Skies of Communion

Clouds settle down
on the surface of the sea
and blanket the tree tops.
The wet drip of the forest
drums on the cabin roof
while eagles pace
from perch to perch
along the coast line.
We need the rain,
the land already dry
months before summer.
Within the mist
the pinnacles of the city,
its noise and ambition
are far off and unheard.
Life force rises
in rough-barked
fir and cedar
while my soul drinks
from deep water
like a songbird on wet soil.
A young tree grows
from a crack in stone,
rabbits feed on new grass
then return to their burrow
beneath a brake of nootka rose.
I’m living on food
that doesn’t come in a package,
on drink that won’t be bottled.
As the clouds lift above the sea
my spirit shakes off its grave clothes,
an ancient past finding form
under rain filled skies of communion.




photograph by Willard Walch


















Reading of “Skies of Communion” with music by the Kinks


How Old

Uncertain how old we will be
when the turning is complete,
how old the earth is now
or ever will be.
How old the roads
that carve the land
or inner paths
we’ve travelled?
We all journey
the mortal way
and though not together
the ancient river
says we are,
that we walk and walk
again and again,
and no one knows
how old.





















Reading of “How Old” with music by Norm Smookler


Footsteps Gently Covered

The ebbing tide rushes south
with the lonesome sound of stirring geese,
the sway of high firs in a soft breeze.
The living world breathes in light,
exhales with the sound of wind
as the green land rises
from spring fed ground.
I pile stones to mark the morning,
a cairn of reverence beside the tideline
offering prayers for all my relations
as footsteps gently covered
by the searching sea.








Reading of “Footsteps Gently Covered” with music by Nicolas Jaar


Poetic Champions

After the sun went down
the poetic champions descended
from the forested hills
to the stony point jutting into the sea.
Sirius blazed overhead
as did Arcturus, the stars of Orion
and the great Bear.
The champions had gathered
for the moonrise
and as the earth slowly revolved
a bulb of illumination grew in the east
until with pale brilliance
the globe of the Moon
shone bright across the water.
They traded verses
in the moonlit night,
enjoying their complement
to the star crossed heaven
as they sang and chanted
to praise the ancient
and inspire the unborn,
bearing their gifts
for the billowing deep.
They sang the songlines
that hold the world together
despite the fears of the unknown.
As the Moon rose in the sky
and the star wheel turned
they departed for the forest
and high inland mountains
leaving behind
the music of words
captured in stone
and borne upon the sea.























Reading of “Poetic Champions” with music by Van Morrison


Paths of Shattered Stone

Cold comes the morning
with clouded skies and gray seas;
birds taking shelter
as winds increase,
night’s disturbance
spilling over into the day.
The earth healing
with wind and rain,
calling from sea depth
and high mountain
to bridge these times of chaos
left by the absent ones.
I struggle with fault lines,
finding my way
from the troubled shore,
cleaving to paths
of shattered stone
to where light rises,
finding rest in the heights
where eagles perch
and the broad sea opens.






















Reading “Paths of Shattered Stone” with music by Sting


Sacred Born

Daylight changes
as winter dissolves into spring,
trees shedding their ice
in the warm air.
I stir in my cave,
having digested the dreams
and phantom shadows,
hungry now for color.
It is the world I rise to,
always the world
and the green lens
I look through
to know my place
on the endless shore.
Beauty signals
from budding branches,
the sound of birds returning,
worms breaking ground.
Tender comes the morning
as if these few hours
were a nativity,
the sacred born
again and again
from the darkness
of the blessed earth.




photograph by Kinga Biro






















Reading of “Sacred Born” with music by Maryliz Smith


Night Basket

The soft colors of budding trees,
deep greens of fir and cedar,
the startled look of squirrel,
the steady gaze of crow,
the sound of breaching whales
and high pitched cries of eagle,
human faces vast in number,
the star reach broad and clear.
On and on the roll call of creation,
ten thousand times a thousand
and still the surface barely scratched
while here I sit, a pin prick of light
within the fathomless gift.
Perhaps tomorrow I will count the birds
or soft-bellied slugs on their journey,
the herring as they ball and run
and these old man hands
set upon the page.
May wonder keep me open
when darkness descends,
the edges of mystery unravelling
into the waiting arms
of night’s starlit basket.



photograph by Patrick Orleman






















Reading of “Night Basket” with music by Ahura


Tir Na Nog

Paudriag spoke to me
though from afar
his voice both close and quiet,
reminding me of the green sloping land
and north the sea, shining and alive
with ancient music.


There is a place for him
and many gone before
who traveled to America
where they’d never rest,


returned now to Tir Na Nog,
forever young in the old land,
looking over the ocean,
soil deep and wet with rain,
full of peace.





















Reading of “Tir Na Nog” with music by James Galway and the Chieftains


Perhaps Today

Perhaps today
the heartland will rise,
prairies sing their ancient songs
as broad lakes join flowing rivers
unceasing to the sea.


Though the noise of progress
may demand attention
beneath disturbance
are the clear tones of earth,
quiet as a dirt road,
fields green with spring.


Perhaps we may forget
or set aside the thoughts
that don’t become us
and let the deeper strains
of harmony find voice
in our words.


As whales intone
their plaintive melodies
traveling the deep ocean,
perhaps today we may
follow our halting footsteps
and come again
to the open gates of Eden.




photograph by Maija Butters






















Reading of “Perhaps Today” with music by Jay Ungar and Molly Mason


Plum Tree Blossoms

There’s light upon the Colorado,
mountains aglow in the sun,
shining on the Wasatch and Sawtooth,
over the Canyonlands and Great Basin
to the deserts of Nevada and California.
From the high chaparral of eastern Oregon
pouring down the sentinel peaks
through the gorge of the Snake and Columbia
where the green swath of the Willamette leads
to the Coast Range and over to the grand Pacific.
Everything alive with the touch of life
that comes each day, urging the healing dark
to continue west, help the wounded and forlorn
to gather faith and awaken to this one moment in time,
the moment when the plum tree blossoms open
and spill out pink flowers in the first joy of spring.



photograph @Jesse.Brackenbury





















Reading of “Plum Tree Blossoms” with music by Aaron Copland