DUST IN CHILPANCINGO

                   Dust settles on us even when we walk;

                   Haunts us, warns us.

                   Kicked by bulls, dust pours from our mouths.

                   Blood burns as we try to escape.

                   There are only dry hills to hide in.

                   Hills where dust is stored like grain for winter.

                   The flies on our bread search for sweet specks

                   left from our lips; the moisture they thrive on.

                   The coffee is dust.

                   It steams into our nostrils, and we, like bulls,

                   turn our heads to watch women pass with children,

                   metal pots and handbags of fruit.

                   We have been gored

                   by lonely moments and empty greetings.

                   Stung by hopes we thought would save us.

                   The dust at sunset hangs in the air like a net

          waiting to reclaim our moving forms

                                                                   of dust.

                                     

                                                          -- C.S. Cholas

                                                    Chilpancingo, Guerrero, Mexico

                                                                        January 2, 1983

The Falls

I. The Wonder of Present Tense

                                   

The falls thunder like ten thousand hands clapping;

The applause that never stops.

Jutting rocks clutch cliffs like children

Clinging to their mother's arms.

Aloft, a sea eagle hangs in the mist

Rising like a dialogue whispered in a daydream,

Its call forlorn in the frenzy

Of water lunging like a stampede of cattle,

Like defeated soldiers fleeing a battle,

On a devious path threading green woodlands

Toward the unknown sea.

A jasmine-flavored breeze nudges our backs,

Pushes us closer to the roar that explodes near our feet.

The palms of my hands press harder on the smooth skin of stones

Rounded by a span of time I cannot imagine.

A change of wind and the spray attacks us with its cold fingers

Running down our faces, like tears of exaltation.

II.  Remembrance

The waterfall's surging passion lingers

As my last thoughts tonight.  I remember

Those chaste tears on your cheeks

Like translucent freckles.

Recently I heard the faint shriek

Of a sea eagle dangling in the spray

Above the falls that cascade in my mind, in my ears.

My eye watched you point toward the wings spread open,

Like a book of wonder.

I heard that a drought stole the last moisture from the land;

Rivers shriveled into drops, the falls became a drool.

Gulps of fresh water ended; the drink reduced to sips. 

The sea eagle's cry echoed off the knuckled cliffs,

Like a nostalgic woe piercing the wind-whipped air.

The falls cascade in my mind, in my ears.

Remember when we watched the eagle plunge

Down the face of the falls, like a teardrop

On the waterfall of your delicate face?

We panned the gushing curtain,

Afraid to know what lay below

The shadows' play on deeper waters.

We scanned the surface of the pool

At the foot of the falls

Afraid of being swallowed like tiny fish

By feelings larger than ourselves.

Our throats gasped for high ground;

We fled afoot and wove a path among some pine

Back to the roadside and the familiar route to town.

The falls cascade in my mind, in my ears.

Fears numb the fingers of my heart;

My touch is duller now as is my sight,

But in the quiet of a lonely night,

I close my eyes and hear

Ten thousand clapping hands

Swallowed by a blue hole

Down the throat of time.

                                                -- C. S. Cholas, 4 February 1998, Hilo

NOTES ON DEPRESSION

  

From under it, you hate yourself, and with sound proof;

the worthless deeds you've done

with nothing noble born;

Memories repay you, like vengeful souvenirs.

Like tormenting darts, the past attacks

and your guts are torn;

They find and spear you on your lonely roof,

away from everyone.

--C. S. Cholas

11 October 1983

A GREAT MAN PASSES ON

(Remembering Amoz Gibson)

                        Are we ever prepared?

                        Ready

                        to feel that life has passed

                        completed; its pre-ordained measure

                        measured out in full?

                        To rise at dawn and remember

                        Crazy Horse on his steed before battle

                        shouting out--

                                    "It is a good day to die!"

                        To rise at dawn and say those words

                        free of guilt or remorse?

                        Amoz Gibson was a warrior.

                        Enkindler of hearts.

                        His life sparked fires

                        in the sandstone remoteness--

                                    Piñon, Lukachukai, Chinle, Pine Springs;

                                    Many others--

                        His death consecrates

                        that noble, white marble

                        proudly formed on Mount Carmel.

                        To live the battle cry, Ya Bahá-u'l Abhá!

                        A good Day to die

                                                in the path of Bahá.

                                                -- C.S. Cholas, 8 July 1982

The Spiral Cycle

Of life goes in throes, compose

And decompose in repeating scenarios.

Prophecies confirm the turns,

But fulfillment makes us squirm.

The mind wanders like a homeless knave;

The chilled heart shivers in its hollow cave.

The harvest of wheat and tares

Has caught us unawares.

                   -- C.S. Cholas

                           23 February, 1995

                                                           

The Valley

The paths of the past come in

from every direction.

I.  We enter the valley on pasofinos;

          Pass through forests of flamboyan and almendros.

An afternoon sprinkle wets our brow.

                             Not a cool shower,

                             but warm and salty

                             like human tears.

          Yes, this must be the Valley of Love.

II. We gather at midnight-- our sufferings--

          to console each other,

          calmed in waters of His Remembrance.

          The lonely heart and its company of tears

                             make camp another night

                             on the long journey home

                             to God.

                                                                   -- C.S. Cholas

                                                                   Vieques, Puerto Rico, 1984

Meditations While Teaching

in Baja California Sur Mexico

I should like to fall

through skylights of prayer

and pierce my heart

with a love free of self.

                                      -- C. S. Cholas, 1982

Meditations in Barahona

The frame may be tarnished;

But the mirror stayed polished.

Sheila stood like a wind-wrung tree.

Life's not easy with age, nor more refined.

She held on to faith and clung to the Vine.

Her voice, like a deceptive breeze,

Calmed souls with fresh, morning air,

Then stirred them up with cloudbursts of prayer.

Her words, like the persistent sea, 

Smoothed jagged hearts with free-flowing ease.

Even Peron's tall boys had no force

To match the twinkle of her eyes.

Sheila once sat in an airport with boxes of Books

Her beloved Guardian had told her to take...

Her orders came from the Commander-in Chief,

So, what could she do but sit and wait?

As hours passed, her whimpering gaze

Melted the steel hearts of the Argentine guards,

Who ordered her through Books and all.

When fate is divine, who can escape?

Sheila found her home on the Española coast,

Island of the "black republics" divinely blessed;

Which the Master's Plan had "especially" stressed.

She built her refuge near the palace gates.

Under siege, her battles waged on canvas--

Splashes of sea and sand; landscapes of struggles

In the faces of the men. She taught UN troops

About the Source of all answers, 

The Maker of all questions.

Sheila was "dry in the sea."

"Don't think that a person becomes wise

With age," she advised. 

"Wisdom comes through prayer."

Rays of sunlight split the clouds

And appeared in her face.

Her eyes reflected peace;

I detected that her pleas

About life's "why's" had all been satisfied,

Except why the heroines had to wither away

Like dried up prunes,

As bed-ridden invalids devoid of speech.

Caswell, Warde and Agnes among them.

She didn't want to go like that.

"One hour's reflection is worth

Seventy years of pious worship..."

A tradition goes.

Then who knows

What seventy years of reflection

And service is worth.?

                                                                        -- C. S. Cholas

                                                            Dedicated to Sheila Rice-Wray,

                                                            Barahona Bahá'í winter school, 1983

                        

           HAIKU - DECEMBER 1991 - BELIZE     

                    On the burnt cane fields

                    that roll out like a black sea

                    We search for new grass.

                    Pine trees tower high.

                    They tangle with a breeze that

                    roars like the ocean.

                    In the black night home

                    bus windows let in a wind

                    that makes us shiver.

                    Through night's dark stretches

                    our headlamps show the dull road.

                    We race with the moon.

                    The dogs sniff the dawn.

                    Whiffs of bread in the oven

                    sift through the screen door.

Remembering Vieques  (33 years before Maria)

The seaside cemetery looks

Like a harbor packed with white boats

Topped by empty masts.

Flamboyant trees, flaming in their red headdresses,

Blaze out along the lazy street.

We come from morning prayers on the beach

Down below the driveway lined by conch shells.

Muchachos pass by riding pasofinos,

The small, island horses whose

Hooves clop on the asphalt road.

Tart salsa tunes blare from a radio

In the colmado, packed with canned food,

On the corner where the road meets the sea,

Neighbor women take their morning stroll

For gossip and goods;

We greet the owner, "¿Como está?"

"Regular," is the pat refrain

Offered with a nod of his balding head.

The Caribbean is a mirror;

Thunderclouds hunch above the southern sky.

                                      -- C.S. Cholas

                                                1984, Vieques, Puerto Rico

TROPICAL DOLDRUMS

                                                (A plea to a passing tourist)

            The plans to line the bay with fans

            To start a breeze began with simplicity,

            But in the heat that made us mad,

            We forgot about the lack of electricity.

            Nothing moves this air around.

            Prayer has not budged the stillness.

            Yet we pound the ground in earnest fret

            That we may get a fresh day soon.

            After all, it's the end of June

            When rains should fall

            And bring wonder to us all.

            I wonder if you might not help out,

            As you appear to be on your return trip

            To the States.  Could you ask around for a tip?

            And cheaper rates for winds and relief?

            It's my belief that anything can happen there.

            Could you ship down cool air?

           

            In exchange I'll ask God if He can pay you back.

            My letters may reach Him yet.

            Answers are things that we seldom get.

            I don't know who takes up most of His time--

            The Catholics, Moslems or Protestants.

            Maybe the Hindus or the Jews--they have nothing to lose

            In asking.  Besides, everyone has yens; Buddhists, too.

           

            I often doubt if Bahá'ís can get through;

            Their numbers are so few, and they always ask for

            Abstract whims, such as more than an end to war.

           

            We just want some wind and breeze before this heat

            Can squeeze more drops of sweat from us, and, well,

            If you North Americans can help out,

            We’d be happy to end this drought.

            God gives you everything you want-- money, cars and shoes,

            While we sit with sticks looking for dogs to abuse.

           

            Postscript: 

            Just as our withered bodies shriveled up in pain,

            A storm struck up and blew in a hurricane.

            Now I'm sure that God does not give us what we pray for;

            Out of His endless bounty He gives us ten times more.

           

                        -- C.S. Cholas,   June, 1988, Corozal Town, Belize