You never know what we'll churn up in cleaning a stall
I still miss the Douglas firs and the Western red cedars. In their maturity, they stand tall – not quite to redwood stature but still impressive, especially when they’re massed together or the clouds roll through the branches.
Close your eyes and let the aroma present another unforgettable impression.
Maybe off in the distance of night you’ll hear the singing.
~*~
For more, click here.
Dwelling at the edge of a large Indian reservation, I found it impossible to ignore a vibration in the earth itself of their spirit.
Had I remained there a few more years, I no doubt would have collected turquoise-and-silver jewelry, the work of many Native masters.
Sometimes I still see their inspiration in the stars, though. Especially on a clear night. A very clear night, at that.
~*~
To see how it’s inspired my collection of poems, click here.
The land was often golden in the bright sunlight. Not green, but a permanent range of yellowish brown only flecked with green in a few weeks of spring passing.
Once I adjusted to its palette and air, I hoped we’d live there forever.
~*~
It’s the background for some of my novels and poetry now appearing at Thistle/Flinch editions. To read more, click here.
I’m tempted to say there are two sides to the mountain – a wet one and a dry one. Or even the side you see and the one you don’t. Or what’s ahead of you and what’s behind.
But none of that’s quite accurate.
You could, for one thing, be standing on the summit.
Or you could realize it’s one continuing side, like a Mobius strip, to explore. Even in your mind.
~*~
For a set of related poems, click here.
Not every desert is a Sahara or a place of giant cacti. The interior Pacific Northwest is a prime example. Its dry grasses rattle like swords in the unobstructed wind.
~*~
It’s the background for some of my novels and poetry now appearing at Thistle/Flinch editions. To read more, click here.
The mythologies of Greece are easily countered by those of India, China, Tibet, and Japan in the Native tales of the Olympic Peninsula and the coastal tribes of the Pacific Northwest.
Sit down by the fire, then, and listen. Some of the voices are millennia old.
~*~
For a free copy of the complete American Olympus, click here.
The Olympic Peninsula of Washington State is a world of its own. About the size of Delaware, it has few settlements apart from its Native American tribes. Its remote coastline is gorgeous. Its forests are thick and varied and receive some of the heaviest annual rainfall in North America. Its central mountains include hot springs and glaciers. There’s a U.S. Navy base on the eastern edge along with an artist colony and ferry connections to Seattle.
Listen closely and the underlying mythologies shape a new understanding.
Here is a place where East meets West in its own nature.
~*~
For a free copy of the complete American Olympus, click here.
The conditions that created the desert where we lived created what was sometimes called a “rain shadow.” It was ironic, actually, considering that we got far more sunlight by living on that side of the Cascade Mountains than if we’d been in, what, the rain glow?
Sometimes, though, it seemed to dry up all of our emotions, too.
A journey into the murky places of endless fog, mist, and rain, in contrast, could do wonders in the soul.
~*~
For a free copy of the complete American Olympus, click here.
I’ve already mentioned it, the patio-like space beside the barn where we grill and dine through the summer. The place we call the Smoking Garden.
Originally, I envisioned it as a haven for the kids’ grandmother to sit with her cigarettes, but she never used it. Preferred the porch to the barn, if anywhere.
We inherited the arrangement when we bought the place. A couple of thick maple branches had to be removed, since they were blocking any passage at chest level. But the round fiberglass table was already in place, with pea-gravel on the ground and three adjoining panels I’ve since cleared and planted.
Now we’ve added tiki torches and twinkling Christmas lights overhead, plus the hammock.
Pour me a glass, please. Turn up the music.
~*~
let me praise the secluded outdoor corner
as part of an urban dwelling:
a patio or deck
(my last apartment lacked one)
the courtyard with a fountain
a large porch or gazebo
at the least, a place to sit
or, better yet, cook
any place close enough to the kitchen
with a degree of privacy and a view of something
Poem copyright 2015 by Jnana Hodson
Our first spring in the house, we discovered that our lawnmower wouldn’t work. Maybe we wouldn’t have been able to use in it the Swamp anyway, considering how wet that side yard can be. By the time the mower was back, though, the Swamp had gone wild. Waist-high with growth.
That’s when our elderly neighbor, Ernie, told me he had a scythe, offered to lend it to me, showed me how to cradle it and cut, and just how sharp he’d honed it.
So off I went. He was right, there’s a trick to using it right. But it’s work, all the same. Hard work.
So it’s something I’ve now done once in my life. And, hopefully, never again.
Yes, there’s good reason weed-whackers have taken over.
SCYTHE
in the meantime, waiting to refurbish
the red cobwebbed mower my wife salvaged
from her first marriage. The plot grows waist-high
and matted until our elderly neighbor extracts
a scythe from his garage and demonstrates its use
after which I vow, “never again!” while admiring
its hungry edge and once commonplace muscular skill
yes, before I get a functioning lawnmower
the swamp erupts in waist-deep weeds
on its far side, elderly Ernie laughs knowingly
before lending my his scythe
and demonstrating its use
“just call me Scythemaster”
my girls are instructed
watching me rock the cradle
oh, then, do I ache deeply …
poem copyright 2015 by Jnana Hodson
Jnana's Red Barn 