It’s happening. Right now the waters are flowing.
There is ice there, in the heat of your summer.
California. Water. Budget.
Do you know? we have forgotten.
We have been there, in the highs and lows,
Through the cañon and o’er the pass.
Mineral King and the Kern of Sequoia
From endemic yucca and up from Sequoiadendron giganteum,
The road that promised mineral riches will,
Leave us alone to pass over the Sawtooth,
To wander with ourselves,
Down the granite arroyos of the Kern.
Flowing paths and running water.
The Golden Trout is burning,
There’s smoke on our trails,
And we’ve only just begun.
Arrowleaf and Columbine, Arnica and Sage.
In how many ways we do not know?
Nor the bewildered insects
Bound in a maze of color and fragrance.
Our reptilian brain knows,
When history is plainly in front of you,
A picture is worth its weight in gold.
Where waters of hot and cold combine,
A balance can be found.
Walk over old ground with new eyes,
And new wor(l)ds.
Turn your circle.
We are under the spires of the Universities,
And we are only beginning to learn.
Up and over the icy pass, so much snow.
It melts. Water pure, so pure its sweet.
Your lips would know it, even if you don’t.
Watch your step, it’s a treacherous slip,
Down to who’s waiting hands?
Taken by all, as long as it arrives.
As long as it arrives.
The echo from the canyon bottom, roars the eventual demise,
Of the Mountain. Death by free flowing, crystal clear water.
IT is changing. IT always has.
We are changing, but never like this.
Who was Torrey’s Blue Eyed Mary?
Fox tail and Pussy Paws.
The morning is so still. Yet it is happening.
Where the Sky Pilot dwells.
Only the sweetest mountain colors for this beauty.
We are all finally falling in Love.
The Devine alluded to where the Sky Pilot lands.
Her bloom celebrates every morning, the alpen start,
And mourns every eve, alpen glow.
Who knows where she is climbing?
Eventually even the mountains end.
Yet in her bosom, every breath begins anew.
In her wisdom, cyclical resilience.
So she celebrates the snow.
Meanwhile, the King dug the deepest chasms,
To hide his Pennyroyal,
Rosewort, Mountain Heather,
Laurel and Blue Gilia.
All in flower as the snow melts.
There are unrelenting shadows there,
Outside in, snow melts to the eventual patches,
Secrets the darkest places,
Under Brewer’s tutelage,
Across Charlottes Dome.
It’s the same eon after eon,
Till Mother precesses a significant turn,
And the stars in the sky tell us there’s change in the balance.
In the bottom, her trickles become a roar.
Together. Slow in times of crisis.
A crossing must be made,
Sure and steady foot.
Up to the chest the water exerts itself,
The Road’s End
Lazy Blue Kings River.
The very same water; Destruction and Creation.
People of California are here where the Road Ends.
Where the waters are calm, inviting their children to remember.
Mexico Africa California.
Sundays at Church. We rest.
The High Route
The meditation of no trail.
With a distant point on the brow,
Methodical, slow is smooth,
Breath and Step.
Rhythm in motion.
Body and Universe unite and invite the mind to the present.
Pass beyond pass, until even our bodies are new.
One elder says, “Stay together
learn the flowers
May I have permission to speak?
The flowers are keepers of our story,
They will tell our history when we’re gone.
To all my relations.
Marion’s blues were as cold as ice,
Holding back at the source.
We did not rush by but listened to her story.
There are treasures for those who dwell in the lows
As well as the highs.
This is not John’s Trail.
It is beaten and sore.
Neither light nor serene.
This is California too.
Prepackaged mountains sold.
Even your footsteps are safe.
Even the plants have run away.
We were off again onto Sauntering,
Soulful and toward the South Fork Pass,
Into the Palisades, where the glaciers dwell.
The Northeast shadows hold ice.
So we went there to dwell and listen.
The pests are worst there, lingering to their waters.
Stolen from the people, for the people.
Falling down to the Angeles.
Prosperity for the majority,
Deserts for others.
What will quench our thirst?
Nothing. Until there’s not enough.
Then we can share, deserts.
Man has chosen and the Sky Pilot knows.
The Sierra will lull you into complacency
And let you know your worth.
Her snows were three times the average,
Her rains a month late.
We found the people of Owens.
They were working, hardy and happy,
AWake and poor.
They know where the Sky Pilot Dwells.
Her own sights set higher than ever before,
She is worried,
And there is smoke on our trails,
As we fly over the concrete,
Expecting mechanized superpower.
The Sky Pilot knows.
It is there.
Flowing ice and trickle.
Glacier blue water.
It is not yours, “unless.”
Unless, you are among the Angeles.
Among the Angels Asleep.
A legacy of thousands of years,
So it is forgotten, but it is there.
Not still but moving, calving,
We will loose them.
There is smoke on our trails.
The poets on their high mounts will make their scene,
The people will go on.
The sheep have fed in the hills, below the Kings.
And this place will change.
How easy is it to change?
So easy, yet insurmountable.
So, what is it to have faith?
It must be a fool’s paradise, to seek truth in flowers.
We only climb then to feel like Kings at the top of Sill,
High for a moment,
Then surrendering to the Nature’s storm,
Fleeing back to the crevices we came from.
But the Sky Pilot will tell you in your wreckage,
“Keep the faith,”
But truth is like beauty.
It is in the eye and we have two.
We must carve the beauty and truth from the world,
With the gentle force of our hands,
Like water wears down Kings.
We, in small loads, among our people,
Find union with our relatives,
For all our relations. We are falling Love.
She has no hands,
But I will not cry,
We dig with ours.
Mother Earth will crush us and make us feel our center,
With only her gentle rains.
This is our place, headed toward the Center of the Universe.
Rock and water is all we are,
We will return.
Father Sun will ring us out and dry us,
Return us to our own divinity,
Then burn us, make us crave for her.
Meanwhile the Kings will squabble over their debts,
Their unfinished roads. The war for truth.
A kingdom destined to crumble,
Fighting for a God that is here,
Between us, in your eyes. it falls,
Into gardens and paths.
History is a cyclical revolution,
Always anew in the moment.
We read the flowers,
And listen to the glaciers.
We record their stories in photographs.
We tell those stories to enemies and friends.
We listen to their stories.
We are telling the story of ourselves,
Written in the mountains,
Para los Pueblos.
This is about
People and mountains.
People and water.
People and life.
Every sentient being.
It is happening, now.
The waters are flowing, echoing,
Carving new names of lands we will never know.
We can know.
From the history that created us,
We are now.
So what we are now?
So what will we become?
We are literally the Kings.
We are the Kern.
We are the San Joaquin.
We are the rivers of Mercy.
So it is.
The wax currant and mountain gooseberry.
The almonds and rice.
The Dwarf Bilberry and Alpine Gold.
The Olive Tree and Brasicaseae.
We are the battle between the Blackberry,
And the Elderberry.
Forgive yourself and walk forward,
On a new path, new eyes from a deeper breath.
See what is before you, behind you,
We are change.
So what is in a photograph?
A moment of light.
Memory, passed down.
That is for the humans.
Piute Pass and Second Recess
We walk. Real people walk.
We trade. We remember the generations.
The land remembers us.
Before we could walk with hands in our pockets,
We were walking. Burden Baskets.
Simple, clean cut.
Walk on, in rhythm.
The Silver Divide and Beyond.
Certainly there is an end to this.
Is there meaning?
Across the Silver Divide,
We found ourselves alone.
Beat up and worn out from our own trials,
On the precipice of returning,
Only a horizon away from the end.
The days will break us,
The nights will make you quiver.
Among the chasms filled with dust and (t)oil,
Where nearby riches lay the waste,
The valley fills with coal smoke,
And our tendency is to revoke,
We remember her wisdom,
“To keep the faith.”