Columbia County, Oregon

No hyperbolic poet could express
How wet and muddy this country is.
Endless drips from big leaf maple trees,
(Branches in lichen, bare of leaves)
Fall into the puddle-ditch beside the way
Slippery with smashed-down maple-leaf clay.

Bury your hand in the tree-trunk’s moss,
As you slide with the ground— mud over your socks —
On the path to the creek where the Alders lay
Themselves as bridges, soon washed away —
It’s never the same from day to day.

Soft you can hear it, after each step,
A thousand little rivers suddenly drip
Through the stalks of the blackberries fallen to ground—
Then softly departs the multitudinous sound.

How high are the clouds over our heads?
Just at the tree tops their blanket is spread —
Snagged on the tree tops, caught there to stay
Hung on the cedars, a ceiling of grey,
So it never will ever stop raining here,
Though other things change from year to year,
Trees rot and paths wash away, this will remain
It will never here, ever here, cease to rain.

Portland

Authentic thoughts on my hometown 

Smoke covers your city
The sun is red as blood,
Dry of human pity —
Your love with an asterisk isn’t love.

Pity’s a gentle rain,
Not a drop is seen,
You fight the fires of pain
With bloodshed, like gasoline.

~

(White bearded fools,
And flint hearted mothers,
Bequeathed you evil rules,
And closed your hearts to others.)

~

Like lions who crouch for their prey,
The strong lie in wait for the weak,
And you walking by every day
Don’t speak for the ones who can’t speak.

World citizens who won’t
Pity your most helpless neighbour,
You think your “progressive” vote
Gives you a waiver?

No more peaceful’s the lion at night
Than the lion who kills in the day;
You cry “Peace!” when the blood’s out of sight,
And the violence is hidden away.

~

Wisdom is with your crowd
Whatever it says is true —
“Love wins” shouted long and loud
Means whatever the crowd wants to do.

But love will forever win,
And so hell opens its beak,
As you as a crowd march in,
And the earth is received by the meek.

Violence against Children

Quotes from abortionists in the video shared below: 

“The fetus is a tough little object…taking it apart is very difficult” “An eyeball just fell down into my lap, and that’s gross” “I might…pull off a leg or two”

You need to not just throw around the word abortion or “pro-choice” without thinking about what an abortion is — the violent destruction of a little boy or girl’s life. Ripping off a baby’s legs is horrible beyond words.

The birth of  my niece Flora last week re-enforced my desire to put an end to this butchery. Holding her just hours after she could have been legally ripped apart here in Oregon brought home how barbaric abortion is. Babies are so dependent on us, and holding her I just automatically feel my duty to take care of her, and protect her. Our greater strength is given to us to protect and help those weaker than us, not to rip them apart.

Chapman Landing by Canoe

All at once, all was still.
The water smooth, reflecting
Silky rolled beneath my paddle
As we came to Chapman landing.

Tall cottonwoods upon the right hand
Shone in sunlight and in the stream —
Upward downward from the island,
Leaves rippling softly as in a dream.

The pilings stood eerie and still
Where they used to unload the timber —
Brought down from dark Vernonian hills —
With long gone noise, hardly remembered.

We turned to one another and spoke
‘Did you suddenly feel what I feel here?’
(Echoing across the water words woke
The dark and pitchy timber piers)

‘Here I feel a deep, dark cool 
Meet a warm soft sun in a magic pool,
And the summer evening softly breath
Where the landing lies by the island trees.’

Oregon Fairy Tale

This is based on an old story. I read it a long time ago in a reference book at Portland’s Central Library. The Kalapooias are an Oregon Indian tribe. 

Four months upon the trail their soles had killed;
Miss Maryanna’s shoes were all worn out.
As autumn fell her family raced to build
An Oregon home. And no one thought about
How Maryanna barefoot looked quite wild,
Except for Maryanna, I should say.
At fourteen years she knew she was no child – 
And wished that she had shoes most every day.

Some Kalapooias sometimes came to call –
She’d crouch beside the stove to hide her feet –
But Robert Westwood was the worst of all,
She never knew when they might chance to meet.
He was a settler, living near their land,
Who walked the trails that she liked best to walk,
And gladly gave her pa a helping hand,
But rarely showed that he knew how to talk.

He didn’t say much, but he at least could see
How any time that he and she would meet
Miss Maryanna fast from him would flee,
And at the same time try to hide her feet.

One rainy day upon the path they met
But he had made a plan to stop her flight,
He’d thought about it so he wouldn’t forget
The words to say to set the matter right.
“Hey, Maryanna! let me see your foot.”
The  tears welled up  – Who was this awful man?
Could any be as cruel as he? she thought
She stamped in anger and away she ran.

Beneath the Alder tree where she had stood,
Between the leaves he saw her footprint laid.  
He bent down low to measure in the mud
The mark that angry Maryanna made. 
The day the snow first fell upon the firs,
He laid two doe-skin shoes down at her door.
They fit! And so she knew that they were hers,
And she would be the barefoot girl no more. 

~Watchful