Lonesome gods

Image: Robbert Nooijen from Pixabay

Each people has its gods, or the spirits in which they believe. It may be their god is the same as ours, only clothed in different stories, different ideas, but a god can only be strong, if he is worshiped, and the gods of those ancient people are lonesome gods now. They are out there in the desert and mountains, and perhaps their strength has waned because nobody lights fires on their altars anymore. But they are there, and sometimes I think they know me and remember me. It is a foolish little idea of my own, but in my own way I pay them respect.

Sometimes, when crossing a pass in the mountains, one will see a pile of loose stones, even several piles. Foolish people have dug into them, thinking treasure is buried there. It is a stupid idea, to think a treasure would be marked so obviously. It is an old custom of these people to pick up a stone and toss it on the pile. Perhaps it is a symbolical lightening of the load they carry, perhaps a small offering to the gods of the trails.

I never fail to toss a stone on the pile. In my own way it is a small offering to those lonesome gods. A man once told me they do the same thing in Tibet, and some of our ancient people may have come from there, or near there. Regardless of that, I like to think those ancient gods are out there waiting, and that they are, because of my offerings, a little less lonely.

~ Louis L'Amour
from The Lonesome Gods

Poem: Gift

Source: Tumblr/Favim

You tell me that silence
is nearer to peace than poems
but if for my gift
I brought you silence
(for I know silence)
you would say
This is not silence
this is another poem
and you would hand it back to me.

There are some men

There are some men
who should have mountains
to bear their names through time
Grave markers are not high enough or green
and sons go far away to lose the fist
their father’s hand will always seem

I had a friend he lived and died
in mighty silence and with dignity
left no book, son or lover to mourn.
Nor is this a mourning song
but only a naming of this mountain
on which I walk
fragrant, dark and softly white
under the pale of mist
I name this mountain after him.

Believe nothing of me
Except that I felt your beauty
more closely than my own.
I did not see any cities burn,
I heard no promises of endless night,
I felt your beauty
more closely than my own.
Promise me that I will return.

When you call me close
to tell me
your body is not beautiful
I want to summon
the eyes and hidden mouths
of stone and light and water
to testify against you.

~ Leonard Cohen

Poem: Gift

Source: Tumblr/Favim

You tell me that silence
is nearer to peace than poems
but if for my gift
I brought you silence
(for I know silence)
you would say
This is not silence
this is another poem
and you would hand it back to me.

There are some men

There are some men
who should have mountains
to bear their names through time
Grave markers are not high enough or green
and sons go far away to lose the fist
their father’s hand will always seem

I had a friend he lived and died
in mighty silence and with dignity
left no book, son or lover to mourn.
Nor is this a mourning song
but only a naming of this mountain
on which I walk
fragrant, dark and softly white
under the pale of mist
I name this mountain after him.

Believe nothing of me
Except that I felt your beauty
more closely than my own.
I did not see any cities burn,
I heard no promises of endless night,
I felt your beauty
more closely than my own.
Promise me that I will return.

When you call me close
to tell me
your body is not beautiful
I want to summon
the eyes and hidden mouths
of stone and light and water
to testify against you.

~ Leonard Cohen

Poem: Attention

Source: sunshinefires.tumblr.com

Those who come by me passing
I will remember them,
and those who come heavy and overbearing
I will forget.

This is why
when air gushes between mountains
we describe the wind
and forget the rocks.

~ Saadi Youssef

Poem: Attention

Source: sunshinefires.tumblr.com

Those who come by me passing
I will remember them,
and those who come heavy and overbearing
I will forget.

This is why
when air gushes between mountains
we describe the wind
and forget the rocks.

~ Saadi Youssef

Morning Prayers

Photo credit: samhakes from morguefile.com

I have missed the guardian spirit

of the Sangre de Cristos

those mountains

against which I destroyed myself

every morning I was sick

with loving and fighting

in those small years.

In that season I looked up

to a blue conception of faith

a notion of the sacred in

the elegant border of cedar trees

becoming mountain and sky.

This is how we were born into the world:

Sky fell in love with earth, wore turquoise,

cantered in on a black horse.

Earth dressed herself fragrantly,

with regard for the aesthetics of holy romance.

Their love decorated the mountains with sunrise,

weaved valleys delicate with the edging of sunset.

This morning I look toward the east

and I am lonely for those mountains

though I've said good-bye to the girl

with her urgent prayers for redemption.

I used to believe in a vision

that would save the people

carry us all to the top of the mountain

during the flood

of human destruction.

I know nothing anymore

as I place my feet into the next world

except this:

the nothingness

is vast and stunning,

brims with details

of steaming, dark coffee

ashes of campfires

the bells on yaks or sheep

sirens careening through a deluge

of humans

or the dead carried through fire,

through the mist of baking sweet

bread and breathing.

This is how we will leave this world:

on horses of sunrise and sunset

from the shadow of the mountains

who witnessed every battle

every small struggle.

~ Joy Harjo

Morning Prayers

Photo credit: samhakes from morguefile.com

I have missed the guardian spirit

of the Sangre de Cristos

those mountains

against which I destroyed myself

every morning I was sick

with loving and fighting

in those small years.

In that season I looked up

to a blue conception of faith

a notion of the sacred in

the elegant border of cedar trees

becoming mountain and sky.

This is how we were born into the world:

Sky fell in love with earth, wore turquoise,

cantered in on a black horse.

Earth dressed herself fragrantly,

with regard for the aesthetics of holy romance.

Their love decorated the mountains with sunrise,

weaved valleys delicate with the edging of sunset.

This morning I look toward the east

and I am lonely for those mountains

though I've said good-bye to the girl

with her urgent prayers for redemption.

I used to believe in a vision

that would save the people

carry us all to the top of the mountain

during the flood

of human destruction.

I know nothing anymore

as I place my feet into the next world

except this:

the nothingness

is vast and stunning,

brims with details

of steaming, dark coffee

ashes of campfires

the bells on yaks or sheep

sirens careening through a deluge

of humans

or the dead carried through fire,

through the mist of baking sweet

bread and breathing.

This is how we will leave this world:

on horses of sunrise and sunset

from the shadow of the mountains

who witnessed every battle

every small struggle.

~ Joy Harjo