Mystical Tarot Realms
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Pounding Stone with Pestle near Goldfields (Flowers)
Suite No. 12, Seventh Movement:
INITIATION
Rumor was the older scouts planned to strip us
down to our underwear, cover us in molasses,
pour cornflakes all over us, urinate on us,
and throw us into the swift river
at midnight. Instead, after dark
they lured me far beyond
the campground and ditched me.
No moon. No flashlight. At first,
I inched forward, striving to avoid
holes, rocks, fallen branches. Hopeless,
I paused--and then I could heard the river.
I lurched toward its dull roar until
I found the mossy outhouse at the edge
of the campground. Exhausted by a day
of sprinting here and there, truth
be told, l knew that I would not have lasted
until midnight. Truth be told, I didn't understand
that being ditched was the real initiation
until forty years later, when once again
alone in the darkness, I recalled
locating the silent camp and crawling
deep into my sleeping bag, warmed
by my breath and body heat--so deep
I wondered for a moment if I might
suffocate while I slept. I woke, hearing
my Dad outside the tent asking my friends
where I was. Ready for a new day,
ecstatic that my worst fears had not
been realized, I was like someone
who could not be hurt for long, who
would always find his way even
on a moonless night. If I could
relive that moment so intensely
that I would experience all without
bitterness or regret, letting go
of whatever does not serve me,
would I be like an eternal child
or some god in a perpetual dance?
San Joaquin River Gorge
Suite No. 12, Eighth Movement:
BATTLING CURRENTS
Immersing myself in the upper San Joaquin,
I flowed with the current, following
my brother to a rock wall
on the other side. Suddenly I could see
a large group of nudists around the bend,
lounging on a cliff, one
woman squatting, all alone.
I stared, unable to make out
her features. My brother suddenly
plunged back against the current, thrashing
until he reached the other shore. I remained,
gawking at naked men, one of whom
stumbled closer and gazed down at me
accusingly. I edged closer
to the strong, middle current,
suddenly sensing that swift water
might pin me to the rock wall
or sweep me down river if I slid out
a tiny bit farther. Suddenly
my overwhelming desire to see,
for the first time, a real naked woman--
vanished. I shouted to my brother,
two years older and stronger, but he
was already gone or wouldn't answer.
As I inched along the slick rock, away
from the main current, back to a safer point
(where I could not climb out), I cursed him
over and over. Exhausted, nearly frozen,
with my last ounce of willpower, I flailed
through the water, so wildly it probably
looked like I was trying to beat the river
to death, but I somehow made it back.
Emerging from the water, I no longer thought
that anyone intended to harm me,
only that currents can be so powerful
that they can drown you.
Columbine (before the Creek Fire)
Suite No. 12, Ninth Movement:
THE SECRET
The old woman, rolling away
on a stretcher, clawed the air,
leaving goo an inch deep
in her frying pan, a sink
and counter conquered
by crusty dishes, countless
bottles on the windowsills,
and the odor of cat deep
in the ratty carpet. I once
stared at the heart-shaped leaves
of a coleus, timeless,
my grandmother timeless too
as she washed dishes in a patch
of sunlight before my mother
returned. The dog and turtle
at home shared the secret
with the toad, the swallow,
the columbine, the tiny creek
in the neighborhood, before
I was called back and scolding
broke the spell. I was afraid
of the war like everyone, sure
that it would drag on until
my time came to serve, and I forgot,
waking to the alarm clock
so that I could see my father home
from work before I got ready
for school. I believed then
that we had one chance
to forget the clock,
that we could conquer those
who fed us time--we could
because we knew we were
a family that included
the turtle and the dog, the reed
and the minnow, and we could see
the secret in each other's eyes,
gazing hard a long time
because we had to.
Deer Brush and Bush Lupine near the River
​
Suite No. 12, Tenth Movement:
TAG BY THE RIVER
They twirled me around
ten times at the edge
of the campground.
Then they all scattered. I
swayed a little before
lunging at them, each one
vanishing into deer brush
by the river, the water
roaring into a still,
deep pool, then mercilessly
sweeping around a bend,
a phoebe chirping, barely
out of my reach, on a twig
above the shining edge
of the pool and the rapids.
Tempted to forget the game, I
imagined swimming across,
the water smooth for a stretch,
then pitilessly raging,
but I glimpsed my brother,
fifty feet away, scrambling
as if his life depended
on it. I sprinted
after him, twenty feet
away before he
disappeared into
the brush, and I
gave up--once again,
failing miserably.
As I leaped
across a small stream,
my friends seemed
so distant, impossible
to reach. Two feet away,
the river drifted by, the sun
kindling my ribs,
the river and the earth so
peaceful that I felt,
for the first time, connected
with the bushes and trees,
aware that my soul
was ballooning, linked
with something vast, unseen--
the awesome soul of the Earth.
I did not desire
anything else. My brother finally
found me and scornfully
asked where I'd been,
and we marched back to camp
where I glimpsed in the distance
the shining edge of the smooth pool
and the pitiless rapids.
Tiger Lilies near Bear Creek
Suite No. 12, Eleventh Movement:
ON THE THIRTIETH ANNIVERSARY OF ELVIS PRESLEY'S DEATH,
I UNDERSTAND HOW TO SAVE A LIFE
They arrived in the junky Ford at dawn:
The King is dead--how can we go on? Mid
August, a light rain lacquering the asphalt,
the car meandering toward Bear Creek. As I slammed
the door shut, a tiny pine cone stung my face.
Chasing each other through dense brush,
down a steep slope to the stream, splashing
through rapids, sliding down stones, our
blue jeans soaked--how easily we could have
broken our necks, but I kept up even though
they were two years older. (I had spent
five years keeping up.) Wordlessly
picking sides, my buddy and I cornered
the catalyst of the battle, pelting him
with tiny pine cones, and when we ran out
of ammo, the enemy nailed us both
and careened away, vanishing in manzanita.
Minutes later, a stone crashed through
the canopy, thudding nearby. Another stone,
the size of a fist, shattered the humus five
feet away,
We screamed threats at them,
but rocks continued to rain down as we raced up
the slope, the battle petering out
when we cornered them, my buddy
holding me back. We chirped with joy
all the way back to the car. Thirty years
to the day, it hit me as I woke up:
They must have known that my father had died
a week and a half before that day, but my friends
didn't mention it. Thirty years later,
I returned to Bear Creek, the terrain
more treacherous than I remembered,
and struggled through dense brush to the first
boulders by the road, nothing beyond that familiar.
I hiked over fallen trees, broken branches,
until the slope dropped off abruptly, the creek
hundreds of feet below. As I thought about
turning back, I slipped on loose gravel and fell
flat on my face. Shocked by pain in legs and arms
and head, weak, a little sick, the blood pounding
in my ears, I thought: If I pass out, I
could slide two hundred feet down the slope
onto the rocks below.
C'mon, get up.
Shake it off, I told myself, because that
is what my friends would have shouted at me.
I stood up, legs wobbly, and struggled
up the hill to safer ground, almost
passing out before I plopped down
on a smooth stone. As I slumped,
I remembered how, once, when
I couldn't stand, they grabbed me
under the arms and pulled me up,
yelling at me and steadying me
until I could lurch forward.
That, I muttered to myself,
is how you save a life.
Mangled Bridge
Suite No. 12, Twelfth Movement:
MANGLED BRIDGE AND ROSY CROSS
Scrambling down the slope, I pause and kneel before
an Ithuriel’s spear, a rattlesnake rippling
by my boot before I can leap away, lizards
scampering through dry leaves, the river crashing
through the canyon below me. Fifty years ago, I flew over
unstable stones in the river bottom, struggling
to keep up with my brother and his friends. Today
I survey each inch before even taking a step, and today
I find the skeletal steel frame of a washed-out bridge
clinging to a megalithic stone in the middle
of the river, and I remember: Fifty years ago,
a friend had blurted out that a collapsed bridge was nearby,
and without another word, all the boys had dashed through
the river bottom to find it. That day I had felt clumsy
and tired (first signs of chronic illness), and I
just couldn’t keep up. They had ditched me before
on a moonless night and in a cave, but had never abandoned
me in broad daylight. In the forest, I feel like I am eleven again--
but I had found the bridge and the other boys hadn't.
Unlike them, I had continued to wander through a forest
of symbols, the mangled bridge for a moment a symbol
of the past fifty years as I wander
through the timeless realm. Our fathers,
who had fished side by side that day,
both died a few years later. Fifty years ago
in this same river bottom, my Holy
Guardian Angel, my daimon, more than once,
had spoken to me of events to come, decades
in the future. Nonplussed and afraid, I forgot
the voice until the events transpired.
The perplexing, unpredictable oracle
is only my soul, whose voice transcends
space and time in this quiet river bottom
when I meditate, so by the river I close my eyes,
a rose blooming in my mind's eye, at first
blood-red on a cross of splintered wood,
the petals changing colors, each petal
representing a different path on the Tree of Life,
the cross an unfolded cube of space
and time. I could have been anyone
these past fifty years--this forest
hardly changing at all in half a century--
the rose cross blooming inside me,
perhaps eternally, a symbol
of the soul in timeless grace, the river
lost in time until I finally open my eyes again,
a rattlesnake nearby slithering between brittle,
slowly curling hands on the shore.
Redbud Near the Kings River
Suite No. 12, Thirteenth Movement:
KINGS RIVER MEDITATIONS
​
A cute girl, possibly
fourteen, legs crossed,
eyes closed, twenty feet
from the Kings River,
remained unaware
that my friend and I
were gawking
at her. Grabbing
a smooth stone, the size
of an egg, my friend
lifted his arm, muttering
curses at her, and I
lunged to stop him. Two
years older and stronger,
my friend just frowned
in disgust and dropped
the stone, stumbling off.
The girl never stirred,
and I never got the nerve
to ask her what
she was doing. I finally
scurried away, infatuated,
never to see the girl
again. Cross-legged
by the Kings River,
fifty years later,
close to the spot where
she had meditated,
I remember a photo of me
and my friend holding up
with pride a necklace
of fish. That same
morning, fifty years
ago, I had spotted
a car in the depths
of the river and shouted
for them to come see.
No matter how excitedly
I pointed, none of them
could perceive the faint
shadow of the car
beneath the glittering
surface of the water,
so no one believed me.
My father died
a few years later,
my friend gone
to some other state,
the car surfacing,
caught on a rock,
its hood sticking out
like a stiff tongue.
I close my eyes and empty
my mind, hearing the water
rushing by and then
nothing at all, everything
gone but my awareness
of the void. But then I feel
and see a sun in my heart
and a golden-equal armed
cross on my forehead--
and I open my eyes,
surprised
that I had so quickly
forgotten the people
and the river while I
gaze at bending reeds
And slippery stones
And rushing water....
The Foundation
Suite No. 12, Fourteenth Movement:
FLOODS
I submerged myself
In the reservoir, plunging
Down the denuded slope into
The canyon emptied by drought
And settled on a pounding stone
At the confluence,
Where a newt floated
In a mortar next to a pestle,
An ancient trail leading
West toward another abandoned
Village, and east toward the flats
Through a thick, underwater crop
Of cockleburs that flourish
Wherever the reservoir
Has chewed away the woodlands,
A chimney looming alone
With the name Chuck Morris
Engraved twice before the rest
of the house floated away.
Fifty-five years ago, my family
Migrated from L.A., all
Of us in a van winding
Around the reservoir a month
later. We settled on a spot
Near the flats and while
My father fished, I stumbled
On a web and gazed transfixed
At the intricate tapestry until
I noticed a bulbous spider.
I fled as if I’d encountered
The frightful weaver
Of our fate, and I found
Upstream the foundation
Of a ranch house, the concrete
Broken up by the roots
Of oak trees claiming
The former rooms, the rest
Of the house swept away
By floods over the years.
And there I heard the voice
Of my soul: “You will
Be back in thirty-five years.”
Thirty-five years later
I returned after several floods
Had torn through the canyon
Sweeping over our favorite
Holes. One year, I teetered,
Amazed by the force
Of the flood, sensing
A hush underneath the roar,
a peace slowly rising as the flood
Slowly subsided. By then
Most of the people in that van
Were gone, my father,
Grandparents, and uncle side
By side in Clovis Cemetery,
My brother in another state,
My father, fifty years ago,
Always facing the depths--
I could not tell him
Of the clear voice of my soul
Or how I could feel him
Tuning his soul to the quiet
Rhythms of water as he
Cast his line and waited....
I no longer grasp water
Or miss the webs
Torn by the wind
Or even attempt to cast
A line as I immerse myself
In the stillness, spiders marching out
Of a crack in a nearby rock and wobbling
Toward me, a timeless peace
Drenching the floodplain....