Whatever Happened to Columbus

Columbus, looking ragged by now,
sits on the rock bench at the edge
of the yard. It's Monday morning
and the sky is full of the sea.

Every tree, the sharp-leaf maple,
twisted pine, the vine in the side yard
curling and dreaming her green hair,
listen to his breathing.

It was a rough night and rain
seeped into his shadow, and
the cool October sun
tries hard from a distance
of stars to dry him out.

I want to take him coffee,
bold and sugared. Will he smile
or continue to chew on the twig
at the corner of his mouth.

~~~

Ancient Craft of the Shearer

First Cut Shearing
www.firstcutshearing.blogspot.com

connected

The sun makes a larger name
for itself, leaks and bursts
it's burning voice toward our wet
home. Blue and usually able
to cool itself. Perhaps we look
too much like treasure.

We stay inside with all the fans spinning
jazz, windows closed, coveting
the last cool notes from
the meteor night.

I wonder about Moscow, burning steadily,
700 souls dropping daily in the haze.
Sun spreads orange wings.

We will travel to the water today,
pray with our hands and legs.
practice the fish's dance.
Fly with ghosts.

Not one moment will pass us by
without a grateful utterance.
We look to the sky under us,
see the end and beginning
of all things,

cool our cells,
imagine,

hold the hand
of all people.

how movement affects all things

The world just ended yesterday.
Sea's waves folded back onto themselves,
the boat's wake forgot
where it came from.
Slowly, salted green sky
of no roots is held aloft
in the bowl of all things.
Your mother, my sky.
I wish I could tell you something
wise. Spirit welcomes us home.
Whale song, mysterious
and lovely, just keeps going
away from itself.

the invisible

Orange sun, warm spill of sensation,
over my head, my face,
my shoulders, back, belly,
legs and feet,
my toes,
inside of me.

I heard a wing of feathers
slipping through the air
of quiet. The other wing
came too.

I wanted the sound to land on me,
or so close the song of its
body would open my eyes.

Trust is being blind
and understanding you
still see.

notions

Worry is darker water rising up
through clear water of the space
where clear water is.

Worry is nothing. My mind wandering
on its own to fill up space of
not knowing.

Before nothing comes
my mind wants to play and
make up a new story of
what might be.

The sun hushes my mind
by warming my back. She catches
my attention.

My mind is pretending
to be separate.

at the same time I know
I am one and feel hungry
to connect what feels
separate.

I am hungry to be
where I am. This moment.
The clarity of being here.

The Roadtrip

Roadtrip through Eastern Washington into Idaho
to Silverwood. Mother's Day, my daughters' treat.
Shared driving time and the most astounding rainbows
reaching across the horizon.

Music for the slideshow is provided by Daniel Ho

in his "Coolest Drop of Rain".

Enjoy!

Ruben from the Sky

Ruben from the sky
come down fragile envelope
of lights

oh soft landing
from fragments of the world
come down

from rain of everything
muffled silence
the child's heart

oh hesitant movement.

When he is older
he will tell you
I remember my mother
and my father

I poked my brother
he poked me back
we fussed and mother
scolded us

so we sat quiet and buckled
and my eyes were full
of all the people,
the windows out to everywhere

and then I remember the nothing
there were flashes and colors
and I flew into them

someone held my hand
saying in my language
on their lips

there is no fear
I hold your hand
there is no fear

and there was singing
yes that was it
coming closer between night
the lights

all the pieces
still falling from my sky.





for the only survivor

Desert Eagle

Into the common rooms it flew filling us with feathers,
hollow bones, Indian song of the desert and sun
and our hearts fell into our feet as he looked around.
I think his eyes were gold. He shuffled his feathers
down and looked right at me and I wanted to back
away but he took my hand and lead me to the next
life and while we were flying in the darkness I heard
chanting and songs and I saw my life as a book of
pages and on the way we read his book too.

Colors came back, light poured under the walls
when we hooked our feet to the earth again.
He was a slightly crooked man, tall and lean and he
held a walking stick with the head of a snake. He pointed
to the four walls of the day, to sun climbing ladders,
to the magic pouring from my hands and he
said this is good and flew away.





For the man from the desert who lost part of his brain

and liked to tell his story in photographs.

Saturation

There is no flood. Rain is a dancer
entertaining two eagles hunched in their
half-made nest, limbs, sticks, giant's hair
hanging down from it, rooted in the crook
of a massive tree. When separated,
long, open-throated they sing to each other.

Did I sing to you? I heard you
struck by the thought of losing me.
Like the eagles, unmistakable.
And sitting at the movies
holding hands like strangers,
it washed over me, love.
Unavoidable. No choice left
but to kiss you
and it happened
all over again.

I can feel you thinking of me
here at the farm in the dark
and rain, candles in my eyes
and you, a hundred miles away
put your hand to my heart.
I look down almost seeing it.

The eagles turn their heads
toward each other, shake the rain
off, nudge closer warmed
by the fire behind the prayers
of their chest.





for M.

c2010 T.L. Stokes/Flood Water Photography

(all rights reserved for all content and photos in this blog)

Untitled

A tree torn by its roots
hovers over the neighbor's house.
The wind is long gone.
You prop a ladder under it,
decide what to do next.
The plan grows like a seedling
in your brain, I see a forest,
mysterious spirits in green,
moss and mud colored clothing.
Little stone benches
for sitting and thinking.
A glowing sky high overhead.
Work benches, tools
neatly placed like silverware.
Ladders, all sizes, stacked.
Hobbit doors to secrets.
Windows in the trees.
I could lie all day inside of you,
inside tender thoughts
bright blue like streams.
I duck, when confused,
or angry a storm brews.
I sit on a princess chair
by the largest tree.
Umbrella in my small hand.
Cherry blossoms
come down from nothing.
The air turns rose.

Everything around me
is the sound of a heart.







for M's brain

I-90 at the Snoqualmie Casino Exit

Everywhere rain gathers like smoke.

We become ghosts spreading

like wet feathers over the blacktop.

Yesterday a sports car inhaled its metal

sides resting upside down off the freeway.

Men in colored gear walked with heavy

feet carrying the jaws of life. Witnesses

frozen in poses told the story:

how it happened, what hit when,

what it sounded like. The moment

what we consider normal, stops. Time,

yes that's it, flounders, wobbles away

from where we thought our feet were.

From then on, it's our heartbeat

we listen to.

the rain forest

Here among straight backs,

green shirts and flirting sparks

of light, of feather,

among songs of ancients

the wind, lonely as a stone

tells me something.

It touches the old swing

by the river, begins to push

just enough to capture the eye

and surely there are ghosts

in private conversations

sipping coffee in the earliest sun.

I lost a love here my heart says.

A book of poems, yet unfinished,

traces the path

around and between the giants,

over the moss,

the stone beach.

You tell me, why I was lonely.

And I indeed

was never perfect.

You know where we flew to.

Then I, so tired,

easily frightened in those days,

felt the anchor tear away

from everything.

Touch me, my skin cried.

You were off fighting wars

of your own,

drowning slowly.

I'll tell you a secret, someone

told me the things you were saying

and that

opened the doors

of my going away.

for the past we let go of

Sparklehorse - Tribute to Mark Linkous

Read a new poem titled "Sparklehorse",
no it's not about a horse at all. Well mostly not.
It's about Mark Linkous of the band Sparklehorse
who took his life after a long battle with depression.
I watched two videos of him performing and was
impressed by the simple, poetic and dark music.
You can read the poem at Flood Water Photography:

http://www.floodwaterphotography.blogspot.com/

Encourage and love those near to you, even those a far way off.

Anonymous

Broken Art

Broken Art
by T.L. Stokes



Here in the grass breast of my mother will I lay my head,
sorrowing for seed and stillness. Here among the wet
breath will I whisper an old thought and dream while she
holds me again. Far from the broken thighs, oh heavy
longing. Our children lost in the rubble. Far
from stones and paintings turned to another form
of art and grave, I will leave my family, they sink
from my heart. I will be pretty on what I think stable.
In dreaming I fly, in sleep I awaken. Here, far
from islands and oceans. Here in the grass breast
of my mother, will I lay my head.




for Chile

New poem titled "The Hill" at Flood Water Photography - www.floodwaterphotography.blogspot.com.

Simplicity

http://www.floodwaterphotography.blogspot.com

See the new poem "Simplicity" at Flood Water Photography.

The Alpaca Farm

There is a mouse in the house. Louise screamed and bolted herself in her room. Molly the white cat cried to come in. We let Kitten have free roam of the house at night. You could hear her running and leaping, sliding across the old wood floor. It's been two nights now. Kitten makes acrobatic sounds in the middle of the night, the mouse must be fast.

This morning the sky was filled with light. Even now it butters the fields. The alpacas blink and watch me open the nesting box door, two eggs lie in the straw. I make oatmeal to thank the hens.

Here are a few photos from this morning. Enjoy!

Anonymous

in celebration of birth

Today, fifty-some years ago, twenty four how I feel, millions the age of my spirit, I was pushing my elbow into my mother, trying to make a little more space, and sighed, the sigh an unborn baby does without air, kind of like a hiccup into water, all silent, soft movements, and I thought the thoughts of unthinking, before words came one by one to crowd a new fresh brain, and I readied to flow downstream into my new life. Into my mother's arms, my father's embrace, into the air, the loudness. Into the land of corners and hard surfaces. And I would always seek oceans and rivers, I would return over and over to songs of water for my hungry ears.

Here I am on the alpaca farm, driving daily along Patterson Creek, to the Snoqualmie and Raging Rivers at Fall City, up the long hill to the Falls, through Snoqualmie and into North Bend. All these rivers. They are my sisters. My mother. I watch the light from the broad sky bend down, it shimmers on wet pavement, streaks across the water. Warms my face.

Here's to life. Thank you for being here with me.

for my daughters Heather & Kelsey

T.L. Stokes

Flood Water Photography - the Blog

I want to introduce you to a new up and coming blog titled: Flood Water Photography. Photographs from around Fall City, Snoqualmie, North Bend and outlying areas as well as periodic comments and contemporary poetry. Floodwaterphotography.blogspot.com

Before Summer Comes

And in the last gold tongues
falling from the open mouth
of the ridge,

shuffled into shades
of deepening black,

sun, the cloaked thief,
leaves

with eyes turning away from
us beggars--

always clambering
for warmth--

never happy to have
our light stolen.