Tag Archives: Musings

death sinks uneasy in the appetites of the lost

Posted on by under Blog, Poetry

“Sleep apnea is a plague in the western world.”
― Steven Magee

She passed out in
a cacophony of memories.
All the pretty dreams,
Dissected and worn.

She fell asleep to
the sound of old records.
All the pretty covers,
Creased and torn.

She curls her lips
to the worlds she dreams.
All the murmured words,
Bathed with scorn.

She walks unaware of
the stilts of gravity.
All the heavy faces,
Draped and creased.

A mask now covers
her mouth, as her
eyes attempt the
words
of sleep.

Sometimes death sinks uneasy
in the appetite of the lost,
A ritual with
no rite.

It has been since time
that plagues feel the
urge to breath,
eyes blink uneasy
behind
concealed ironies.

© Si Matta

A silent reminder

Posted on by under Blog, Musings, Poetry

Beneath the securities of good nights and safe houses, lived fear. Fear dressed in Existential fangs always sat at the outside waiting to get in. The sweet smell of apple pie and coffee seemed a good enough shield to the elephant that sat in at the edge of the room, flicker of flame and wax. Shadows have always lurked beneath the savory light of ‘everything’s fine if you send hopes and prayers.’ Then one day, everything changed. Not the flash of atomic light we dreamt of in cold war beds, terrified with nightmare, and the comfort of mothers floor. No, it changed the way you would expect a tad pole to become a frog, unseen but heard for miles across platforms of social distancing. The veil became thin, and the emperor ran across abandoned golf courses, naked and scared.

Photo: Patricia Halleran

Photo: Patricia Halleran


This had always been the dream, the liminal birthing canals connected to the ethernets of the universe, tearing illusion from its perch.. the Eagle remembered it was an Eagle and tore apart his jingoist ways, for a chance to taste the flesh of Salmon once again. The metaphors painted slow motion chrysalises, sparked from the time outside of time, where dream and awake fancy dance on early morning vistas.. or perhaps, it is the prayers of Ghost Dancers awaking the Ancestors for aid. The realist thing about this, is that it is not real. It is not matter. It can not cast shadow, or shine light, yet sits on the edge of hills, threading and weaving, a silent killer. A silent reminder….

Pay attention to what the frogs have to say, they may have all the answers we need.

Be safe. Be kind. Be gentle.

Siah | The Long Ago

Posted on by under Blog, Folklore, Historical, Musings

The Cascade Range, where it crosses the Columbia River, exhibits enormous cross sections of lava, and at its base are petrified trunks of trees, which have been covered and hidden from view except where the wash of the mighty stream has exposed them. Indians have told me, of their knowledge, that, buried deep under the outpours of basalt, or volcanic tufa, are bones of animals of siah , or the long ago.

Where Gods live.

Where Gods live.

Traditions of the great landslide at the Cascades are many, but vary little in form. According to one account, the mountain tops fell together and formed a kind of arch, under which flowed, until the overhanging rocks finally fell into the stream and made a dam, or gorge. As the rock is columnar Basalt, very friable and easily disintegrated, that was not impossible, and the landscape suggests some such giant avalanche. The submerged trees are plainly visible near this locality. Animal remains I have not seen, but these Salmon-eating Indians have lived on the river’s borders through countless ages, and know every feature in their surroundings by constant association for generations, and naturally ally these facts with their religious theories. (MacMurray MS.)

An excerpt from ‘The Ghost Dance Religion and Wounded Knee’, by James Mooney, Chapter VII, Smohalla and his Doctrine

A Portal to the Gods

Posted on by under Blog, Folklore, Historical, Musings

This is no ordinary Bridge! This is a Bridge that spans more than just 706 ft, it spans time itself. This spot, a vortex of memory, a portal to the Gods, a gateway to the mountains of fire.

Bridge of the Gods, 1926 & 2012.

Bridge of the Gods, 1926 & 1912.

As a child, I always thought it was funny that we would bridge the Gods via, a car. But as I got older, and I walked the span alone, the wind would rise and flap like a Thunderbird all around me, and I knew then why the Gods called this Home. I would look down, 140 ft below me, and see the old Cascade Rapids straining against the stagnant waters of the 21st century, as the Ancients laid in silent wait below. I knew why I called this Home, where water is blood, and Gods do roam.

Read the “Bridge of the Gods Legend” here: http://www.gatheringthestories.org/2013/10/20/bridge-of-the-gods/

Landscape of Visions

Posted on by under Blog, Historical, Musings

This is a photo of my hometown of Carson, Washington taken in the year 1925. The domed mountain in the right hand side is Wind Mountain. 10473063_1117725894905723_815477723240662057_oGrowing up, I could see Wind Mountain directly from my bedroom window. I would get lost in daydream, which is a pretty common occurrence for me, and wonder how my ancestors revered and interacted with this landscape. What was it about this mountain that made it holy or sacred? Was it because of it’s stand alone features in the middle of the Cascade Mountain range? Was is it because of the sacred mineral waters that bubbled and boiled in her shadows? Or, was it because it could have been where the actual land bridge, known as the Bridge of the Gods, could have crossed the mighty river? – And Who had the first Vision on her lofty peak? Was it Coyote?

Leaves Gather Their Breath

Posted on by under Blog, Musings, Poetry

Leaves Gather Their Breath

The wind stands still
just for a moment
as the leaves
gather their
breath
before
the
long
descent
to
fertile grounds.

Immersed in cyclic
compost seeping
with mist.

the heat
of
Rebirth.

Leaves Gathering Their Breath | © H a v e n

Leaves Gathering Their Breath | © H a v e n

Mornings

Posted on by under Blog, Gallery, Musings

The Stellar Jays raise up their chorus through the mists, beckoning the sun in the breaks of rain. Ravens rise with the Eagles as I sip my tea from the edge of the world, longing to dance. The slow hum of the wind winding up the canyons and valleys, washing the fresh rain upon the thirsty ground.

© H a v e n

© H a v e n

Where I come from, this is called church.

The Maker of Rain

Posted on by under Blog, Musings, Poetry

The Maker of Rain

The maker of rain sits in front of a forgotten sun
spilling forth its solemn tears it cries-
the rhythm of it’s sorrows sings sad songs
lamenting the long day in sheets of gray hues.
the echoes of thunderous choirs
and winds that chant through forests halls-
in these shadows-
the maker of rain summons.

Maker of Rain | © H a v e n

Maker of Rain | © H a v e n

Submerged Forest

Posted on by under Blog, Historical

Up until the completion of Bonneville Dam in 1938, a ghostly white forest of drowned tree stumps could be observed along both sides of the Columbia River between Cascade Locks and The Dalles. The submerged forest was first mentioned in a geologic textbook in 1853, in “Principles of Geology” by Sir Charles Lyell

“Thus Captains Clark and Lewis found, about the year 1807 (sic), a forest of pines standing erect under water in the body of the Columbia RIver, which they supposed, from the appearance of the trees, to have been submerged only about twenty years.”

Both Lewis and Clark in 1805 and Captain Fremont in 1845 recognized that the trees were drowned by the formation of a lake behind a 200-foot landslide dam.

Penny Postcard, ca.1920s, "Wind Mountain and Submerged Forest, Columbia River".

Penny Postcard, ca.1920s, “Wind Mountain and Submerged Forest, Columbia River”.

Possibly triggered by an earthquake, the dam material slid down from the cliffs of Table Mountain and Greenleaf Peak at a time later determined to be between 1260 and 1290 A.D. The stumps were described in detail by Minnesota biologists Donald B. and Elizabeth G. Lawrence in a series of definitive papers in 1935, 1937, 1937, and 1958. The Lawrences were the first to date the time of the landslide, by caron 14 analyses, as having occurred 700 years before. As of 1936, the Lawrence’s counted 3,068 stumps on the south side of the river, and 938 on the north side of the river. The maximum concentration of stumps on the south side occurs just above the mouth of Viento Creek, where more than 800 stumps were counted within a small area.

Source: John Allen, Professor of Geology at Portland State University, 1985, “Time Travel in Oregon”.

Where Courage Lives

Posted on by under Blog, Musings

In the corners of the garden, I can see words caught in the geometry of webs that bob and dance in the breeze. I feel the sunflowers ushering poems through the labored

Humming Bird keeping time to the biology of existence.

Humming Bird keeping time to the biology of existence.

bow of growing as they stretch towards the sun. It seems I have forgotten this language, perhaps the taste of regret is to bitter for the tongue. Or perhaps the words were never mine to begin with, all dressed in others hopes and wishes. Who am I without these wayward tricksters? Who am I without these invasive fears? Who am I without these walls of identity?

“Invasive plants were like all evil things; the only way to ensure that they wouldn’t return was to face them head-on, battle it out, and win. Anything else was only a temporary fix. I sighed, thinking of my own life. I was letting the weeds grow all over me. They were threatening my happiness and, in some ways, my life. So why couldn’t I face them?”
― Sarah Jio

I seem to keep courage in a box, only reaching for it when life is set a blaze. My day to day has been ran over by fear, a crippling fear that eats and gnaws at my insides. Like brambles who bribe me with their berries, I allow this fear to grow until I am unable to move at all. I lose relationships to this. I lose myself to this. The garden is teaching me courage of everyday life. And in these times, everyday life is getting increasingly darker, so the practice is appreciated.

Be well Comrades.