—Poetry by Jeanine Stevens, Sacramento, CA
—Public Domain Photo Courtesy of Joseph Nolan, Stockton, CA
IN THE SIERRAS WITH RUMI
October sky, alpine lakes strike crystal.
Aspens quiver heart shapes above buttery moss.
Not much talking among the Steller’s Jays.
Hooked-jaw kokanee spawn scarlet,
become friends with glory.
Black bears give out the big yawn;
we anticipate snow.
Behind the local college,
a mountain lion is seen crossing the swale,
barely visible among golden weeds.
Rumi, you want to escape your ego,
lose yourself in the mountains.
I recommend shoes. I will bring my shawl.
If you believe snowforms do not last through July,
I can show you the deep crevice above the tree line.
You want to find inland whales?
I can show you the darker side of Granite Peak.
We wonder about time and fill our eyes
with ancient forests, the old gods.
In the Truckee Meadow, river birch count stiff rings.
We see what we see, discuss beginnings.
You know embryo,
you must recognize the difference
between solitude and desolation.
If we lose ourselves in the mountains,
if we take a wrong turn, we can sit like the Washoe,
toss knuckles onto a blanket, find our way.
You said there was a mountain range inside your chest.
Look east from the summit, there, Nevada—
a smooth plain with antelope.
October sky, alpine lakes strike crystal.
Aspens quiver heart shapes above buttery moss.
Not much talking among the Steller’s Jays.
Hooked-jaw kokanee spawn scarlet,
become friends with glory.
Black bears give out the big yawn;
we anticipate snow.
Behind the local college,
a mountain lion is seen crossing the swale,
barely visible among golden weeds.
Rumi, you want to escape your ego,
lose yourself in the mountains.
I recommend shoes. I will bring my shawl.
If you believe snowforms do not last through July,
I can show you the deep crevice above the tree line.
You want to find inland whales?
I can show you the darker side of Granite Peak.
We wonder about time and fill our eyes
with ancient forests, the old gods.
In the Truckee Meadow, river birch count stiff rings.
We see what we see, discuss beginnings.
You know embryo,
you must recognize the difference
between solitude and desolation.
If we lose ourselves in the mountains,
if we take a wrong turn, we can sit like the Washoe,
toss knuckles onto a blanket, find our way.
You said there was a mountain range inside your chest.
Look east from the summit, there, Nevada—
a smooth plain with antelope.
HATCHER PASS—Caught in Clouds
When I feel we’ve made a mess
of things and what is lovely seems
far away as a black hole, I remember
the hike up Hatcher Pass, Alaska,
the abandoned bunkhouse, corrugated
metal roof bright, but soft to the eye,
in clouds. We sat in grass, woven tight,
fine as green wires tucked along
the slope, midst clover and pine,
studded with fairy-colored flowers,
artful as any Axminster carpet.
In my breath’s memory, I hear highest
notes—Samson and Delilah, the voice,
the heartbeat thrust through delicate
paper-thin layers where paints,
pastels, ink, and parchment wait
to sketch the other world we know exists.
HEADWATERS, TRINITY DIVIDE
Highly oxygenated, descending snowmelt
gives way to orange daylilies sprouting
among mossy roots. Scarlet berries shade
trout idling in cool eddies. Golden stoneflies
plop on gentle streams, and humming above
the current—robins catch mayflies in mid-air.
Long, lazy ponds separate roaring cascades,
tree frogs grunt in shadows, white azaleas
release perfume, and fish quickly feed.
In salmon pools, the Wintu used to set up
a crotch with two sticks, then walk the log
from shore, long spears peering into black
water for a silvery flash. In season, fish
pushed against riffles, frantic to spawn.
Today, the ladders are gone, and small rainbows
fin silent, behind rocks, just out of sun’s reach.
FIREFALL
We stood
in fantasy
watching the red
waterfall
tumble, roar
from the summit
sparks snapping down
Yosemite Valley,
never thinking
about fire danger,
rangers below
ready with
a few water buckets.
How could
we not? Not know
the simplicity,
marching into
that docile crowd,
an ancient land
we thought
we knew, avoiding
the bigger blaze
but—leaving singed
boots stomping
brushfires
for years to come.
PICKING HOPS
A photo—Native American Woman,
Snoqualmie Hop Ranch
Harvest time, near dusk,
she removes moist blossoms,
fills the reed basket, thinks
about the evening meal,
perhaps dried salmon and rice
from the company store.
She studies patterns, dark trunks,
shiny beetle tracks, wonders—
will there be time to finish
her baby’s cradleboard?
A gauze scarf holds thick braids.
Sunlight forms bright triangles
on high cheekbones. This white—
a glossed patina, a reflection
—or the brilliant snow laden
Mt. Hood joining her in reverie?
PURPLE MOUNTAINS MAJESTY
“Whither goes thou America
in thy shiny car (at) night,”
Kerouac wrote. Tucked together,
sedans and rusty panel trucks
slump, doors gape, fenders
sprout stiff prairie grass,
sagging tires are the first to rot.
Newer models sit high on the horizon,
lift bright hoods: slick red, yellow,
and aqua enamel sparkling in the sunlight.
Perhaps they will be rescued for parts?
But tonight, no one walks here.
It seems a vast sacrifice at the base
of these ancient Rockies made purple
only by their distance.
Discarded, metal and glass silently decompose,
moonlight leveling shape and shadow.]
Kerouac wrote. Tucked together,
sedans and rusty panel trucks
slump, doors gape, fenders
sprout stiff prairie grass,
sagging tires are the first to rot.
Newer models sit high on the horizon,
lift bright hoods: slick red, yellow,
and aqua enamel sparkling in the sunlight.
Perhaps they will be rescued for parts?
But tonight, no one walks here.
It seems a vast sacrifice at the base
of these ancient Rockies made purple
only by their distance.
Discarded, metal and glass silently decompose,
moonlight leveling shape and shadow.]
~After a photo by David Woodfall
_______________________
Today’s LittleNip:
Your task is not to seek for love, but to seek and find all the blockages with yourself that you have built against it.
—Rumi
_______________________
—Medusa, with thanks to Jeanine Stevens for her poetic thoughts about the mountains today, as the season changes and the clouds begin to surround us all.
Don't forget our Seed of the Week:
"Time Misspent"
"Time Misspent"
—Public Domain Illustration
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