SICAMOUS REVISITED, July 2007

1

So many times I have wandered up the asphalt snake,
  the asphalt snake that eats away at cathedral forests
                and farm lands pregnant with fruit
      to rest with wood smoke
                  and the relaxed scratching
                                  of my pen.

So many poems birthed here,
          some expiring before the umbilical cord
    of clarity was severed,
            others releasing their initial whimpers
                      into the mosquitoed void,
          now collected inside the spines
                                of various volumes of poesy.

Ah rapture of waterfall soliloquy,
                  Ah whispering dew spun throat
        of chickadee and twittering juncos . . .
                              a natural chorus of tranquility
                placed inside my citified ear,
      making me realize once again
                        that the bardo of metropolis
    is only the off key echo of humanity.

This morning in half asleep state I smile
          and listen to the delicate fronds of grass
                    caressed by a 6 a.m.
                                              breeze.

2

Off in the distance I can hear a train whistle
      and as the quarter moon
            floats above the pine trees
  I watch the embers die in the fire pit,
                                    one by one.


3

Last night I looked up into the sky
        saw hundreds of stars fall,
  came to realize that I was witnessing
            the transfiguration of planets.
Its all so big, so massive, so mind expanding
      if one allows the falsity of the ego to diminish —
You find yourself swimming in uncharted waters,
        discover mortality and all that it means,
                      experience an immense fear
            and then stare back at the campfire
      for reassurance.
Oh crackling wood of once living trees,
      when you become transformed by heat,
              float inside a smoky whisper,
                      do you still think and feel as a tree?
Can you still sense your branches,
      tickled by insects?
Do you still relish the different nuances
                      of the seasons?
Once, like me, a tiny planted seed
        in the womb of Creation . . .
                now saying adieux, a last bon voyage
    and entering the gate of another
  dimension.

4

I doze, I dream —
      when suddenly an owl whispers
  into my half asleep ear
      and I can feel the essence of the forest,
                                  vast and serene.


5

Oh give me celestial eyes, give me the trembling
      reverberation of Ryokan
                reading a nature poem
          beside a crystal clear stream
  and I will rest, drop my pen and sleep
      the deep sleep
            while frogs chant
        upon the lily pads
                  inside the pond
                                  of my mind.


6

A blistering sun stroke day,
    so hot that even the mosquitoes fail to bite.
Now, it is midnight and the cabin
    is the reincarnation of a furnace . . .
          no breeze, no relief for the body —
                just a sauna of sweat
      and the distant scent of sun screen.
You slowly allow your clothes to evaporate,
    a dim light touches your skin,
            breasts older now,
        but still vibrant and teasing.
I watch you as you lie naked above the sheets,
      open to the majesty, the deep mystery
            of the forest all around us.
It all seems so familiar
      and I can’t help but wonder
            if we lived this moment once before
                        in another lifetime.


7

All day long I read the old poems of Japan,
    all night long I dream
                  of geishas
          and of monks chanting
                          in the early morning mist.


8

On the cabin porch, watching the hermit moon
    float, all alabaster, across purple
            mountained skyline,
                      black dog at my feet,
                alert to the sound of a train
      way off in the distance.

Oh creatures of the night forest, Oh innumerable
        echoes of the hidden ones —
                the odd bird still awake,
            breeze whispering through Fir
      and deciduous leafyness,
            the creak of ancient trees,
                bark that has born witness
                      to hundreds of seasons.

And I can hear Ginsberg reciting
      ‘‘Wales Visitation’’ — orgasmic wetness
                  of the Earth, come forth
            inside his nocturnal vision,
    manifesting, gestating
          spores of vagina-moist forms of life
                  before his very eyes.
Voice tender, accompanied by an Asian chant,
    serenely splendid, as if time stood still
        and the nirvanic door opened
    and a rushing bardic chorus cascaded
                  down like heavy rainfall.

I look across to the fire pit,
    watch the dying embers
              slowly fade into dust,
          hear an owl chanting a midnight poem,
    feel the immense muttering void,
              the presence of the galactic breath
        of the heavens,
                        all solemn,
                and so far removed
        from the industrial compound
                            we have foolishly created.


9

When I gaze upon you asleep in the dawn,
    I am reminded of days when we were young
              and when we laughed
                      like cicadas
            upon the edge of a lake
                    of dreams.


10

Oh vast specter of illuminated night,
    I step out with the feet of a timid fawn,
                    stare skyward,
            notice how small I am below
    your celestial blinking intensity.
Is every distant star a planet of livingness,
        a be-ing not unlike myself,
              trembling like a child
          as it gazes back toward the habitat
                                we call Earth?
If this be the case, then I pray that it has abolished
        all forms of war, that it has
                          relinquished ego-chain,
              that the sorrow of messiahs and sages
      has been alleviated.
THERE IS SO MUCH MISERY HERE, too many
          martyrs have fallen into
              a malicious caldron,
    broken hearted with minds crushed,
            duped beneath the heavy foot of a leviathan
                  that dispenses cruelty
                        like a discarded soap dish.

I tear off my glasses and peer deeply
    into your purpled void,
            search my interior landscape
        with questioning eyes,
                            seeking answers.



11

When I am old
  and no longer able
      to wander beside a mountain stream,
                  I will meditate
          upon the oceans of the moon
    and feel refreshed.
                                              And young again.