Fire Gate Poems

FROM THE PREFACE… ….The poems reflect a process of healing, but not in the simplistic sense of having returned to the way life was before my son died. My life was forever changed by that shot in the Arizona desert where he fell. As is so often true in peoples’ lives, it seems, the transformation that followed was not entirely of my own choosing. Rather, I was thrust into it. My only choice was to either die with him or to search for rebirth. After a long struggle, I chose the latter, with the result that my experience of the world is deeper and richer now than it ever was before -- even if rather more sensitive to pain. May those who read these poems and view their accompanying images experience something of the same blessing themselves. FROM PART 2: “Abyss” MOON-FACED BUDDHA: A Requiem1 I. driving down the morning mesa sometime then in a micro-second the mountain exploded II. (Sing softly…) rock-a-bye baby in the tree top when the wind blows, your cradle will rock when your bough breaks the cradle will fall and down will come Christopher cradle and all III. we learned officer knocking that evening, late he thrust 1 Published in Santa Fe Literary Review, 2009. an iron poker in my chest I remember the color red stinging eyes [Figure 13: “Winter Window,” 35mm color photograph, 1988.] IV. (chant slowly…) Christopher Anson sat on a wall Christopher Anson had a great fall both of his parents and all of his friends couldn’t put Anson together again V. Carl your cat six toes each foot asleep paws twitch dreams where you are VI. (Sing softly…) mother put the kettle on father put the kettle on sister put the kettle on just three for tea VII. every afternoon sun heats your ashes at night holly leaves scratch our window VIII. (Chant sing-song…) ring around the rosie pocket full of posies Christopher is ashes all fall down IX. you planted my garden hoed my life grew secrets we never learned you were in love X. (chant softly…) Chris isn’t hot Chris isn’t cold Christopher’s in a box thirty years old XI. Meditate still point breathing you in night stars twinkling XII. Sun-faced Buddha Buddha of life moon-faced Buddha Buddha of death [Figure 14: My Son Christopher, 35mm color photograph, 1996.] FROM PART 5: “Wonder” DORLAND GLIMPSES Spring has come while I've been writing about the darkness. Trees by the pond now wear a sage veil wild white lilacs dot the mountainside. At day's end, yellow-green hills ripple far off grasses glow in the sunset. Climbing the impassable road to my cabin I see the geology of these mountains working. After each rain the rivulets deepen. The planet's gravity is revealed by their essential straightness steep ribbons of sand. The bobcat is still as a stump, maybe a hundred feet away. Liquid haunches moving a few feet each time hugging the ground she moves warily toward me. I see through her eyes; she through mine. Then, casually, the connection is gone. I am demoted. Ambling off, she disappears in the brush. I am filled with this place. Sun glistening on myriad live oak leaves I step out early one morning to locate the Canadian geese honking far overhead. But my aural compass gives false readings. Interference from valley traffic far below prevents a simple spring navigation. They are lost. [Figure 59: “Shultis Brook Farm,” india ink, notebook sketch, 1988.] When the rains come, they lash my perch. Wind-driven drops fill the cabin space with an angry hiss. After awhile they relent for moments, and as the storm spends itself they forget, and go east. Sometimes, like this morning, cold blustery air moves in afterwards ruffling the oaks. The sun breaks through in patches. My fire dies to coals. Smoke drifts through sunlit leaves. It is time to move on.