TerraSedona
There is a place in me that remembers these ancient sandstone shapes
Bold, red spires of rock absorbing the heat of hot, high, desert days,
storing memories of the evolution of transitory things. Deep tremors,
reveal patterns of change pulsing in a crimson wave of coral sunset.
The black void of nightscape absorbs the cool evening shapes into
the still silence of forgetfulness and the dark pupil of the night’s eye
reflects an indifferent universe pierced by bright starholes burning light
still flickering long past death, even before the birth of the speaking ones.
We who have carved out our separateness in the symbols of sound
measure our worth in the righteous differentiation of otherness. We
who weep for union while conspiring for self-preservation. We who
want to believe that we can direct the natural cycle of things.
Words like stars can light up the heavens of future generations
Long after the moist lips of longing have caressed this moment
of presence with the language of sadness and celebration. Echoes
of choice direct and shape the epitaph of our common hearts desire.
Sitting in wonder at the nights complete lack of attitude, questions,
come like shooting stars. What do we really want to sustain? The
tranquilized obviousness of our familiar routines? Our craving for
immortality? This shallow breath of dancing pain and pleasure. . .?
Dreams of visitors with mocking faces and tears of blood, their
swords of light dismembering my most cherished beliefs. Eyes
blazing like the desert sun they set fire to all i ever desired or
longed for leaving me nameless in spite of all my desperate struggle.
Songs of desert birds called for an awakening in the early dawn
light reveals worlds, unseen, forgotten or observed through the
microscopic and myopic lens of utility and self preservation. It is
here in the swiftly moving morning air that the pilgrims gathered.
Mounting steeds of steel burning the fuel of forgotten ages we
feel the tense anticipation of our desire to make things better,
to make the world a kinder place for future generations as the red
dust traces our journey to the sacred meeting place of ancestors.
Approaching Rachel’s knoll, in energy uncertain we see trees
weeping in wooden boxes along the dusty road of discontent.
Are they being planted or removed to decorate the ornamental
gardens of the ones who see the world with clinging eyes?
Bright yellow Caterpillar tractors belch pungent black smoke
of uncertain rainless clouds as they scrape the fragile crust of
desert beauty to make way for the green grass of yet another
thirsty golf course of games and deals for polo shirted men.
Climbing in silence we find our place to sit in the reverence
of stillness by the canyon of ancient voices and muffled screams
recorded in the landscape by the ones who measured the value
of this sacred land by its ability to grow rich harvests of corn.
Calling our ancestors to the sacred circle of intentions again
we sit and talk of values and dreams of a more certain future
of times of thriving and life affirming action in a world where
there is no away, only the presence of our common belonging.
Returning to our separate thoughts we depart, disturbed by
the piercing energy of our differences, sorting people and ideas
into boxes of illusion where paradox and confusion guard the truth
at the temple’s gate where we meet the gargoyles of common fate.
Speaking of you and them and us and I with voices punctuated in
pain and irritation the frustration grows like new life on the edge
of chaos where the seeds of bold beginnings are being planted
and a new order of things emerges in the dark soil of past failures.
Some stay to dance. To move the air in mindless celebration
Tribal dancers flowing in and out of the rhythms of change
Others withdraw into the still fortress of silent solitude, while
groups of twos and threes make plans to change the system. . .
How can we love our mother when we constantly refuse to love
the other in us who we condemn in the righteous criticism of cynical
motives. Fearing separateness, yet holding ourselves separate to avoid
the pain of loneliness, fearing death, yet refusing life again and again.
In the end, have we learned to love and accept just a little more?
Can we embrace our own shame and forgive ourselves for what
we see in others? Can we listen to others as ourselves revealing
the purity of each connection as a bridge to conscious evolution?
— Michael Stone
