Himalayan Storm
Moraine
Cast the Spell/Come the Storm
________________________________________
#1. HIMALAYAN STORM
THE QUESTION
BEING
is?
Frequency of high
thorn bushes
with reddest red berries
Each branch
piled high
crystalline chaos
whitest snow.
High above this,
opalescent origin
icy rivers
come
a few young tourists
and old
maybe
seekers; no
pilgrims
come this way
amidst the highest peaks.
Now, a breeze
thawing then freezing again
the chaos
makes ice flags stiff
out
along
redberriedbranch.
My soul “pales
[then and now]
fair to blanch”*
…As I observe
the full filled color
the ‘presence’
the past, then tomorrow, always
“pales fair to blanch”
Ice flags
stiff, nameless
full filled colors
fill my crowded empty soul–
Ice flags stiff along a
thorny branch.
So far
here
from my family’s
California ranch.
Huge now
puffs of snow
millions
white fast
floating down
obscure
delightfully dark
vast
Himalayan
canyon
[It reminds me
strangely
of a film I’d seen
20 years ago
(I want to know…)
of a similar snowfall
at night
“between cherry trees
themselves
full of full blossoms
a stage
set for
torturous slow
procession
old time royal
officials
Japanese
who
one by one
proceed
widely spaced
perfectly attired
across
across
across
broad and perfect starlit garden]
Perfect stiff white snow flags
along a red berried
thorny branch
so
far
now
from my family ranch
DID I MISS SOMETHING
in the past?
My life going dark
and light
monastic fast
I want to go back now
home
to make it up,
what I missed along the way
WHEN WILL WE BE THERE?
YOU KNOW
HOME AT LAST
WHEN THE GARDENWIDE PROCESSION PROCEEDS
SO TORTUROUS FAST
PERFECT SLOW
FROM RANCH TO HERE?
(I WANT TO KNOW)
Khumbu and Helenbu, Nepal–1992
________________________________________________
#2. MORAINE
(THE METHOD)
Fogs and mist
gray and white
black and mist
dragons that devour
these massive cliffs
hima
laya
mountains
fountains beneath
glacier dredged
hill high piles
of rocky debris
seems solid
slips beneath your feet
shifts by seasons
lift and fall
by the mile
by the summer’s heat
and winter’s fall
Mist and heat
f
a
l
ling
Seems to shift
“still–
the mountain”
(loved) eaten by the mist.
Steve Frost
Pokara, Nepal–1992
#12. CAST THE SPELL, COME THE STORM
After setting down
from 19 hours in the air
from Bangkok
from Nepal
to San Francisco
to sleep the first hours of jet lag away
Awake to
‘Lasher’ of a storm
wind rips
hip, lip
sucking
trunk thigh lift
strip leaves lift
and lift the air
sway and
swim
swarm like hair
underwater stay
rooted lay
self up
on
upon the shelf
let the wind blow
clean through
work its pleasure
lash the ground
sweet bright breath
clear and sound
clean
lift the dust and rave
raise sprint high
the spirit my soul
not last
my storm gusting through yours
Transparent
permeable to your full breath.
whip the air
Whip bearded, hatted, stranger’s papers,
through the air, papers high
(brief case left open to the wind)
perhaps a liberal arts or more likely
a technical dissertation; the stack
piled neatly, filed
in their sullen society
then solely-membered in the clear clean sky (that morning)
between earth and sky mating a clean sky morning
high
snow storm of papers
whipped up instead of down
“hope you have a copy buddy…”
good
blow the wind
luck
connubial bliss with the wind
sin… no, no
eucharistic feast maybe
at least its a good try
earth and sky
moves
replies, flies
light
the doubt
break the heart crushing broken centuries, eons dry lake dry
for all our sakes
sate the drought
light not doubt
ignite the storm
then sweetly kiss our lips
together with a gentle fall
light drops on an iridescent day
refer a dream
recalls the battle of a prescient battle dream
a battle fraught with love
and fought from trench foxholes
freshly dug
grave
s
(Hide my lady, the front is coming.)
points of passage in
this sweetest honeycomb
of mornings and misses in
this labyrinth of meaning and misses
Until the rain (sane director, ringmaster, crew)
rain too full many body laid out forms
some not lost yet
not yet
sheath the sword
Dear my sweet Lord forgive my fears
dear my Lord…
COME THE STORM
red berries high branch
high piled snow
whitest crystalline
chaos transformed
to taste of sweet salvific satisfaction
sung
in high rhythm lilting
in high heavenly choirs
in rhythm with our
groaning evolution
from start
to finish
to ravish the ‘lie’
to reason and lavish dream
(for ‘I’ start to see too
clear, too
clean)
So, finish the dream
for ‘I’ cannot (upon the shelf)
So, rip the wind
earth river
ocean stream
weather and spirit
maker of storms
and climate of our dream.
Steve Frost
Berkeley, California, 1993