Under a Red Roof -

The Phantom

May 17, 2013 in Writing by Colleen | Permalink

The phantom leaves traces

parachutes

propellers on high

a tiny check mark

seen at 7:18.

I knew the phantom as flesh and bone

raven curls

eyes stolen from the sea.

Letters and words over years and miles

left to wither

into the dead silence

of space.

The universe doesn’t give a whit about the phantom

nor me

nor you.

It hurtles us

into each other

into stellar bodies

into nothing at all.

I knew the phantom for an instant

flashes of bicycles

shaved legs

tender smiles.

Now

only silence

tied

but drifting

straining that fine thread.

The phantom’s cares

fear? aversion? revulsion?

cloaked

unknown.

The universe’s cares as open as sky

casting stones that burn through atmospheres

toxic interstellar clouds

brilliant stars now deathly black holes.

Don’t let us be a black hole, dear phantom.

Don’t let us disappear

not while we still have breath.

Speak

speak of fear

speak of wonder

speak of sky

speak of waves

speak of any thing

just speak

before you can’t

before I can’t

before the universe

renders us two dust motes in the cosmos

unremembered

unbound.

Colleen Sohn

Tags: Poetry

Stand

May 16, 2013 in Quoting by Colleen | Permalink

Being a Person

Be a person here.

Stand by the river, invoke the owls.

Invoke winter, then spring.

Let any season that wants to come here make its own call.

After that sound goes away, wait.

A slow bubble rises through the earth and begins to include sky, stars, all space, even the outracing expanding thought.

Come back and hear the little sound again.

Suddenly this dream you are having matches everyone’s dream, and the result is the world.

If a different call came, there wouldn’t be any world, or you, or the river, or the owls calling.

How you stand here is important.

How you listen for the next things to happen.

How you breathe.

William Stafford

Tags: Poetry, Quoting

Saturday Afternoon

May 13, 2013 in Admiring, Gardening + Nature, Writing by Colleen | Permalink

I sit on the back porch, feet up, nibbling cheese. Guilty pleasure that, any variety but goat, the miserable, ever-present tang clinging to my throat, no matter what they say.

It is heavy with heat and this scramble on the keyboard a break from lying prostrate with a book propped on my chest. Though the reading could be better. I vacillate between two lesser books that also happen to be the favorites of people dear to me. I hate that, hate that I see their earnest faces and kind eyes in the midst of my dislike. And now, an invocation of whatever spirit will make my next read so wholly captivating that I read until my eyes ache and pulse quickens.

A trio of hummingbirds competes for our garden, and I marvel at the fierceness, the fantastic fluttered wing spirals and wild chirps of battle.

A crow breaks a cracker in the bird bath, some snack gleaned elsewhere and slowly savored here. She is quiet and delicate in her work, and I marvel at the fact that she does it all without hands. Her onyx feathers gleam, and she watches me, coyly perhaps. We are friends but not that kind, not yet, her penetrating eyes intent on me as I speak to her, of her mucky messes and occasional early wake-up calls. She’s finished eating and scratches her head with her left foot, even considers a bath, lightly splashing with her beak, no matter the diminutive size of the vessel in relation to her body.

A squirrel is five feet away from her, hoovering every last remnant the finches and sparrows and jays messily toss out of the feeder, some silent agreement, perhaps. Another claws madly in a wild dash up the neighbor’s sequoia.

Paris is stretched on the concrete of the patio, five feet from me, wholly unaware of the life that surrounds her, pretending she is some Egyptian, I think, so regal is her posture.

I hear the bushtits flit about and a robin chirp in the distance. Children rough house nearby and the steady thrum of traffic drones in the distance, though sometimes I cannot hear it and am elsewhere, some fine elysian field, where all that I love lasts and there is no rush to capture it for another hour.

…

Happy Birthday, Allison!

Tags: cars

It is happening again…

May 10, 2013 in Gardening + Nature by Colleen | Permalink

Peony season is upon us a little early, thanks be to a long stint of dry and warm weather.

I am wishing for rain and dreaming about horseback riding.

The strawberries are ripening, but some little creature is beating us to the punch when it comes to actually eating them. We may have to start getting up earlier.

My palms are sweaty.

I hurt my wrist, gardening, of all things, so rather than practice yoga and re-injure myself, I have been walking, complete with wide-brimmed hat or parasol. Though this morning, I danced, a wild thunder of stomps and shakes.

Listening to the Black Angels and Devendra Banhart. Happiness.

My favorite little boy visited on Wednesday, and as we were eating lunch, he moved quite close and said, “You aren’t old, but you have a lot of old hairs on your head.”

That same day, in related not-old news, I flew a kite!

Say

May 9, 2013 in Quoting by Colleen | Permalink

When the words stop

And you can endure the silence

That reveals your heart’s pain

Of emptiness

Or that great wrenching-sweet longing

That is the time to try and listen

To what the Beloved’s

Eyes

Most want to say.

Hafiz

Tags: Quoting

Aaron Was Here

May 7, 2013 in Exploring, Loving by Colleen | Permalink

My baby brother visited us this past week. We drove and walked and ate practically ad infinitum.

From Mt. Hood

to Cannon Beach

where we saw barnacles, star fish, sea anemones, a jellyfish, TWO Bald Eagles,

a silent sea captain,

old buildings

and bouys hanging from trees.

We ate seafood, salt water taffy, and fudge.

We saw Ferraris!

They drank beer.

We saw Mt. Adams

and tall trees on Sauvie Island.

And an old advertisement on Fremont.

And chatted late in the evening and early in the morning. And napped and sat under an azure canopy in the back yard.

Life is grand…

Tags: Oregon, Portland

Slowly

May 2, 2013 in Quoting by Colleen | Permalink

Life is short. Break the rules.
Forgive quickly. Kiss slowly.
Love truly. Laugh uncontrollably.
And never regret anything
That makes you smile.

Mark Twain

Tags: Quoting

Portland City Walks: No. 19

April 29, 2013 in Drinking, Eating, Exploring by Colleen | Permalink

Hello Everyone! Are you ready for a looong one? Portland’s had truly Spring-like weather, the absolute best I can recall in my fifteen years as a citizen, excellent for gardening, with more digging, planting, and walking. This time we actually went beyond the city limits to where John McLoughlin, also known as the “Father of Oregon,” first laid claim to the territory in the name of the British.

In the back yard at the McLoughlin House, which was moved from its original location near the river. The cannon dates from 1789!

The tunnel under Singer Hill Road,

named for Singer Creek, which exits on the other side.

I love Art Deco, and the Clackamas County Courthouse is a dandy example.

A spectacularly fine roadster, a ’32-’34 Ford, I think. Hef?

Crossing the Oregon City Bridge to West Linn.

Apparently it was a great day for fishing, too. Dontigny, were you out there?

Yellow Awning

Red Ball

Tiny Vesicles

Cat Walk

Peeling Rust

Climbing the steps to Mt. Seleya.

Stopping for a lunch break at Mi Famiglia. We had a delicious spinach salad and mighty fine wood fired pizza, cremini and peperoncini, to be exact.

I spy…

The poor hubster, the one time he really wants to shop, the place is closed. He missed out on a slice of our childhood, with metal lunch boxes, Matchbox cars, Tonka trucks, action figures, McDonald’s glasses, and much, much more…

The tunnel to the Oregon City Municipal Elevator, the only one of its kind in the United States, and pretty darn cool, if you ask me.

It looks a bit like a space ship from the exterior.

The new Oregon City Bridge, boy is it a looker.

Oregon City is filled with charming houses. This one dates to 1877.

Willamette Falls

West Linn paper and vestiges of businesses past.

Nap interrupted.

My second favorite mural ever! The first is in this post.

The gorgeous Atkinson Memorial Church, circa 1924.

Waterboard Park bridges the second and third tiers of Oregon City. Hushed, save for the songs of robins, towhees, and one giggling human.

This is asphalt, slowly being consumed by earth and landslides. We felt as though we’d entered a portal into Logan’s Run, wondering if around the next bend we’d hear the howl and screech of cats and the moaning of “sanctuary!”