WALKING BIG SUR

Everything is the same, the fog says ‘We are fog and we fly by dissolving like ephemera,’ and the leaves say ‘We are leaves and we jiggle in the wind, that’s all, we come and go, grow and fall’ — Even the paper bags in my garbage  say ‘We are man-transformed paper bags made out of wood pulp, we are kinda proud of being paper bags as long as that will be possible, but we’ll be much again with our sisters and the leaves come rainy season’ — The tree stumps say ‘We are tree stumps torn out of the ground by men, sometimes by the wind, we have big tenrils full of earth that drink out of the earth’ — Men say ‘We are men, we pull out tree stumps, we make paper bags, we think wise thoughts, we make lunch, we look around, we make a great effort to realise everything is the same.’  Jack Kerouac, American author, poet, artist, in Big Sur.

WALKING BIG SUR

by

JAMIE DEDES

Spring arrives honeyed and peaceful,

filled with old poems, young flowers,

and the gentle cherished pleasures

of grace-filled lives. Ready now the time

·

for landscape to wreath itself in poppies,

sizzling reds, oranges, yellows, and the

land edged with granite rock dropping

slate gray and sparkling into a cold blue

ocean, filled and flowing tempestuous

·

with sea beings and wild weed. It throws

itself in carefree exhibition along the line

of shore and rock, effervescent with joy,

spinning back out to depths unknown.

·

Congregations of shore birds walk

leaving warm webbed prints in cool sand,

while inland trees, venerable natives,

redwood and madrone, commune with

busy humans and other land animals.

·

Proud old pioneer-families and hopeful

newly-arrive artists sit close and breath

the same salted air and the history of

days gone by and mostly forgotten now.

·

Ancient earth surrendering the spirit

and the wisdom of a fine peoples, not

seen – a sadness after all – displaced by

folks of a different and modern breed.

·

Down by Tassajara Creek, smudged on

a cave wall in white on white, prints

of their small brown hands left talking.

Here! We were here once! Right here!

·

 We walked like you do on two legs.

We fished, hunted, and gathered, bore

our children and mourned our dead

until the Missions and their alien god.

·

Look at us! We are harbingers of your

future and our hands are augers. Our

story is your story waiting to be

written: in white on stone, a promise.

Photo credit – Released into the public domain: A view of the Big Sur coast including the Bixby Bridge courtesy of Calilover via Wikipedia.