Three little Dragons
(for Bob Marley)
Walked up to echo to smile at the setting sun
Three little dragons sunning themselves
silent as the rock their eyes winking at me
saying, this is my message to you
Don't worry about a thing
'cause every little thing is going to be alright...
Three dragons soaking
fading orange winter warmth
Big Black, Silver Stripes
and Yellow Belly, content
we share afternoon Fika
(Fika: Swedish social coffee break)
Wild sage burnt white dry
thirsty like everything else
this early summer
morning above Rubio creek
from space the hillside is brown
Blooming yuccas bear
clusters of sweet white flowers
and green fruit atop
their edible stalks ringed
by forbidding bayonets
Ceanothus bloom
wild silver wild sage early
early March morning
wispy silk thin clouds explode
over the ridge like signals
Peel a blood orange
watch the crimson juice run down
your fingers, inhale
its perfectness, let the mountain
breeze wisp it away, then smile
(AND pack out your trash)
This one is dedicated to Hiroshige and Brett Harte. And Quincy Troupe, whose “Sonic Fireflies” I read several times times while waiting for a ranger to finish servicing a National Forest privy. The “syncopation of syllables flowing free form” set the perfect beat for the day, even if the mood was quite different. There were no fireflies or prowling black panthers on the yucca covered mountain slope, but you do have to wander what kind of metaphor those decorated eggplants might conjure.
Five sun baked eggplants
on the steep Sunset Peak ridge
enlaced with copper
bracelets, eco-friendly art
secret terroir recipe?
I suspected I wouldn’t see too many people on this hike, especially on a weekday, and I was famously rewarded. I crossed a lady walking her dogs, and a jogger, both within a half mile of the trailhead, separated by six hours of complete solitude. Except for those booming voices…
CHRISTO! AHORA!
trance preaching voices float over
ridges in the breeze
answering their lord's call, NOW!
louder than crunchy footsteps
I scanned the hilltops and canyons, but never found the provenance of the ceremony. It remained a mystery, or was I hearing things in the breeze that weren’t there? Voices in my head? The question lingered until I was distracted by magical and lonely little white clouds.
Tiny white clouds form
and then dissolve rapidly
fluffy moisture ghosts
shape-shifting brushstrokes up high
in the azure sky like dreams
I always hike with an alter ego, or two voices, an internal dialogue, a little devil on one shoulder and an angel on the other, one clamoring it's half-empty while the other insists it's half-full, one asking why put yourself through this much effort today when you could wait 'til tomorrow as the other argues why wait?
Two fellows hiking
only two more miles, said one
what? came the reply
we're halfway there, piece of cake
we're s'far as I go, my legs ache
The voices are mostly silent, and no, I do not talk to myself, at least not out loud. Time on the trail is time to enjoy nature, and solitude, a time for méditation, and the occasional encounter.
Three mountain bikers
pedaling proud old fogeys
happy to see snow
leave tire tracks in the bright red
fire retardant phosphate goo
There is a bench, somewhere above Jones Peak. I won’t divulge its exact location. You have to sweat a little–ok, a lot–to chance upon it, to discover it. It is well constructed in the middle of a small dirt clearing ringed with rocks, surrounded by yerba buena and chamise, and like its numerous cousins on the slopes of the San Gabriels, it serves the sitter with spectacular views of the Southland. The sunsets from here must be special, I thought, as I debated whether to sit and take advantage or forge on. I still had a good two hours walk to reach the trailhead. The sun was lazily diving towards the ocean, and clouds to the west predicted it would soon be obscured. I didn’t want to walk in the dark, but I took thirty seconds to read the small dedication plaque, then again I always read dedication plaques, thinking that, if I wrote one and went through this much effort to post it in a special place, I’d hope the passer-by would read it.
“Sit down, take a deep breath“, I’m paraphrasing, “and take in the views.” I did.
Walkin' in the wind
through swinging chaparral
windswept ionized
the rambler seeks no answers
when his blue hat blows away
Ruins in Arroyo
Seco, all but washed away
remind visitors
trees water and wind swallow
the dreams of colonizers
During the cold war, the Los Angeles basin was ringed by sixteen missile and radar silos whose job it was to defend the city by intercepting the feared incoming Soviet nuclear attack. It never happened, but ruins of the abandoned sites still linger, and the one atop San Vicente mountain is even maintained as a tourist destination. I had planned to visit this piece of Angeleno history for some time. What I hadn’t planned was to do it the day after the country was rocked by an assault from the enemy within.
Time to pause breathe walk
meditate find the center--
yesterday was mad--
blessed by swirling prayer flags
where missile silos once stood
Tiny yellow bloom
in brown grass and mustard field
afternoon sun glow
alone flutters in the wind
joyful prayer rain dance
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