SIGHTSEEING IN HARD TIMES

                   We chomp on cheeseburgers near the vegetarians,

                   whose curious offspring have never known the taste of meat.

                   Nearby, the dynamite plant spews smoke,

                   as rubble swells from the noise.

                   No time for poise; we'll see it on the evening news.

                   Rangers from the selenium mill

                   take snapshots at protozoans passing by

                   on a laboratory slide.

                   By the pagoda we eat granola

                   made in an ebullient formula

                   behind a bungalow hid in the honeydew.

                   The trill of omens intensifies the moment.

                   Folksongs spring from the garden

                   in the foliage of cosmic petunias.

                   There is a scent of rest among us,

                   but we soon stir toward our next misfortune.

                   Ever since we left the hourglass and turned to clocks,

                   midday has meant television news broadcasts

                   invading our lunch.

                   Every backyard displays a compost pile

                   for the rite of spring;

                   'smells like old times,' the hog farmers smile.

                   Cowpokes on horseback wander through suburbs

                   in search of a rodeo. They lasso out tales

                   about the end of the range.

                   The mystic, arcade lights dazzle our stares,

                   and we hear the excitement of loose change

                   splashing by the wishing well.

                   A lost norseman scratches his neck and says to himself:

                   Put another notch in your antlers, and head for the taiga

                   Just in time for climate change. 

         

                    In the park we pause by parchment

that narrates odes to ancestors,

                    who lived before the time of shopping malls.

         

                    Before moving on, we lean on the barrels

                   below the plaque that says:  Keep your city clean.

                   The vegetarian children continue to watch us

                   as if we are out of place.

                   We wave to them with jolly grins, walk to our car,

                   and talk over who's turn it is to sit in the back.

                                                          -- C.S. Cholas

                                                              USA, 1989

           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