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Molten then Rock

It is a Rock that feels warmth, then cold, then warmth.

This for the Rock is how it began.

First in fire, then cooled.

Pressure formed its shape.

Constant churning of

Atmosphere, layers of earth, dirt, water, more stones

Tumbled from the depths to the surface over

Centuries, over Eon’s

Over a vast, endless period of time

The churning is a constant

To the Stone,

To the Creatures that walk upon it,

Toss it, build with it, Carve it

It is a constant in their lifetime.

Solid as a Rock.

The Rock will feel the light of days,

Coolness of Nights,

It feels the duality of time,

 Creatures that speedily

Live their lives above the ground, then return to the Earth

As waste, then repeat their cycles through dirt,

Grass, Plants, Bugs, Prey, Predator

It will feel the landmasses float on magma as they

Crash into each other

Push up mountains, bury and squeeze Oceans into

Rivers and lakes.

The Rock will ride a land mass below the surface, be

Churned into hot lava to be spit up again,

Churned with other Molten Rock,

Spit up again to cool under the Sun, then the Moon

 As they take their tangent infinite spins.

This is the Nature of Rock

It’s sense of time is not Daylight then Nighttime.

It is to be Mountains, then Stones, then Landmasses

Then Lava, then Mountains, then Stones, then Landmasses.

Molten, then Rock

Molten, then Rock

Molten, then Rock

A Moment of Nothingness

Leaving room in the air

It was between Stars missing its Moon

and on a field

Of once Sun-Drenched Grass

Crickets stopped rubbing their legs

Leaving room in the air for the sound of

the Breeze as it finished its brush with the tips

Of the Grass

It’s a Pause

A Stop

Empty Air looking to be filled

By something long distanced

That is missing its Moon

Its Sun-Drenched Grass

It is a sound that doesn’t come

The Pause of the Grass Hesitates

The Sun Missing Stars Blink

It is a moment of Nothingness

As broad as there is Horizons.

As quickly

The Breeze enters from the North

Begins to move the tips of the Grass

The Stars Blink

And Crickets

Restart their Stridulation

It is Eon’s of ion’s and Rock’s

All Edges of Land Meet Water

It is Eons of Ion’s and Rock’s

All edges of land meet water.

With the rotation of the Earth,

The Breath of the Wind,

Waves Splash on Rocks.

It is:

Eons,

 Ions

and

Rocks.

It is a Shield and Spear Paradox

That makes Sand.

This is why Sand is appropriate for an Hourglass.

To Each

Grain

Of

Sand

It is Eons of Ion’s and Rock’s

Because We Sing, Dance, Make Art, Build, Write.

It is the way of creatures to be busy doing what creatures do

It is the way of creatures to be busy doing what creatures do.

Single Cell creatures modulate and pulse,

As they are subjected to the currents of gasses and liquids that contain them

   Tardigrades perform slow moving acrobatics,                                                         

As they feed, breed exist in their ever-resilient skins

In extreme temperatures of hot, cold, full oxygen or no oxygen

Ants and Bee’s work gather and build,

They make patterns of their paths,

Trailing their chemicals to communicate

They Hum while they work.

Birds Sing, call,

They find their mates through a Dance,

Or with a well-built decorated nest.

Then spend their lives in tandem.

Humans sing, dance, make art, build, write.

We leave our trails in concrete, or in sound.

We believe our patterns make our history.

It is the way of creatures,

It is how we keep busy,

It is how we

Keep tethered to each other.

And we reach to other species

Cross each other’s paths for good or ill,

It is what creatures of Earth Do,

And Earth

As it is surrounded by air and clouds

That move and dance as the Earth spins

And defines its seasons as it rotates

And circles the Sun,

As the Sun

Pulling its orbiting and dancing neighbors

With the force of its gravity

Through

The

Universe.

All

Because We Sing, Dance, Build, Make Art and Write.

Orion’s Belt

Summer begins the wait for Orion’s Belt

I have always felt it was ironic, or perhaps unfair that summer starts with the longest day then shortens with each daylight.

It is Summer that speaks in light.

Memories of glistening Beach Sand,

Then waves lapping on rocks

Clear Blue Horizon with Orange burned in its center.

We close our eyes at a day at the park,

Behind our eyelids burned red orange

We hold a blade of grass in our lips

A Saturday

Maybe the 4th of July

People Dancing,

People laughing,

This is a memory,

Shared.

It is a day that lives in Barbeque, Trumpets and Drums, a Guitar strum’s.

A Balloon has caught its string on a power line,

Fireworks clumsily play with classical music.

And it is a time for Diesel engines.

Around the field marching dust covers footsteps,

That just made patterns.

Patterns of the stars are called constellations.

Each constellation has a story, a myth,

A lesson to learn.

It is placed in the sky for us to see.

We just told many stories while we made patterns in fields.

But those were the days when summers were something different from the rest of the year.

Something different from just another season.

Seasons are what tracks the sky.

It is the entrance of stars in their grand parade over our heads.

As you stand on your grass crouched to your telescope,

Aimed to the heavens with its stories that have been told and waiting to be heard and told again.

It is here that you sip your wine, or your brandy and remember

The waves deepening Blue horizon and Orange burn.

You listen to your stories again as they run again on the patterns made from the craters on the moon

Her Dark hair run through your fingertips in a morning in Santa Fe

Like a Pattern by Georgia O’Keefe

It flows perfectly, abstract, but with direction.

And, there is that story.

Like so many stories that is now being shared with those constellations,

Your place under, with those stars.

It is a procession.

One that could be played by a

Koto, or a Guzheng

As only those instruments could describe your peace, or place or your time underneath these stars

In a way that would connect your stories to theirs as something that does not end with your story or theirs.

It is part of the cosmos.

And I will ramble on as a mind will,

And speak of Fireflies near midnight on the edges of a field in Kansas

The Top of Mt Spokane under full moon getting ready for a midnight run down through the trees at full speed for the fun of it.

Sitting with my Design Teacher at a Japanese Garden feeding Koi talking about Godzilla

My mind wanders and wonders, what my favorite story of summer is

I simply remember warmth,

Being spoken to me by light.

That is my memory of summer,

As I aim my telescope to the southern sky and see the edge of Orion’s Belt.

June Under Full Moon

In the woods, just a few yards West from Woods Lake.
I had cleared a small area for a cabin

It was the year I was living in Monroe,

In the woods, just a few yards west of Woods lake.

I had cleared a small area for a small cabin

Some nights I slept in a tent, some nights I slept at a buddy’s abandoned house about 2 or 3 miles down the road.

The Property is 11 miles north of Highway 2,

It is mostly 2nd growth cedars now, 1st growth was taken in the 60s, though there are some stumps left from a fire that was started by lightening.

One of which a hundred yards or so from the build sight had been hollowed out by time, dirt floor, empty space of maybe a 7 foot diameter

The top 6 or so feet up was shaped like a cave.

I had placed a foldable chair and small table there for sitting,

Of which I would do so often, listen to the rain dance on leaves, or wind play with branches an occasional deer would walk by and not even notice that I was sitting there with my cup of tea.

It was an escape into this tree that I liked the best of Monroe.

There is something indescribable about being inside of a tree trunk unseen while you watch the weather, birds and creatures.

Something like a live action tv I guess with smell of wood, leaves, dirt and rot, no one knows that you are there.

It is a peace that I can only imagine one can find when they are truly separated from the world and all its dysfunctional hustle and bustle.

We think of Full Moons as magical, beautiful and mysterious, I guess we do so for its folklore.

I will say, the woods are different under Full Moons, trees and paths are lit at night, you can walk and see your feet, where you are going, you can see subtle shades of green, browns, reds.

There are also shadows.

Shadows of differing greys and shapes, they move with the clouds that come between you and the moon, this accents the sounds of moving branches and leaves that the breeze or wind, or small creatures make. Creatures are busier, Owls, Coyotes, Raccoons, Mice.

It is their time, they take advantage of the moon and the deer are aware.

This is where being in a Hallowed out Old Growth Cedar is a Harbor,

The breeze will enter, swirl inside its cave, give you the scents of the forest, exit with the sounds of the breeze, of the wind, of the branches of the leaves

and the sounds of a hoot owl.

Hail and Cherry Blossoms Before Spring

It’s a Homecoming of sort’s, Robin’s and Cherry Blossom’s

Mid-day across Albro from Ruby Chow Park

Cherry Blossoms have sleeved branches.

White, Pink fluffs under the red belly of a Robin

It’s head darts left, right, up, down and pecks the branches sleeved blossoms,

It is a Homecoming of sorts, Robins and Cherry Blossom’s

It is a statement about spring spoken by creatures rather than a position of the Earth’s orbit,

And an adjustment of clocks while we chant “Spring Forward.”

The skies darken, the air chills, drops of rain, then sleet, then hail bounces off surfaces

Cars, Roads, buildings,

The Robin has left, blossoms loosened by the hail fall to the street.

Ice balls bounce and dance to the sound of applause.

A young woman crouched forward carrying her baby wrapped in a blanket runs across the street trying to protect her baby from the hail.

Saturday 7:30 AM

Its grey changes slightly from

Its just before sunrise

The fog feels thick, dense,

Its grey changes slightly from the medium grey where it touches the ground to a hint of blue in what would be sky.

The Ground, dark grey, trees green-grey, streetlights not quite white orbs that glow with a mist showing small droplets moving at diagonals.

He is dressed in a blue down jacket, hood, ski pants, boots.

He rocks side to side as his legs take small steps.

In his arms are bags that hold the weight of all his belongings.

His dark silhouette emphasizes the smoke from his cigarette as it disappears as it mixes with the mist in the air.

He walks down the middle of the street, double yellow line under his feet.

There is no shadow behind, or beneath him, only the dark grey of pavement.

He walks under a light, its conical shape of mist triangles a sign of Shoreline Community College Everyone welcome here.

He walks past me, to a bus stop with a shelter bench, he places his bags on the ground

Sits, then lays on the bench, his legs from the knees bent, so his booted feet are on the ground.

He takes the cigarette from his mouth, holds it in his had as he breaths deep.

Brings his right forearm across his forehead.

The fog is getting lighter, less dense.

Sunrise is beginning.

Its time to start a new day.

A runner with her dog passes by

 her breath denser than the fog.

The sunrise brings her shadow.

A rumble of a diesel engine starting.

Lament

I recognize this state, have been there.

Last summer on Saturday Mornings I drove east on Columbia, then North on 3rd, She kneels just a bit back from the curb of the street.  Arms at her side, she rocks back and forth as she balls, completely, her tears compete with the drops of rain around her.  It is a cry of hopeless sadness, pain.  Her eyes wide, her arms loose, her gaze at nothing in front of her.  Her sobs are from what’s behind her that does not leave her.

I recognize this state, have been there.

In college, finals week.

Preoccupied with everything, paying no attention to the moment, I arrived at home, opened my car door and did not notice my cat trying to enter my car as I slammed the door.

It took her minutes to die.

I was completely, utterly destroyed.

My knees were also on the sidewalk wailing.

Her pain echoes across the worst of memories and possibilities.

I drive by her slowly, carefully, painfully, my window is open, the smell of salt water, seagulls cawing.

Diesel engine hum.

45 mins later, I drive by going the opposite direction.  She is still there, tears have not stopped.

Behind her now, a middle aged man in a wheel chair eats a hot dog.

This Saturday, another woman, small in stature, reddish tone to her skin, drops her cigarette places her bottle of Dom Perignon on the ground.  I notice that its about one fourth full of water.

She steps on the bus, screams Fucker!! Sits down rings the bell. I stop at the next stop. She does not get off.  I pull forward, she rings the bell and yells Stop!  I pull into the next stop, she ignores where we are at.

I continue my route.

She starts to yell the words from “Always and Forever”

She uses one note. Monotone.

She is angry. Yells it louder.

Then cries, leans her head on the window.

Cusses “Asshole”.

I arrive at Denny and 7th.

She steps off the bus, leans on a bench.

She sobs.

I continue on my route.

Behind her a couple are walking their dog, phones to their ears

Hesitate as the dog sniffs from a safe distance.

A lament or lamentation is a passionate expression of grief or sorrow.