Close your eyes to the air in your face as you fall
And as naturally as a young child struggling to stand
Wings unfold
You learn to fly again
With air
With wind
With life
Exhilarating as the sky that holds you

The beating of the sun
Burning my nose and shoulders
The same which turns the snow to river
Taking soil and dreams and hopes
Down
In violent rush
I can hear from my porch
A quarter mile away.

Another new moon rises somewhere out there where I cannot see
In the lightening sky beside the brilliance of the awakening sun
And I think of how many have come and gone
While I’ve sat here in the early morning hours
Silent alone with my old dog now young dog
And wanted to be somewhere else
Longing for home
Permanence if there is such a thing
I have read about but never found
A place to belong
Here I have been forever a stranger in a land that clings to familiars
Familiars which seem so false
Romanticized memories with no solid core
Shallow and shiny

I remember role models of pioneers and brave souls
Strong women willing and able to step away and try
Working the land raising babies and lambs and lettuce
Instead I find myself in a land based on getting away
As I prepare to leave
Shed my skin that has grown tight and weathered
Strip me clean and wash me free
And watch me step out naked and unbound
Stronger and freer than I have felt in years
Leaving

Leaving a land I have known so intimately
Yet knew had no connection to me to anyone else
A masculine rugged and indifferent land
Perhaps with the wider the view the narrower the vision
I have no attachments here
Anywhere
I fear I leave in anger
All I want is a release

Plans finally coming together
This is not the first time
I’ve been through this before
Here
Plans and preparations and packing
The boxes still stacked in the storage shed
Labeled “books” and “kitchen” and “canning supplies”
Wooden shelves Bob and I built years ago
Thick rough cut blued pine on the walls of our living room
Alongside the wood stove where I sit now warming
And in the empty hallway have been left bare all winter
I have refused to move back
I knew it would not last
And really I am glad
I have been gone all year though you can still find me here
My heart left long ago
Finally my body will follow

The iridescent wings unfurl in the morning air

Another storm comes

     And goes

          And leaves

               A dusting on the front porch

Freshens the still white pasture

That was brown from the sands in the spring winds

Laces the spruce tree with an antique patina as if

Once again I was looking at an old faded photo

On my grandma’s knick-knack shelf

Above her big farmhouse porcelain sink

Somewhere there in suburbia with the little lawn

And front steps where we’d wait for mailman and milk truck.

Yesterday I looked in the mirror

      Something I’m not keen on doing

          And saw

               The silver frosting as if from that snow

I lifted my hand to brush it away

My hand empty but for wrinkles so plentiful on the backside

And I wonder from where these came

On hands still so strong and able and firm

Hands which provide fare and comfort in a harsh world

     Creased with lines

          Deep with stories

How can I be aging when I have yet to grow up?

ice sculpture behind our house

The only solace is the sound of the river
A quarter mile away in the black of the frozen night air
Or the sun on my closed eye lids as I rest against the hillside to catch my breath.
This is my God.
Blind faith carries a strong need
To share what one cannot see.
This is what I see.
This is my church, my temple, my mosque.
Listen and hear these sermons and chanting in the winter storm and spring river.
I cannot be converted but am filled with trust.
I find my answers in the wind.

simple shadows in the snow

I watch as it clears the ridge
A small and simple curve of reflected light
Surrounded by a halo of pale silver glow
A perfect round that the full moon would be
She shows herself to me somewhat clearly now
A complete illumination of her secret side
The face she often coyly hides in her dark shadows
Reflecting only her features which stare coldly at the sun

In the white arc
Silhouettes of tall timber from three miles away playing shadow games in the limited light
And here back home
Safe and warm in my cabin with my dog by my side and my boys still asleep
The worries of yesterday are for but a moment forgotten
The fears of my son, our changing home, the world and nature around me

How can I care so deeply
With passion the color of wild rose petals in snow
Or the fragrance of summer rain on sun baked soil
And not risk being hurt
Which opening oneself up seems to allow
Like the invitation of an open door

Or am I better to remain closed
Cold and frozen
Uncaring
A rock face of the winter mountain
Forever facing north and hidden from the relief of the sun

Let my son grow
The world turn
The moon rise
Things fall apart and break
As I sit back and do nothing but watch?

patterns in the snow

In evening the horses whinny and wait and follow me with their gaze
Twelve eyes tacking my every move
Waiting for the one that brings me close to them, to feeding time,
To the satisfaction their dependency upon me brings us both.

The moment of ritual, a forced or created or cultivated nature,
A measure of seasons, balance, and I begin to see, aging…
Time and time and time again
Like a wheel on pavement covering miles
With so many more left to go before arriving home.

(A place and space I wonder if we ever reach)

A pattern to our lives
The rhythm of day into night and back again
I slip into my rubber boots and zip up the parka
Without thought involved
Going through motions, mindless and calm,
The same I have done for how long and for what reasons.

Day in and day out
Over and over and over again
Time and seasons repeat in a predictable arrangement
And find myself balanced from the simple acts
Grounding in a otherwise ethereal life
Without such solid archetypes as our rituals provide.

The few givens to our day
Knowns to our lives
Comforts to our chaos.

early morning late summer under the Rio Grande Pyramid and Window

I remember
Shadows unveiling
Like opening doors
Darkness slips away
Frost on the grass
Turns to dew
With the first touch of the sun
A line of brightness
Descending the mountain
Inching across the meadow

I am out there in the still frozen
unmoving cold morning
On the other side of the Divide
Even in summer we are pressed to feel warm

Now where is it all
Under how many feet of snow
When and where were the last feet
Touching the hidden earth

Here remains no connection
In a land too proud to allow

a rose in snow

The power of a dream

I awake and bring the reverie with me

Following me throughout the day

Haunting as a shadow but lighter this time

Like a feathery cloud, a mist, a haze

Softening the landscape, my view, the horizon

It quiets my mind and the noise of the river

So hushed beneath this winter’s snow

There is no ice, only a soft flow beneath the load

Black waters touching downy white

Void of the heavy burden of ice that separates

Streams running on the edge of freezing

Alive in their own dark mystery

The mystery of a dream

Brought to me, through me

By the sound of the flowing spill

I can hear the subdued cry of the inky waters

Gently following me throughout the day

As I work outside and brush the horses and shovel snow

I stop, lay down my tools and listen

Like waves from a distant sea

So far away from here

The spine of the sleeping beast

How removed are we from the ocean waves?

A different world, so close within my dreams.

new snow on old aspen leaves

From darkness to light
We emerge as in birth
Softly swathed in gentle arms of white
The mountain embraces
Kisses our lips with the wet warm storm
And rocks us to sleep in her snowy lair
At once protected yet exposed and vulnerable
We awaken to the winter air
Naked we stand in this world
Where perhaps we do not belong
Or are we only challenged
To define our space
Here
Elsewhere
Home

Winter folds upon us
We accept
Joyously

jumping for joy! (and a snowball)

yesterday on the mountain

Fear not this darkness

That the deep of winter brings

As we huddle inside around false heat and light

Clinging close to one another for an artificial respite

From dependence on stimulus and trepidation of doom

The unseen and the silence brings an odd discomfort

As we shift in our chair uneasily and look about blindly

Seeing but a blank page needing to be filled with words

Yet I see the blessings of the longer nights

And the simplicity of the shorter days

Must we find ourselves fighting this time to withdraw

With a false sense of feeling we need more

Or shall we allow the beauty of the beast inside us

To lie still and dormant

As in nature it should

We approach and settle into

A time to turn within

And allow the subtle still splendor without

Happen

There are no shadows in darkness

at a creek crossing

This morning I share with you two poems by two very special people.  The first was written by Arthur Washburn for Forrest; the second was written by Forrest for Art.  For those of you had the grand pleasure of knowing or even meeting Art, I think the splendid power, passion and beauty of these words will speak for themselves.  Enjoy!

To Sing A Song

for Forrest

                                    Take the whole earth into your arms

                                    the way you did when you were born.

                                    Let your love for this wondrous earth

                                    bloom from your soul, just as the sun

                                    spreads its warmth to surround this land.

                                    Play a secret game with the trees;

                                    ask the shadows to weave a cloak

                                    so that you may become disguised,

                                    to wander as a troubadour,

                                    a lyric poet appointed

                                    to sing outrageous, authentic

                                    songs to the animals and plants.

                                    Dip your cup into the fragrant

                                    spring bubbling forth from the timeless

                                    cleft in the moss-covered granite;

                                    drink a toast, as blessing to earth.

                                    Art Washburn,  January 2009

Taking Flight
By Forrest Getz

I felt, still feel,
Lucky to have known,
Been taken under wing,
Lead to aspire,
By this great old man.

His stance odd,
Hunched over as if carrying a mighty load – a burden from the years,
That always remained unnoticeable, yet still a defining aspect
To those unknowing it could be a distraction,
For him, it was mere addition of character:
As he put humbly, akin to the turtle.
But rather he was the red-tailed hawk that he too admired,
The distinguished voice echoing across the valley in the power of his words;
His great respect, dignity and passion for life,
Love for work and those who shared the same -
Giving him a far greater presence, aura
The grace of a bird in flight.

Life lived to its fullest – he was a prime example of that,
A soul free to soar, follow his dreams,
Help others, through work and word
A beloved peer in our small community of writers,
Someone I could ask for thoughts and ideas,
And be granted the same role -
encouraged to soar alongside, rather than in the shadow
Where I felt I belonged…

He moved forward with certainty and confidence,
Onto the stage I was so lucky to share,
Where his presence and words resounded;
Those were the traits I so admired – creativity, humility -
Still held as goals to someday acheive.

But life like the winds,
It ebbs and flows like the tides,
Just as it has before and always will -
But here in the moment
This loss comes like a cold knife,
Cutting through any bonds with no remorse
It is only us who feel the stab.

He was a mentor,
Poet, friend – role model;
He was the example of doing more; living a richer life,
To me, he was a carrier of ideas and principles –
Like the hawk atop the tallest tree,
keeping watch upon those of us still taking flight
And still I know that the same iridescent wings
Will carry him to even greater heights.

a bit of color on an otherwise bland day

Layer upon layer the mountains fold and fade

And endless undulation of white capped waves

Motionless below the somber sky

Finally merging with lines too faint to decipher

Enveloping the stratum of steel grey clouds

Becoming a part of the sky that helped formed them

Softening their hard edges with time and wind and rain

And the untamed spring run-off as the snows that in winters form

Suddenly let loose in a violent burst of brown waters

That rips and tears the face of the mountain

Not unlike a zealous artist at work on a pile of clay

But wait

I am ahead of myself

I hold myself back

From lusting for the lushness of the spring

Now it is the silent hour of the mountain

As she stills and freezes and collects the bounty of snow

That feeds her and us in times of less than plenty

We refrain

We are restrained

We quietly build the load that one day will gush forth

Uncontrolled and wild

In a plentiful powerful passionate display