There was a writer’s workshop at Shotpouch Cabin up in the hills of the coastal range. It began with a work party, 20 or so people gathered and were directed around the acreage to different duties, trail clearing, garden tending, tree trimming, or reinforcing the trail where it had narrowed or eroded over time. There was a poet in residence, who also labored with us all. Persons of all adult ages, from youthful 20 somethings to folks closer to my age and perhaps slightly older, it is difficult to determine, and there was no need to ask.
What follows are some of the writings that came from that afternoon. After three or four hours of working laboriously at pulling up and removing blackberry brambles from the path to Shotpouch creek, sweaty, a bit sore, and tired, I seated myself near the coffee, and the sky let loose as we began to listen intently on what the poet had to say. The rhythmic sounds of heavy rain drops hitting the atrium glass and the soft and low voice of the author, was rather hypnotic. Add to that the endorphins produced by physical labor and there comes an altered state of consciousness, and one feels as if one has walked into a different reality, breath, bone, pen, paper, and the sound of others pattering away with the rain, only fingers stroking keys instead of rain drops splattering on glass.
Vine Maple (c) 2018
Meanderings from Blue Elderberry Ripenings
The rippling of water,
Blood of earth carrying life and wielding death,
Rain soaked wood smoke drifting low,
Thousand acre forests in tow,
Ripe berries sweet upon my mouth,
Where the tree forced its rough deep kiss without consent,
As I tossed it on the burn pile,
Where it too will be forgotten and return its essence to the all,
This a season that occurs for us each,
We call Fall.
Inner Voice
My mind is silent
words flow
through me
and I am enlightened
upon reading
what they say.
Earthly Labor
The taste of salt,
Sweat,
dripping from my brow,
stiff places,
bending a knowing smile,
turns my ear,
with language it knows well,
the joy of kindred spirits and the paths they tread.
Labor’s Gift
The pain of labor
Melts the monkey mind,
The chatter is shattered
In pieces on the ground,
The iron rake gathers them for the pyre,
Where the machinations of man belong,
Ashes to ashes
Will make the soil fertile
Where something new will grow.
 Nature of an Only Child
The mother that rocked me was a tree,
My heart would ache,
I would climb into her limbs,
The wind was the song,
That made her sway and dance away the pain,
The conversations with rhubarb
Always ended in a sugar bowl,
Filling me with tart sweetness,
And we spoke with worm and bird alike.
My gratitude to Carly Lettero, Program Manager, Oregon State University, The Spring Creek Project, all those who attended “Working and Writing the Woods”, and especially Scot Siegel, the poet in residence at the time of the workshop, for his prompts and gentle words.
All rights reserved, (c) 2018.
Earthly Journeys 