PHILIAS AND PHOBIAS

Photo by S. Auberle

PHILIAS AND PHOBIAS 

               phobias:  aversions and fears

               philias:  attractives & positive feelings 

I'm old        yes old enough

that if I died tomorrow

not one would say

pity        she died too young… 

I suppose there's some comfort

in that       small at best

but another comfort might be
that by now I've tried out

and worn out all my phobias

found them meaningless

paper scarecrows dancing

in the wind       except the last one 

which I don't even want to mention

but you know the one I mean

and yes I'm still scared big time

of that and if you're not 

tell me why not        and how you got

that way        unscared        I mean

and why have none of my people

come back to tell me don't worry baby 

it's all right       nothing to be afraid of

like they used to        and wrap shiny pennies

in my clenched fists        dry my tears

and send me back out 

into that enormous sunny world

where philias abound and never end

and I don't know any more than my dog

about what's coming for me        one day

CRASH

Photo by S. Auberle

This may still be a work in progress (brand new just this morning) or it may be finished.  Not sure yet, but I want it out there...

CRASH

But most of all I shall remember the Monarchs, that

unhurried westward drift of one small winged form

after another, each drawn by some invisible force…

                                             ~  Rachel Carson

the Monarchs have crashed they say

as if a great plane had carried them

on their mighty journey south

and the hand of a jealous god

smote them down

certainly not our fault we say

and so we mourn them and orate

and pontificate about what to do

how to save the few     who remain

who remind us of what once was

and the number who understand

is as small as those fragile creatures left

to grace our emptying skies

who soon may join the passenger pigeon

the ivory-billed woodpecker

all the scorned-as-unimportant…

o let there be somewhere a place

where whatever passes for hearts

and arms welcome these--open wide

awestruck     immeasurably grateful for each

            flying      swimming    crawling 

            standing     leaping     miracle

            

MID-SUMMER BOOK OF HOURS

Photo by S.  Auberle

Lauds... 

yoga in first light

when the sun rises

above tall cedars

young birds finding their wings

Sext... 

sun-warmed tomatoes

in olive oil topped with

sea salt and fresh-snipped basil--

the fragrance will astonish you every time

Vespers... 

slow dance of pelicans high

last lullaby of mourning doves

a poem or three and glass of Chianti

or perhaps a very old Scotch…

  

aahhhhh….July

THE YARNELL HILL FIRE

Photo by S. Auberle

The Yarnell Hill Fire

There are things that happen to which you must respond.  You have no choice.  They will not let you rest until you write.  Something.  And so you sit at the keyboard and begin.

Memories of smoke.  Flames.  The red horizon.  Acrid smell.  The blue air.   The yellow air.  The ash-laden air.  Magnificent flaming sunsets, as if the sun were trying to outdo the palette of fire.  Anxious scanning of skies.  Please, please let it rain.  But no lightning, o my god, no more lightning.  Just blessed moisture on the beetle-dead trees, the crisp grasses, the drought-starved bones of animals.  Pray.  To your god, to the Hopi spirits, the Navajo deities.  To anyone…who might be listening.  Who might care if your house, your hogan, your hut goes up in flames. 

What to take?  What to place carefully by the door, to clutch to your heart as you race out in the middle of the night?  Your wedding album?  Baby photos?  The computer--with so much of your life stored in its cold memory? 

Impossible to decide, and so you throw things in boxes, pile them randomly, knowing you might forget some.  Or all.  You think of tornado victims, who do not have to decide.  Whose entire life is whirled away, no decisions to be made.  Lucky to escape with their lives.  As you would feel lucky.  And broken.  And grateful to whichever of those gods listened. 

Most of all, you feel gratitude to those who are out there in the midst of the inferno.  Who are blackened and weary and brave beyond belief.  Who go for hours without sleep, without food, without fear.  You will bless them every moment as you stand out on your porch and watch the mountain burn.  As you cry for the beautiful forest, the animals fleeing in terror…

I am fortunate, the town of Flagstaff, Arizona is fortunate.  During the several fires that blazed in the years I lived there, no homes were lost, and I did not have to flee my home.

Yes, there are tragedies in the world with numbers of sorrows to enormous to count.  The deaths of innocents, the deaths of brave men and women in incomprehensible numbers.  The slow deaths-- starvation, lack of water.  Of course, the horrors of war.  Anywhere.  Any war. 

But we and our words must respond to what is before us now in this moment.  And though I do not live in fire country anymore, I will never forget the fear of it.  So I respond, so I remember, so I pray...  

My deepest sympathies and prayers to the families of the nineteen firefighters who lost their lives.