Onion Valley and her deep greens call us to wander, to climb, to contemplate

    a God that is love, is whole, and a blessing        the thin air tight and dry accented with sage  is a museum focussed and intense  it embraces us and invites us    makes us wonder, makes us sigh

 

Wood’s Rose feminine petals shimmer and call us to pause and breath, our steps

    crush granite and the incline is steep

 

Western Columbine like red orange diamonds hang like earnings on the trails head    

    the pass of Kearsarge looms up in the blue ceiling  luminous patches of white beckon us for cold nights and hot days   shirts of sweat, smoke and morning stretches

 

Green Leaf Manzanita a tenacious mob of a plant clings to dry dust soil and flickers its globe-shaped     leaves forcing us to stop for a closer look   its rudy hardwood stalks are miniature redwoods.  they do their best to be as majestic.

 

We think ourselves wise but are told to be foolish first, letting go of what is known and learning from

    the trail, from contemplating, creation, God and His indwelling

Posted
AuthorChris Sanita
CategoriesPoetry
“One Moment on the Coast” by Chris Sanita

 

They sprayed water on the hull and gun whales    blood and guts dropped 

down into the open bilge.

On a long plank of moss covered boards the pongas emptied of fish and men, smoking, wrinkled, deep in thought.  The wharf

stands between million dollar houses and grotesquely poor families; inlanders looking for relief vs. the entitled seemingly successful.       The boat

stands open to the gape of the Pacific, resting like a time machine above the hassle and hum of traffic, bars, cafes.       For the little children clinging to waists, fathers boasting of night time ramblings and sports, the boat rests, abused, but ready for them.      Small dark women slice silver fish with pink, red, green and brown shawls tied below their pointed chins.        Children look up, wide eyed like the fish, supple, waiting.       

Off near shore white waves crash into tall pier poles       they vibrate,  they grow mussels, barnacles and deadman’s fingers for gulls’ and curlews’ lunch.

A  simple ’62 Chevrolet rumbles past as the driver's burnt arm rest on the door

 

I sip my coffee and inhale the life of day-

Posted
AuthorChris Sanita
CategoriesPoetry