She’s a manzanita preacher:
This fire testifies in tongue –
Unprison in my heart,
Unlock words I struggle giving;
Like the flutter of a lark,
Wing what's coming from within me;
Let my soul be set on fire,
Like madrone, or manzanita,
To promote the words I hide;
Ascribe my life to rightly speak up –
("Lone Pine", 2024, original pen and ink with encaustic mat)
Manzanita
Manzanita
atop a slight rise
forms a natural shrine
The place a person
could place an offering
or say a prayer
The place a meditator
would sit
and become a buddha
(9/30/91)
In the tangle of wood
Delighted by the scent of earth rich warmth
Of forest floor fusion
The carpet of needles dance with the rhythm of your step
And lead you to its tranquility
Its crisp crackle permeates the air
With the timeless recital of fragrant decay
The seasonal bliss of showering fall
The ebb of wistful breezes
To capture the languishing ambler
In the lofty rafters of noble trees
With twisted limb and breaking branch
Fashioned in vespers of a pervading sky
The ageless reverence of green boughs
Embraces the worship of the Peacemaker
Virtuous vines cling and spiral around ancient rock
Manzanita converges with poison oak
Amaranth trails entwine the spirit
Kept in the moment of ambient harmony
So walk with me through the forest
Free to be your essential self
Impervious to all
Except the beauty and wisdom within
The Manzanita clacks in
gelid breezes
like the clap of clacking bones.
Reddish painted branches
reach their grey, bent shadows
on stone from
hulking, brewing
drifting welkins.
Peeling, crackled, weathered
bark
grasp, grind and intertwine
gnarled fingers as they rasp and clonk.
Silhouetted by the yawning flame
dipping low,
dances the macabre branches,
on a stage glacial white with
winter snow.
The land sizzles.
Brittle grass
yellows the hills.
Live oak draw sparse circles
of shade.
Spiky shrubs
cling to the parched slopes:
red stemmed manzanita,
spiny scrub oak.
Hot wind rustles the leaves.
The chaparral holds its breath,
waits for the spark,
to burst into blaze.
Later,
in the ash covered ground
under charred trees,
seeds waken and stir.
8/1/2017
Hummingbird sits, rests
Manzanita twig tight gripped
Brilliant throat flashes
A boulder looks down upon her children below;
Varied rocks worn smooth by the creek’s swift flow.
As the bright sun glistens on her lovely rust hue,
She shares her delight of her little ones in view.
Sedona holds mysteries in its monoliths high. . . .
Best known to eagles as they soar through the sky.
Manzanita and oak trees that line the creek shore,
Offered desert shade as we ventured to explore.
We climbed the airport mesa to relax and meditate,
We traveled there to celebrate my fiftieth birth date.
My body sensed a special tingling in that hour
Of the vortexes strange, vibrating power.
I photographed my husband gazing sunset skies.
What was captured was a view unseen by naked eyes.
As the film later revealed, a huge crystal hanging in mid air,
Sedona’s awesome gift I am now blessed to share.
*For: Most Awesome Paranormal Experience Contest
Sponsored by: john freeman
I called and called. She wouldn’t come.
Hiding in manzanita – had she
become a wild thing?
Search partner for eleven years.
Now, tumors in her lungs.
It was time. We’d dug the grave
and spoken the sentence.
Deaf to my command. A dog
who read my mind, who knew at least
five words for “find” – and I
imagined she didn’t understand?
July 1983, another phone call after midnight,
another long drive, your Shepherd-dog head
in my lap. How many people got lost that summer!
Late March 1986, by flashlight on dirt paths
of The Divide. Mine shafts in the dark. Then
you lifted your nose, scenting across the canyon.
Small child huddled under manzanita.
1985, Mexico City. High-rises shaken to rubble.
Flashlight through tunnels. Could you find anyone
alive? At night you slept against me for comfort.
Smell of death and concrete dust in your fur.
Almost winter 1988. Too old for searches,
you laid your chin heavy on my knee as I tied
my boot-laces. Brown eyes. This time I left you home.
1987, Yosemite. In last light, oak leaves golden
with fall. Your “woo-woo!” of Shepherd joy
led me into the darkening woods.
December 1988. How could I know, when I came back
sometime in the night, you’d be gone?
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