Glitter In Your Veins

 

Haiku  ~ You are Special

 

 

"Glitter in your veins ~

everyday joyful in your walk ~

keep the crown on top."

 

Caroline Gerardo

Found Soul Hiking

 Haikus, poems, thoughts from hiking yesterday's rejuvenation trail. Saturday I hiked Ice House Canyon and up Mount Baldy over Devil's Backbone by myself. I was feeling "moody" earlier in the week. I know that giving myself a goal, something to look forward to, a challenge and the amazing variety and beauty of Angeles National Forest would clear my head, bones and Soul.

I captured about 80 good photographs yesterday. Posting some of the average ones because, well people seem to borrow and forget to credit...  

I'm spoiled, it isn't difficult to see nature in glory by just walking. I am sharing some of my fun with you, I got back on center.

Abandoned standing ~ hold out icycle words ~ roof  keeps my soul safe.

Hand never let go ~ the belay surely will fail ~ bones crumple to shale.

Across the canyons ~ the haze tells me to hurry ~ before it grows dark.

Spines remind that my boots are only made of fake hemp, plastic laces and rubber tire souls.

I knew the pin oaks wouldn't fail me. They light the sky before the days grow short. It is as if they knew I was on my way to visit. Wishing I owned a red cape and brought a basket.

Old fire damage on fallen trees is more sculptural than natural slides. Just as lightening can make landscape into dazzling energy.

Composite rock flows ~ looks like this boulder enjoyed  ~ water stroking him.

He is a devil ~ a tough dinosaur spine climb  ~ thanks clouds for no snow.

 I brought my ten essentials: a switch blade, rappelling ropes, caribiners, matches and lighter, epipen, phone & camera, sunscreen and hat, compass, water and more water, first aid stuff. I can always find my soul when I'm hiking.

copyright reserved Caroline Gerardo 2012
 Mount Baldy, Angeles National Forest California October 6th

Sentimental

Sentimental

 

Taking a break from working, usually marching through duties keeps me from running off the railroad tracks, but I keep returning to that funky thing I called “sentimental.” 

 In response, you said, "that can mean many things- ."

 

"Yes I know. I’m not maudlin but back looking, sometimes with glasses that color courage. "

 

"Sentimental what?"

 

Normally I think I can do anything, and instead I today want to write this weak whiny poetry and curl up somewhere and ache. I’m flopping in emotions. Telling you about my experience as a girl was both cathartic and ghost stirring. You are an amazing friend and I am happy that I trust you.

What you shared with me about your life makes me want to create a magical story that heals everything, knowing that is dumb, but plinking away on the keyboard at it anyways. I have a pretty good aim with a 22 at a tiny tuna can from afar.  At this time, I'm braving and  trying to change the universe with one more drop, one last fallen leaf saved with glycerin and painted new.

Needing a hug and want to thank you kindly for listening but going to leave this unsent, unspoken. Fall is my favorite time of year, but Catholic Confession seems to be tugging me down some Roman aqueduct.

Therefore, I’m driving to Claremont to climb up Mount Baldy and doing either Devils’ Backbone and/or the San Antonio Falls Loop by myself late today. The trees are shaking their Fall leaves and I’m sure to get some lovely photographs, and I pray write something brilliant.

My ex-husband is picking up the children for once in a Harvest Moon. I let go that past a long time ago, but God knows in the next life he'll pay.  I’m not telling the kids about me going overnight with just a day pack and sleep roll. They get weird about me hiking by myself. I stand tall at five foot one, crossing my fingers knowing the doing makes me feel invincible. Call out the reinforcements if I lose my way.

Make fog into Sun

This morning started ~ clouds covering my lead heart

~ sun comes in a text.

 

Caroline Gerardo haiku

© copyright all rights reserved

photographs of highway 5 south towards San Diego and sun plants by C. G.

Last Southwestern Willow Flycatcher

 

The Last Southwestern Willow Flycatcher

Father shows the way to Rio Grande patch of streams.

As a couple, they returned building a nest of dreams.

 

Clyde’s a brown flycatcher born in the spring.

“Rritz bew,” Clyde chants flicking his tail

wandering from the cupped nest to sing.

The sortilege vibrations of the river fail.

A mud headed cowbird snatches his siblings.

Ritz bew

Ritz bew

In a salt cedar, he summons his mother, “pip pip pip.”

She responds, “Pip Pip Pip.”

“When willows disappear, the wind tips.”

“Days grow short, prepare for a southern trip.”

“Let’s stay here for the winter and wait.”

“No, the snow would certain our fate.”

“You might be the last brown peewee.”

“Another will fall in love, it is easy-”

Clyde scratches his buff back in fear.

“No son, fly south and find your own mate.”

“A vermilion coated crooner will appear-”

Clyde lets go clinging to his branch state.

He dives for a mosquito above the clear.

“Just plain sooty flycatcher.” She says too late.

At sunrise Clyde sings to his Mother, “pip pip pip.”

There is no response, no familiar sail.

“Dear, you may be the last brown tip.”

Her wisdom never seems to fail.

On a glass wall is an image of father’s tail.

Clyde’s reflection flicks feathers for a meal.

The evening’s chill looms a lonely feel.

He calls again, “pip pip pip.”

 

No sound in the thicket join his karaoke solos

Lift makes him brave across favorable echoes

Across Chihuahua following a night star

polarized illuminated rivers that are far.

Resting under a deciduous thicket now bare,

a House Finch named Rosy shoos him with a scare,

“You rude uninvited unexpected un-excellent song…”

Rosy pokes him with her bill,

“get out get out before some monster comes along…”

“May I rest a minute? I am not begging for you to share.”

“Better not, better go, better you will…”

“Ritz bew.”

“Ritz bew.”

Rosy brushes Clyde out of her winter stay with mace.

Clyde passes rocky ledges, finding a sheltered place.

Far riparian woodland air on the Clyde’s cape of his feathers

Moon touches him with a crescent of turmeric upon his face.

In morning, without a mark, he sneezes flying through desert dusts.

Eves are lonely, but there are bugs to hawk near the aqueduct.

“Ritz bew.”

“Ritz bew.”

Days pass, time to return to the lake, boulders, and river he trusts.

The trip north is faster, he follows in the row behind a flock of geese.

Ignore the rare flycatcher, he makes it home to reconstruct.

When landmarks show the Kern River, Clyde knows he is at peace.

There his true love sits in golden cedar called a pest,

Yellow honeysuckle dust, she has upon her throat a crest.

Courtship rubs their beaks to form the shape of a heart.

Magic flies safely in the afternoon they never part.

They build a cup nest in a wild rose.

Taking turns with the eggs, no robber baron shows.

“Ritz bew.”

“Ritz bew.”

 

 

Stolen marked as tattoos burned on their faces

Fever ghost without a glass of water graces

A wet suit airing in the rain, flowing sand bars.

Don’t dump here, it flows to the stars.

 

The last southwestern willow flycatcher lives on a glass wall.

Mournful he waits for a mosquito singing his final call.

The memory of cottonwoods on the Rio Grande

“Ritz bew.”

“Ritz bew.”

Clappers, silence

 

 

 

 

NOTES:

I am performing this work in progress today at the 

SW Chula Vista Library Hispanic Literacy Festival today at 1:30 

open to the public, free, please arrive early to 

practice with bird whistles or wind instruments that I will supply.

 Children, teens, adults all welcome for the fun. 

This poem is about a bird who is endangered only 80 remain.

 In 2008 he decided to grace my backyard in southern Orange County 

(not an area they were known to exist) this set in motion 

a series of connected events. 

Bird watchers came to stay in my yard,

 I learned he has no mate and the only place these birds nest 

are known to live is where my children's ancestors 

first settled in California near Kernville. 

My children are 9th generation Californian's 

and the Kern River Preserve in on land that their 

first Great- great Grandfather came as a trapper 

then was given the land from the King of Spain 

which he passed down originally as a cattle then dairy farm.

 The farm is gone and so are the thousands of this little songbird. 

 This is a work in progress performed live today. 

A video game of this bird is in progress. Thank You,

Caroline Gerardo copyright 2012

Caroline Gerardo ( Barbeau )