Category Archives: Photo and Poem

Celeste, in Waiting

 

Blue silk and pearls,
she sits in the Cafe of Last Resort.
Absinth and iodine in a tumbler before her.
She waits beneath a fan that spins slower than the earth
for someone to deliver an exit visa.
A sole violin weeps longingly in the background.
Her extreme beauty works against her;
others’ motives are always suspect.
No one approaches her table…again today,
She knows she cannot leave.
Men with thin mustaches grin and nod at her from the bar,
but she sees no refection in the mirror behind them.
That cannot be good, she reasons.
And of course, she is right.
She has chosen passionate disaster before.
Dithering between self-indulgence and self-denial
is a subtle form of self-abuse.
She will twist and squeeze her wrist until her pearls yellow
and the perspiration above lip turns blue.

But, perhaps in the morning she will fly a colorful kite in the meadow.
Slip across the border with gypsies.
Her hair could be tied up; a cotton dress perhaps and barefoot.
No one would recognize her.
Or arise with the early mist to glide through the trees to the sea
to escape on a freighter
and maybe marry a sea captain…or a marine scientist
and raise beautiful children in Bimini or on the outskirts of Rio.
Maybe forget men all together and teach archery to nuns in a Spanish convent.

Anything is possible, she reasons.
She will try again tomorrow.

The Heart of the Forest

img_0263

I frequently walk
the same trail; it starts
like so many other trails
with a sign. The undergrowth
of salal gives way to huckleberry
periodically, all under the canopy
of fir, alder, and madrona. There
are four loops that make up this
trail like four chambers of my heart.
I am somewhat embarrassed to say
how much I love it here; me, circulating
like a corpuscle in the heart of the woods.
Sometimes when I dream
I see seeds of pulsing light
glow in the trail dust
beating in swaying synchrony
with these pillars
of my universe.

 

*Re-edited 11/5/2016

Dreams of Coal

image

Daylight ends suddenly
as fall comes into its own.
Looking for easy dinner
a redtail hawk sits on a cobrahead
blinking on over the highway
cloverleaf. The smell of deisel
hangs in a billow drifting into growing darkness.

At the edge of the forest
on the other side of the frontage
road, two young men, laughing,
lift mountain bikes out of a Toyota pickup.
Single-track snakes out of the parking
lot and circles around a beaver pond

to a ridge tappering on
into the ever darkening trees.
A dog sprints ahead 15 yards,
stops, turns, and barks twice.
At mushroom level,
never ending rubber teeth
bite at the loamy trough.
The trail retracts into the swallow
of night.

The Heart of the Forest

image

I frequently walk
the same trail; it starts
like so many other trails
with a sign. The undergrowth
of salal gives way to huckleberry
periodically, all under the canopy
of fir, alder, and madrona. There
are four loops that make up this
trail like four chambers of my heart.
I am somewhat embarrassed to say
that I love it here; me, circulating
like a corpuscle in the heart of the woods.
Sometimes when I dream
I see the seeds of light
give way to a trail beating
in synchrony with the pillars
of my great longing.