Not a place or a state
not neat
nor tidy.
Sometimes gritty,
a bit contagious,
infectious even.
Community perseveres outside the lines ~
non-conformists
freedom fighters
spelunkers
reformed couch enthusiasts.
Community is a rage of members,
a trickster of inquiry,
an un-settlement of passion.
It is growth with purpose.
feet firmly plant
mountain pose
while hands drop loosely
shoulders straight and eyes trained
breathe through nose
forearms cross (block)
right foot slides forward
knee bends to 45
while left foot roots into terra firma
weight balances equally
arms strongly hold at shoulder height
hands like blades
eyes focus over right hand
warrior two
– prepare to transition –
shift forward, weight on right foot
left front kick then
fall back
settle on left foot, over your shoulder
look
back kick with right foot
then side step,
block
Into the matte jumble
of thumb-pressed cotton
the shadow fell
through
fell
too slowly for the eye to notice
still
there was a sense
a notion of change
in the pulpy towers of cumulous
a cumulative knowing
that some Other being
was there.
It was
Not the green-yellow palette
Of pre-apocalyptic sky
although more reasoned minds
would wonder at this blindness
this unwillingness to see
what was so obvious –
nor was it the pinprick
of explosive force
that shattered preconception.
It was the subtle immersion
into the light-well
the realization of drowning
that brought her to life.
In silence we travel;
through the lava beds we wind
wrapped in thought and acid
sweet melody.
Notes play upon my solar plexus,
ripple upward from groin to throat, subtle
waves of energy
keyed to my body like a lover’s hand.
It is my birthday, but we don’t speak of it
yet.
My attention drifts through fog,
seeks threads of blue between stone.
Momentarily I consider breaking
the solitude though it’s not heavy.
It’s the passenger’s obligation to fill the air, isn’t it,
With words?
Amidst the lava a shadow stirs,
shifts into Other shape –
Owl – Woman – Grandmother.
I should not gaze into those dark eyes, or
so I’m told. I cannot fear her still serenity,
or the gathering of life shadows beneath her wings.
Pinioned by love, forgiven for my life’s transgressions
of deeds undone, I
can only hope she will last a lifetime
even as she returns to stone
and mist.
Nor is quiet sad
It is the passage of air deep
into the belly
the expansion of chest and the contraction of woe
tranquillity is the pure thread
connecting the body to the mind
“Waiting for Bill at Lava Lake”
delicate trills of bird song
cascading notes too quick for human ears to decipher
the underchirp of ravens
and the curious twitter of stellars
poplar leaves, newly budded, yet fully present
tremble on stems fragile enough yet strong
mist is a veil on the mountains though sun shines
and warms my hair
grace and grass waft in equal amounts
over the lava
in body, tired
neck cricked to the left
stiff from a Sunday’s labour of love
internal landscape quiet
with a hint of sun
capturing the moment, stretching it out
like muscles after a long day
it’s a painful kind of sweet
~ being ~
Through mist and shadowed hope we toil
each foot
forward
a step toward success
eyes certain
chins firm
shoulders straight
no thoughts given to the negative space
to the freefall of uncertainty
to the sure death of anticipation
just inches from our trail.
“Ji six-mukws n̍iin,” rumbles Sgan̍ist
~ listen carefully ~
Over our heads a boulder whistles
followed by the clatter of lesser stones.
The mountain speaks.
