you for

American Pastoral

Bolting Mare Rock

After 1945


End of World Hunger Day

No Mas!

Lost Bay

Lost Bay 

When day is a feeling 
Before it becomes flesh; 
As rooftops merge 
Into a common skin, 
There is a wind 
That blows in Oregon 
That is the breath and soul 
Of Oregon, 
Where time is a rainbow river 
Poised between 
Shadow and sleep, 
A time for reflection 
When no bell tolls 
But the whistling buoy 
Proclaiming this the hour 
When the Deaf hear; 
The Dumb speak. 
Rippling free of the moon, 
The defeated 
Rise from prisons 
Of their retreat, 
Crying aloud: "We are alive! 
Are special 
Because of it!" 
All are tossing stars, 
Like meteors falling 
From Heaven's cradle, 
Bearing as they fall 
The dreams 
Of their blossoming 

In this blustering, 
Village of rain 
Swept streets, 
Comes Ocean, Fog, 
Essence, Belief, 
Filling the night 
With truths sharp concentrate. 
In this dark town 
Of stammering waters, 
Night squalls 
Sweep in from the sea 
And we burn 
With the sweat 
Of secret discoveries. 
O night 
Of fantastic fevers, 
Of the body 
In rebellion 
The momentary truth 
Of its' nature. 
We are pilgrims, 
In a night of curvatures, 
Illusions, despair. 
Our own undoing drives us 
Into a time 
Of unraveling moods 
And mysteries. 
A time 
Of secret confusions. 
Of the confessions 
Of song. 

There is no excuse 
For beauty, 
No definition of love, 
No hour, second, minute,
More real 
Then the one in hand; 
That supple, 
Flying undulation 
Passing till it is gone. 

Night of Myth
Of spontaneous combustions, 
Muddy angels 
Are we all. 
Caught in ungentle flight, 
Between the chalice 
And the serpent's egg. 
Heaped with Now, 
With sound, taste, 
Gift of sight, 
Both emperors and clowns, 
We drift. 
More curved 
Then straight, 
Propelled by fire, 
Crazed intellect. 
Small sinners 
Small martyrdom's. 

As we drift, 
Flesh of the apple 
From its tree 
Is our tongue's juice. 
Pleasures of the body 
Filled with soaring sighs 
Are just as sweet. 
Far from sleep, 
Near the parting 
Of logic, 
I have heard 
In the bending tower 
Of myself, 
Secret sounds 
Coming in from the sea. 
Strange, new voices 
Calling out, 
From the dark surf
And falling rain.
O night 
Of miraculous mysteries, 
Let me splash 
In the play 
Of your sacred water. 
In my house of clouds, 
Your notes rise 
And I recognize 
In you 
The anthem 
Of the sun; 
The Mother of Light 

Night of unraveling moods. 
Night of emotions,
We see 
Into the beautiful surprise 
Of your face 
As the earth, 
A living creature, 
Shakes itself awake. 

Out of the wilderness 
Of whatever happened to,
Beyond the borders 
Of what might have been, 
Comes a stiff 
Blue breeze 
Of windy chants, 
As long 
As the night 
To the sleepless is, 
Filling the air 
With a salt, sea scent. 
A storm of voices, 
Spells, yells, 
Unchurchy hymns 
Too scandalous 
To be whispered out, 
Love sighs, 
All from a village 
Caught in the act 
Of falling from sleep. 

High in the fabled 
Land of Now, 
Everything changes, 
Is a form of gain, 
Clear as grace, 
The air partakes 
From primal rhythms 
Magical shapes; 
Sand, waves, tide, 
Lighthouse, beach. 
Morning hovers 
As an eagle 
Above the body 
Of this fleshy town 
Rising to its drunken feet. 
Everything collides, 
In continual 
Adding its frothy flavor 
To our mortal brew. 

Lost Bay swells, 
It gorges 
On rhythms 
Of tides and men. 
The thunder of life 
Swirls in a bottomless glass. 
Here, everyone knows 
All about you, 
Smiles at sight 
Of your face. 

Caught by the shadow 
Of the Raven's mad flight, 
Each sea-stained soul 
Has a tale to tell, 
Echoing the ocean 
Stretching its gray 
Fathoms out 
Into the eye 
Of feather 
Fabled eternity. 

In this land of Now, 
Let the meaning 
Behind each moment 
Lift its head, 
That myriad eyes 
In wonder stare. 
Everywhere at once, 
Let Truth bite, drawing blood, 
That we may bleed 
With a passionate, personal view 
Of the essence of things, 
Now is the wound
We die to carry
And all our hearts 
Bleed as one. 
Here, the innocent 
And damned both swim 
Against the current 
Of world's frenzy. 
We are mad with doing! 
Each filled with the scent 
Of personal schemes 
That spawn, 
Spew, ignite! 

Let clouds 
Cast no shade today 
As we climb 
The crazy 
Weather of ourselves. 
Each into their hearts 
The gift 
Of celebration take. 
Creator and destroyer 
We have become. 
Our feet stain 
The rocky 
Road we travel 
With our own blood . 

As morning 
Splashes against 
Ruth's white breasts, 
Homer whistles as she passes by. 
She pretends not to notice. 
Wets her lips. 
Jonathan pauses 
To scratch his crotch. 
Helen eyes him now eyeing her 
From the sparkling 
In the window 
Of Cassandra's restaurant. 
Rebecca dreams 
Of rubbing her palms 
Along the leather 
Of Marlon's motorcycle coat. 

Time is a rainbow river, 
And we the ark 
Sail the furious water, 
Who might we call on 
To propel 
These bodies to motion? 
How make them speak 
Their magic, 
Revealing orbits 
Of sun lit images 
And steamy alphabets? 
Science? The storm? 
Marilyn Monroe in Heaven? 
The Dispossessed? 
The Missing Ones? 
Who speaks 
For the raw sky, 
Broiling sea, 
Our corrosive flame 
Consumed by time? 

The Flute Player? 

He is naked, dancing, 
Inhaling the fragrant sweat 
Of his own musical flesh. 
Cloven feet 
Spiraling through gardens 
Of mythic scents. 
He is the Soul Catcher. 
The poet of light. 

What awe left 
Undefiled by definition? 
Continuous dissection? 
Who might we call on 
But the moment itself 
As it twists 
Into its own undoing, 
Devious as chance, 
Turning inside out, 
A sinuous snake 
Hot and in heat, 
Feeding on itself 
Till it is not. 

Upon the flame of time, 
In sudden showers, 
Sometime sun, 
By morning's drizzle. 
Too busy to pause 
For a backward glance, 
Fishers haul 
At their shimmering nets. 
By weight of what might come. 
They heave, 
Pulling at the knotted hemp. 
Like a folding 
Shroud it rises! 
Out of the liquid wilderness, 
Manna of fish, 
Shekels of bright 
Silver offerings! 

In continual baptism 
Boats are grabbed by rocking waves, 
Confounding space 
And pull of gravity. 
Over all, 
A continual commotion 
Of gulls swift thieving, 
Gorging themselves 
On the plenty. 

Noah swears with a grunt. 
He is out alone. 
His shipmate, 
Oversleeps again. 
Daniel is on the Paradise. 
A trawler that is his own. 
Eve is at the Laundromat 
Washing her husband's clothes. 
Moses argues with God 
As he enters Big Red's Bar, 
And Crazy Cassandra 
Remembers the future with regret. 
Jacob tosses in his bed, 
Dreaming of snaring 
David's wife. 
She dreams 
Of the beautiful limbs 
Young Jacob's legs 
Have become. 
Barbara yells at Dean. 
And Joseph whispers 
To Mary, 
"What kind of man 
Will our son become?" 

In his wheelchair, 
Waits for his meal 
On wheels. 
From Coos Head to Crab Flats, 
The air is crisp as the day begins 
It's spirited prayer 
Under a cathedral of light. 
Blessed are the living, 
Uprooted residents of the windy gale 
Through which they walk, 
Breathing in the fire 
Of water, earth and sky. 
Believing all things possible, 
If not possible. 
at least bearable. 

What is life 
But a whispering flame 
Of all consuming thirst. 
The repeater of patterns 
Closing in upon themselves. 
A ravenous lover 
Against whom we burn 
To press . 
Pilgrim Voyager, 
Make ready to swim 
Against the surf 
Of time and circumstance. 
Distinct with swells, 
Life strikes rock. 
To proceed 
Is to go by indirection. 
Each act of Nature 
Is one of dissimulation. 
Birds swim. Fish fly. 
Happiness is clothed 
In flesh of air. 

From dusk to dawn 
We are one 
With that burning song 
That through us flows. 
Learning as we go, 
Life shaping itself 
With each breath we take. 
Pilgrim Stranger: 
Take what is given. 
Accept what is to come. 
In selfless surrender 
Are worlds without end. 

There is a wind 
That blows in Oregon 
That is the breath 
And soul of Oregon, 
Loosing itself 
In the mystery 
Of unfathomed seas. 

Though humbled 
In the presence 
Of this immensity, 
I will not shrive, 
Nor bow, recant. 
My shape has 
By accretions grown 
Toward the light. 
O, but the world 
Into which we push ourselves, 
Gives only a glimmer 
Of what may come to be. 

If time thinks it slays, 
Consider storm 
Of knowing self. 
The unquenching restless motion 
Of mind in movement. 

Imprisoned in each flower, 
Bush, tree, 
Is world's infinity. 
Wherever you look, fragments 
Of a healing sacrifice. 
The shape of this land 
Passionate confessions. 
The all in constant parting. 
Both germ and star 
Quicken while we sleep. 
Not even death is forever. 

This the promise, 
This the pledge: 
The country around you 
Is a miracle of mirrors, 
The deeper you look, 
The cleaner 
Your own image 
Peering back. 

Rise Adam. Rise! 
Strive to cross 
Without bruising 
This nesting orchard 
Cloudly bundled 
In the dawn 
Of apple blossoming shine. 
From it, the fruit
Of all knowledge, 
Fermenting the juice 
Of your meaty dreams. 

As strong stars strive; 
Burst to pulse 
Inside of you, 
Leave the fire ashes, 
The brown earth glad 
With plushing petal fall 
And green leaf drop. 
Sprigs in fallow fields 
Spring their way 
Up from your old wounds. 
Cut branches 
Darken with new growth, 
Their grave sap 
Fresh sparkling. 

Rise Adam. Rise! 
The nails in me 
Pucker around pink flesh 
And pounds 
Of good wishes bleed forth 
To wing you on 
Your wondrous way.

Short Bio: 
The author ekes out a precarious existence along the cliffs of the  spectacular central Oregon coast and seeks his inspiration from the  interaction between individuals and their enviornment. 
to Moongate