hang, I collapsed. Overcome with emotion. I sat there not moving for over four hours, until my friends picked me up.
            Elie Wiesel's book brought back this moment in my life. I am glad for it. It has renewed the fires of compassion in me, in so many wonderful ways. I found it strange reading his book. On the one hand reading a book in which you know how it ends is one thing. The tragic necessity of how and where this book heads was with me from the very first word. In reading Night, I was brought back to my walks through Forest Park in Chicago. I relived my experiences in this community of kind and loving people. I was a total stranger, but in this upper middle class, orthodox community I was welcomed. First as stranger, but with not the usual coldness a stranger expects. My interest in learning the Torah and Talmud was at first laughed at. But despite many a joke, told with a kind of love, I still do not understand, I was quickly befriended and eventually became like family.
            Wiesel's book, recounts this feeling of community and of daily life, in this vibrant city of his story. Yet, we watch as life unravels for Elie and his family. This story touched me, not because of my first hand experience with survivors but because of his love.  We watch as an entire town, sees, but cannot not see. Despite numerous warnings, life continues, in much the same way, even in the harsh and quickly transformed ghetto. Still they do not see, until it is too late. It was hard for me to believe what I was seeing on that Sunday afternoon. Harder still, I feel for Elie and his family to believe, that such cruelty awaited them. Sometimes we must believe, before we can see. 

Wednesday, May 19

Essay fo my non fiction class

Out of Munchies

I crept back into the apartment and pretended to fall asleep. My mind was made up. I was leaving. No one knew. 

I had come home from the Navy, only to discover that I was homeless. My father, who  had remarried while I was in boot camp, had sold the home I grew up in, and moved his new wife and her four kids into a new and much larger home. This new place did not include me. My involuntary, non-participation, in this new "family" unit, was made all the more clear when I discovered two important details left out of the wedding announcement. 1) All my stuff had been disposed of. All items from my childhood, from school projects to class photos, from stuffed animals to GI-Joes, and all my non military clothing had been thrown out. It was all gone. 2) My one remaining possession, my motorcycle, I was told, by the step-bitch, was still here. Just before she wailed, "get that piece of shit outta' MY garage!" 
Walking out to the garage, I quickly found my Honda 350-4 next to the work bench in the corner. Covered in dust, and more disastrously, rust! The tank was empty and the tires were flat, but thankfully no dents, and nothing broken. Still, it took me several hours to fond my own way to the gas station, and knocking on strangers doors to see if I could borrow a tire pump to inflate my severely depressed tires. 
Tenuously my right thumb reached for the starter button. Feeling it's way across the throttle and over the retaining ring as it had done thousands of times before. My bike, that I maintained with pride and devotion had never, not once, not even for an instant not started. Until now. Ha na na na nah. Nothing. I adjusted the choke, and tired again. Sputter, cough, na na, sputter-stutter, click, and then; the familiar whine and growl as the engine and my spirit simultaneously resurrected themselves. A bit heavy handed on the choke I thought as the garage filled with dense blue-black smoke and the smell of unburned gasoline. "Serves them right!" I muttered. I let the bike idle for a few minutes, as I tied my remaining possessions to the back of the bike. Without thinking, I turned towards the door that led to the kitchen, but caught myself. "Did they say goodbye to me when they trashed my childhood things?" Saying this out loud, I realized, they did not. The message though, I now got, came through loud and clear; "get lost" they were telling me. The little boy in me, looked sheepishly at the garage floor. Perplexed. Confused. This was not the garage I played in as a child. Home, for me, died that day. It was December tenth 1976. Cell phones were some twenty years in the future, so I did what we almost never do now. I drove to my friends house to see if he was home. Wind in my hair, I rode.
Lying there in the bed, eyes closed, as I carefully reviewed the last four months. It is April first. I didn't plan it this way. Leaving this way, on this date, in the manner I had chosen would be a cruel joke. At best. But, I had been telling myself for over a week now, it had to be this way. The only way a clean break was going to happen. My sinister plot to escape, brewing in my head for over a month, was now complete.
For weeks now, I had been buying stuff. Lots of stuff. A bright yellow, Jan Sport backpack. Even by 1970's standards it was huge. It had to be. It was a beautifully engineered, external frame pack that was to hold: my new sleeping, a light weight, equally state-of-the-art, two person tent, a single burner white gas stove, clothing and most importantly, a month's supply of freeze dried food. All of this carefully hidden on the patio. Under a tarp in the corner. It didn't matter really. The patio was the junk pile. Nobody ever went out there. I could have placed "big yellow," my pet name for my back pack, right in the middle of the patio, in full view of the door, and it would have gone unnoticed for months. I, however, was not about to take chances. Timing, wording, it all had to look normal. I was saying goodbye to my closest friends. Walking out of their lives. Forever. Perhaps. I did not know.
I parked my bike next to my friends back door. Slid open the patio door and walked in. No one was startled, I was nearly family. Shannon and Shelli, Rob and Joann, Joann's brother Rex, Dan and the two cats. Misha and Roger. "You're back!" they all say. 
"I am, just.” 
“I need a place to crash?" 
Shannon motions his head to the back bedroom. "mind the litter box, it's been moved!" 
I stashed my junk on the floor and returned to the main room. Sitting at the smallish no longer round kitchen table, where a Budweiser, in a long-neck  bottle, was already open and waiting for me. 
"Figured you'd need that. How'd it go at your dad's place." Asked Rex. 

"How do you think it went? Piped in Joann, “Honestly Rex, your such an ass! He's crashing here, for God's sake" 

"As expected," I said.  "Worse, actually, they trashed all my shit. It's all gone."  
Shannon, now coming back to Earth, manages to encapsulate the moment,  "Fuuuuuuuuuuck,.....man, bummer" returning to his home made bong, Shannon, a moment later, was safely back circling Jupiter again. 

"Least you still have the bike,” Rob said “Oh, you do still have the bike, they didn't sell,..." 

"No, I interrupted. It's registered to me. They're bastards, not motorcycle rustlers" We all tried to laugh.
The sound of footsteps and the sound of the refrigerator tell me it is time for me to get up. 

“Shit, there’s nothing for breakfast!” my friends mumble in non harmonious quasi-chorus fashion. 

Actually it was part of my plan. In a house full of drunks and stoners, no food outlasts the night. I wait for a few minutes. More noise in the kitchen tells me my moment has come. I walk slowly into the kitchen. I am already fully dressed, with my shoes on, but nobody notices. 
“Dude!” says Shannon. “No breakfast!, I got munchies man, serious MUNCHIES!”
Here, perfectly and unwittingly played by my friend is my que. “No problem, I’ll make a munchy run!” “Hey everyone! I’m off to the store. I’ll get milk and cereal” Without waiting I head for the door. What could I say? I was leaving them. Now. I walked out the door around to the back where my pack and bike were waiting. 
Alone, on my motorcycle, I felt reborn. The freeway traffic was light at 7:15 am. All the traffic on I-5 was heading into downtown Sacramento, and I was heading out towards the airport.  I had escaped from that hell hole, before it devoured me like it had my closest friends. I had hoped the shock would be a wake up call for them. That Shannon and my other friends, would have that collective aha moment and awaken form the drugs and alcohol wet dream they were living. Two exits away from the airport was the Honda dealership. It had been prearranged that I would drop the bike off for them to sell on consignment, and that their sales manager would drive me the rest of the way to the airport. 
A lot happened in that month I was away in Canada. My friends, did actually wake up. Within two weeks of my departure, they had all moved out and gotten on with their lives. I have talked to only one or two over the years. As adults we grew apart over time. even if that time was amped up and foreshortened by my abrupt departure. For me the trip to Canada was an eye opener. I was renewed and awakened repeatedly on many emotional and spiritual levels. My advice? Sometimes just going out for milk and munchies can change your life, in a good way forever. 

Monday, May 17

Cut, deep

Cut, deep. I do not want to write. Pulling on words. Dental floss with that scraping sound as you pull it out of it's container. I never seem to get the right amount. To little and and i end up throwing it out and starting over. Too much and I feel guilty for wasting such a precious commodity. My words feel that way this morning. They smell, stink actually. Rhyme of reason is abandoned as meter and measure fly out the window and into the trash heap. What is one to do with such obvious crap? Again I am sliced open. Cut. Harsh is the shining blade of a trusted one that cuts you deep. Bone deep. Deftly with an oft practiced stroke my heart is neatly, cleanly sliced in two. So perfect, and ever so swift, such that my attacker is long gone before I realize that I am nearly bled out. I am an easy mark. Accepting of others, open and welcoming. It is my nature to be this way. I will not change. Those who keep their skinning knives sharp, their vorpal, killing words honed and ever ready. Hidden. Silent. Sleeping sappers. Waiting for. The right moment. To take what was freely offered and shoplift it. Making beauty into vest. Sublime into ugliness. It is their nature to cut and slice. They will never change. As I learn to heal, they in turn hone their blades ever sharper. Someday I will meet one or perhaps two, who will return my open embrace. On that day I will forget all previous pain. Someday, they will meet another, more practiced than they and they will know the ferocity of the unexpected cut. The cut that goes bone deep. Living by the blade has caused them to perish, as their arteries run dry they die alone. Face down In the gutter. Road kill no one will mourn for or notice. I fear. For theirs is the most wretched life I can imagine.

Monday, May 10

Softness

Softness

The wind does not speak
Rain floating gently to earth
Soft heart welcomes spring


- From the mobile Curmudgeon via his trusty iPhone

be | amazing

Saturday, May 8

Life tapestry

The weaving of Life's Tapestry is not so much about the finished product, but rather, the careful selection of the threads of each moment woven together with skill and compassion. A beautiful weave consists of only a few simple, but no less essential elements. Warp and weft, bound together and combined, with yarn of just the right quality and color wound around the shuttle. Passion is born on such a loom, . . .

So here I am. This odd bit of well seasoned, colorful, kind and compassionate bit of warp. Are you that gentle and caring bit of weft? Would we find beauty in the yarns that wind around the shuttle that we pass back an forth? Working together perhaps we can find threads that are humorous, witty even, and threads that shine brightly in the sun, but can also withstand the inevitable rainy seasons. Will you help me construct a loom that is large enough, robust enough, to weave all of our biggest dreams together? Treadles made of strong oak and pristine ash. Strong enough to weave bold patterns, yet supple enough to capture and weave all the intricate details of two lives well lived.

I believe such a magical loom is possible. Do You?



~ An iPad message: be | a curmudgeon
Location:My heart

Friday, May 7

The peskier the better

It is the right, and I believe the duty, of all who would call themselves good citizens, and most especially those of us who are curmudgeon-ly inclined to ask questions that are of a pesky nature. It is these heart of the matter, cut to the chase kind of questions that are often left unasked and or answered. Some of these you will have seen before.

So, I am ...


I am curious.

Which countries would Jesus invade?

Who would Jesus bomb?

Which of your children would Jesus not educate?

Whose civil rights would Jesus take away?

How many forced labor camps would Jesus own?

Who would Jesus torture?

For what kind of information would Jesus decide that torture is appropriate?

What would cause Jesus to invent water-boarding?

Which Alter boys would Jesus fondle?

For what reason would Jesus change the name of illegal kidnapping to Extraordinary Rendition?

How many LBGT persons would Jesus beat to death?

Whose insurance claim for injuries sustained from being raped would Jesus deny?

Whose health care plan would Jesus cancel?

How many mentally ill homeless people would Jesus stomp, taze, or club to death?

Who would Jesus profile?

How would Jesus decide who looks illegal?

Whose identity or proof of citizenship papers would Jesus demand to see?

How much money would Jesus make from writing and performing songs that promote rape and violence towards women?

How many pet mutilation videos would Jesus post to You Tube?

Which companies that repeatedly pollute the environment on a global scale would Jesus accept campaign funding from?

Which of His disciples would Jesus decide is the most profitable to insure?

Which of His Apostles health care plan’s would Jesus cancel, citing lifestyle or domestic partner issues?

How would Jesus decide which of his followers health care plans were the most profitable to cancel?

Which so-called Christian nation should Jesus disown?

At the end of his life, after days of public beatings, he was murdered. Mutilated and horrifically disfigured in front of his mother and siblings, by the politically correct methods of his time. All of which was requested by, approved of, and endorsed by his own ethnic group.

In the end we are left with precious little of His actual teachings, but I think it is safe to say that He thought that what He taught, what He believed in, and the people He cared for most, us ubstensably, were all worth dying for.

So I ask you, which of His direct teachings would Jesus tell us we can disregard? And for what reasons?



~ An iPad message: be | a curmudgeon

Location:Curmudgeon manor

Wednesday, May 5

The 3:14 to now(here)

The 3:14 to now(here)

Words to the left, words to the right. Stand up, sit down; write, write, write!

Pesky term papers turning my brain to soup. Grammar and vocabulary do loop-de-loop.

Term paper complete.
All the info she asked for.
In one neat haiku.

Would that it were that simple.

(the above waku brought to you by Curmudgeon insomniacs Inc.)


- From the mobile Curmudgeon via his trusty iPhone

be | amazing

Tuesday, May 4

Rain

Rain

Percussive rain. Loud!
Stirs me from my nap. Gently.
Soaring mind. No limits!


- From the mobile Curmudgeon via his trusty iPhone

be | amazing

Monday, April 12

Melody

A haiku.

Melody

The stream sings to me
Joyful eddys spin with life
Seated on the bank


- Posted using BlogPress from my iPhone

Sunday, April 11

By request

A close friend asked me to write something for them. This is the result. I rather like it.


High Tide

My feet see the line
that separates the water
from the soft sand 
as I walk down the beach.

Lingering yellow sunlight
insists that I notice
the horizon, but
my thoughts are 
elsewhere.

Years ago
walking this same beach
we talked and laughed
jumping over mounds of kelp.

Cool water and sticky sand
keep my feet directed
helping me in my
meandering.

Water rises around my knees
lunar cycles telling me
high tide approaches
shifting the sands beneath me. 

Harvest Moon blending
with 40 watt bug bulb and
stars on the hotel balcony
illuminate.

Memories of times
I cannot remember
surface for but a moment
only hinting at their mystery.

Musky salt heavy breezes
carry the laughter and footsteps
of lovers walking beneath my room
oblivious.

Nearby a radio plays an 
old Curtis Mayfield tune
leaning back in my chair
I prop my feet up on the rail.

Does the Moon feel the passion
of the ocean as it dances
its love melody each
night?

Fresh cool cotton sheets
feeling slightly moist
as they often do in
these ocean side rooms.

My fingers cause delicate
Jasmine flowers to fall from 
your thick hair as we
embrace.

Wednesday, April 7

Rainstorm on Meditation Hill

Rainstorm on Meditation Hill
Don’t get me wrong, I like rain. I like walking in it. To me it sounds like homemade Fajitas with peppers, onions and fresh spices sizzling in a cast iron frying pan. There is however, a particular kind rain at the Oregon coast, specifically in Newport Oregon, when wind and rain combine, such that, within a half a mile of the coast that it will rain in a curious sideways fashion. As if the world had been tilted ninety degrees. This horizontal rain has its own beauty, but after three straight days of it, I too was ready for some change. It was, after all, the second week of June. Nearly summer. I was jittery and jumpy. Though not a coffee drinker, which I know in Oregon, is just plain wrong, but nevertheless, it was like I was on my fifth double mochaccino. Whatever that is. I needed to get out of the house and fast!
Backing out of the driveway I notice that the sun is just starting to break through the clouds and in the distance I see a double rainbow. Commonplace here at the coast, but no less unique and beautiful. Left at the end of the block takes me to Walmart and right takes me across the Yaquina Bay bridge. Walmart is the safe bet. Indoors. I can get in a decent walk and grab some milk or orange juice, or something, anything, so they don’t look at me with that, “what you didn’t buy anything” grimace. I choose right, towards the bridge. At seven am, only the very top of the bridge is visible through the fog. Were it not that I knew this route by heart, the nearly hidden left turn, that even on the brightest of days is more mirage than entrance would be impossible to find. Friends have told me, “this must be some kind’a magical place all right. I had to turn around three times.” Anyone who has driven on Highway 101, knows that by mid May, that the parade of RV’s makes turning around on Highway 101 an all day affair. 

Turning down the gravel road, I laugh at the very small sign that reads, “Nature Area.” I giggle again. I am so close to the Pacific Ocean I could spit in it, but the city of Newport wants me to know I am near a nature area. If they only knew. For this so called nature area is indeed magical. It is one of those few places that if your not meant to find it, you just won’t. I know Newport natives that have never heard of it, or have looked for it and never found it. I get reports back like, “nothin’ down that road” or “found the gravel pit” and “ya sure that’s the right road?” Oh it’s the right road, and for me at least, it is exactly what I am looking for. I park my car near the small, pressure treated bench, where I put on my serious old school style heavy hiking boots. Two layers of socks, my arcane bit of lacing and tying, and I am ready. I grab my two most stout walking sticks and my knapsack from the trunk and head down the trail. 

The pea gravel sounds like frozen snow as my boots crunch loudly. Knock, knock! Anybody home, they announce. The improved part of the trail goes on for about a half mile ending at a utilitarian, redwood colored bridge made of pressure treated lumber, held together with stainless steel screws and nails. To the left of me, is a solid row of tree sized rhododendrons.  Tightly packed together, with their leaves, blooms and branches all interwoven, like one of those English formal gardens that you see on PBS. It’s a nice walk, but, my path today does not lie down manicure lane. The wisdom I seek is to found at the end of much different trail. 

About three hundred yards down the gravel trail I turn right in between two medium size aspen trees. The trail winds around a bit and the Aspens and “Rhodies” are replaced with larger and larger pine and cedar trees. Some would call this old growth, but the proper term is mid-growth. Most of the tress here are replants from the early nineteen hundreds. There are a few old ones here, but most if not essentially all of the great ones were felled in the logging boom of the late eighteen hundreds. It is dense in here. Each step I take it grows darker as the canopy blocks out the sunlight and the trail is slick with fresh mud. My heavy soled boots swish and slide, and then slurp as the thick mud only reluctantly lets go. There is wildness here. An unkempt yet uniquely organized amalgamation of green and growing things. Grove-like patches of Chanterelles, Hen-of-the-Woods other fungi become plentiful. Some are quite tasty, but most will kill you before you can say pass the salt please. 


I arrive at the place I call Sentinel’s Gate. Following my usual ritual, I place both my palms on the heart of the sentinel. His exposed heart beats still, but his mortal wound from the logger’s saw is still raw and rough. My fingers search out the undulating pattern of the many rings and they feel the fear of the painful, jagged horizontal saw cuts that murdered him, from who knows how long ago. 369 rings, last time I counted in 1998. The colony at Plymouth Rock was less than ten years old then. Even trees that most would call old and dead will speak to you, if you are patient, open hearted and willing to listen. A word of caution though, you may not always like what you hear. 

Past sentinel’s gate the trail winds down into the valley. Today the path is treacherous. Mud, fallen branches, and newly exposed roots make me glad I brought both walking sticks. It is midnight dark now. Only small shafts of sunlight hit the ground as they illuminate the maze of glittery silver trails left by hundreds of slugs. Mastodon sized, a few Banana slugs slink in front of me. I am forced to choose each step very carefully. In places the moss and lichens are thick, lush and brightly colored. deep iridescent greens, electric yellows remind me of 1960’s deep pile, shag carpeting. Reaching the valley floor, I turn south as the trail climbs equally steep up to the top of the hill. 


You cant’s quite see the ocean from here, but the thick salt air tells you it is very close. I take time to rearrange a few rocks and branches to make a place to sit less painful. 

After removing my boots I give my toes a chance to scout out a spot to begin my meditation. Now naked, I sit cross legged and fidget a bit. Giving warm bare skin a chance of melding with colder than I would like, very wet ground. Focusing on my breath, thirty years of daily practice, is new again in this moment. Mist rises from the valley beneath me and the pungent smell of peat mixed with the salt air, can mean only one thing. The earth is opening herself up, yet again to to receive the coming rain. For a moment or two the valley is eerily quiet. There is a depth, a palatable prayer-like quality to the silence. Suddenly, sheets of rain echo and boom as it races towards me across the valley floor. I am wet. Truth and wisdom of this day, rise from within me and through the vehicle of the rain, penetrate me. The rainstorm rages and consumes me. The line, a manufactured delusion really,  between nature and my individual self blurs and vanishes. I am the rain, and the rain is me. 

Thursday, April 1

Mist

Heart of the forest
Surrounded by mist and Fae
Wonder of the small


- Posted using BlogPress from my iPhone

Monday, March 29

Colors

Stars light the quiet
Silence colored by strong breeze
Whirling joyful Spring


- Posted using BlogPress from my iPhone

Rainstorm

Grain and lumber pass.
Engines whine and boxcars bang!
Rain. Spring's companion.


- Posted using BlogPress from my iPhone

Monday, March 22

Water

Paying attention.
Eyes, mind, heart open. Seeing.
Water looks at moon.


- Posted using BlogPress from my iPhone

First Geese

Geese fly overhead
Soaring. Squaking, they race home
First geese of spring. Smiles


- Posted using BlogPress from my iPhone

Spring

Cherry blossoms fall
The river is filled with them
Swirling, spinning. Joy


- Posted using BlogPress from my iPhone

Razor's Edge


Winter's wind cuts me
Spring is here, yet still I bleed
Silence binds my wounds


- Posted using BlogPress from my iPhone

Wednesday, March 17

Thoughts on winter, as it departs


Obscurity. When you are alone. Truly alone. It is so very quiet. But the quiet is so deafeningly loud that it makes my ears ring.

Solitude had its downside. This is it. To find that one kindred spirit is perhaps a mountain too steep, a river too wide, and a path too long for me to walk
. This deep longing I must learn to let go of, for it no longer serves me.

Pain is perhaps an ally but it is not my friend. Tonight I am changed. Steeled against the cold, I wrap my cloak tighter, lest what little warmth I have left escapes me.

Tuesday, March 16

In Celebration of the Snakes

All Snakes Day




The victors get to write the history and so the murderer, becomes the saint. The slaughtered become the villains that "had" to be eliminated. Yet the truth remains, that the Snakes, my Sisters and Brethren, my beloved Wise Ones, the ones who suckled at our mother's breast, have not been forgotten.

On this day, All Snakes Day, I light a candle for those who have fallen, who were taken from us. On this day, I celebrate the wisdom of my Ancestors, those, Gelits, Kenning Merlins, Druids, Wise Women, and Witches alike, the keepers of ancient wisdom. 

To all my good and wise kin of the forest let not anger fill your heart, lest we become like the so called saint whose drunken followers celebrate his ancient blood lust in new found gross frenzy. 

The flame burns bright inside me in honor of Snakes of this Holy Day.

Saturday, March 6

Sing

Sing

Listening

To
My own humaness

The stories of humanity
Reverberate in my ears
The singular song
Of my own soul

Resounds in my heart

Sing to me the
Song of your soul
For the harmony to be found
In the delicate intertwining of our
Combined melody sings of
Passion and beauty so powerful
It transforms all it touches

It is this love song
That allows hatred
To be forgotten and
Compassion to flourish