Tag Archives: poetry

There are those who love to get dirty and fix things. They drink coffee at dawn, beer after work. And those who stay clean, just appreciate things. At breakfast they have milk and juice at night. There are those who do both, they drink tea.

Gary Snyder

 

 

 

-for the record i drink all of the above- 🙂

Transplants dig deeper roots

I’m still in awe of these mountains.

Where I grew up, it was flat as a table.

Marsh and swamp

fields of corn and beet lines all following the horizon.

Difficult to connect to something when all you keep looking toward

is the horizon.

Here though, in the foot hills of these Cascades

a certain wonderment fills the air.

No longer lost

or looking West.

You can’t escape the mountains here.

You are enclosed by them. A constant reminder

of a billion years of rocks mashing and volcanoes rising

and glaciers melting.

Nature has put herself right in front of you daring you to forget

she is there.

That’s why the people here seem settled even as the grey rain

fills the sky day after day.

Nature is where we belong, it is where we were wild and free.

And that freedom is lost when you can only look West.

We drink these mountains, live from their waters collected

as snow from the Autumn through the Winter until

the Spring melt.

It is hard to escape Nature here.

Even in the cities filled with yachts and skyscrapers and

pavement as far as the eye can see all the way

to the Horizon.

There looming above is Pilchuck and Ranier and Baker.

Dominating the skyline in steel blue grey jagged peaks and

glaciers that connect us to our wild selves.

It is wild here, among these mountains and rivers.

The urge to run that my Midwest self fought and succumbed to

has been satiated.

This transplant has dug deeper roots here among the wild.

The good, the bad and the inconvenient by Marge Piercy

Gardening is often a measured cruelty:
what is to live and what is to be torn
up by its roots and flung on the compost
to rot and give its essence to new soil.

It is not only the weeds I seize.
go down the row of new spinach—
their little bright Vs crowding—
and snatch every other, flinging

their little bodies just as healthy,
just as sound as their neighbors
but judged, by me, superfluous.
We all commit crimes too small

for us to measure, the ant soldiers
we stomp, whose only aim was to
protect, to feed their vast family.
It is I who decide which beetles

are “good” and which are “bad”
as if each is not whole in its kind.
We eat to live and so do they,
the locusts, the grasshoppers,

the flea beetles and aphids and slugs.
By bad I mean inconvenient. Nothing
we do is simple, without consequence
and each act is shadowed with death.

~”The good, the bad and the inconvenient” by Marge Piercy, from The Crooked Inheritance. © Alfred A. Knopf, 2006.

Song of the Taste

Eating the living germs of grasses
Eating the ova of large birds

 the fleshy sweetness packed
around the sperm of swaying trees

The muscles of the flanks and thighs of
soft-voiced cows
the bounce in the lamb’s leap
the swish in the ox’s tail

Eating roots grown swoll
inside the soil

Drawing on life of living
clustered points of light spun
out of space
hidden in the grape.

Eating each other’s seed
eating
ah, each other.

Kissing the lover in the mouth of bread:
lip to lip.

~Gary Snyder

Studying texts and stiff meditation can make you lose your Original Mind.
A solitary tune by a fisherman, though, can be an invaluable treasure.
Dusk rain on the river, the moon peeking in and out of the clouds;
Elegant beyond words, he chants his songs night after night.

~ Ikkyu