Dick Harris
"What do I write next?"
When Helen and I first began traveling
It looks like that day is approaching. We were set to fly to Albuquerque on Feb. 15 and spend 10 days in the vicinity until my right hip became dysfunctional. Now it's "further testing" and knocking down the inflamation until we find out what is wrong.
Our focus was to be a Road Scholar week tracing the struggle of New Mexico's conversos and Crypt-Jews. Among the sights we were scheduled to visit are Acoma Pueblo, the Cultural & Heritage Institute and Chayma'o chapel. Below are photos and poems and a paining by Helen Harris from trips in 1998 and 2007.
Child of the Desert
Dry brush crisscross desiccated
saguaro ribs bound with twisted
fibers to weathered poles. Specks
of shade in a solar sea cast
their patterned light over an infant
sleeping in a hammock gently
rocked by grandmother sitting docile
in her cobbled chair, beside a
castoff table draped with checkered
oilcloth, its tear tucked under an
AM radio playing faux native
music from an Anglo world
across the desert, fifty miles away.
Museum of Indian Arts &
Culture, Santa Fe, NM
Sky People of a Thousand Years
for Orlando Antonio (1958-2007) Acoma Pueblo Guide
A warrior of many days,
sits on his kiva-step,
high above the desert floor.
In a voice low and worn,
he remembers climbing
with sky people of a thousand years.
When golden fire touches the west,
we People-of-the-White-Rock scale
this sandstone cliff to glittering light,
up a cleft, over boulders and scree,
ceaseless steps scoured by sandaled feet.
With vessels of medicine, water,
and meal
on our heads, we climb
through darkness,
clutching handholds carved in rocks
by sky people of a thousand years.
We reach for our lofty place.
Grasp the niches of time.
Pull through black to a clear day.
Rise another step,
we sky people of a thousand years.
Acoma Pueblo, NM
Devil’s Club Walking Stick
Some say that when you find a topic that catches your eye, you will write about it in different ways once, twice, thrice, maybe nine! Here's one I've written as prose and now as poetry. Each time, it is the memory that I wish to convey.
An elder speaks in solemn tones:
In spring when leaves are full
and bark slips away,
select a stalk of devil’s club.
Cut it to fit your grip.
Carefully peel the evil thorns.
For a season, cure the naked staff.
Use a shoulder blade of a deer,
to bone it smooth and dense.
Wrap your handhold with rawhide,
string amulets of beads and hips.
Quietly, take your walking stick
through the river’s shadowy thickets.
Listen as the inner spirit speaks.
Feel your walking stick’s magic
as the evil spirits steal away.
Quelcid, S'Klallam Elder, Teaches Us
As it appears in the Winter 2012 edition of Clover: A Literary Rag.
Quelcid, S'Klallam elder, teaches us to make walking 
sticks. She beats her deerskin drum and sings: Pick a devil’s club, peeled andcured, that fits your stature. Bone it with a table knife, as my ancestors boned it with a deer’s shoulder blade. Wrap the grip with rawhide. Hang on it amulets of rosehips and beads.
To touch diabolical “devil’s clubs,” Oplopanax horridum causes me to shudder. With each stroke of the table knife, I remember horse-logging with Dad and my brother Jim on the back of our place in the Upper Skagit River Valley. I remember “swamping out” trails through devil’s club and vine maple before each tree was felled, and whacking out horse trails to drag the logs out to the truck.
I remember Jim bending the green devil'sclub stem, then letting go as I swung my ax. Up it would spring, slapping thorns into each of us, driving them through our worn-out gloves. Always, as we were pulling thorns out of our hands, dad and the team would show up, impatient and disgusted at his teenage helpers.From Cook Inlet and Prince William Sound to Vancouver Island and the Puget Sound, indigenous people have for centuries, burnt, carved, ground, mixed, painted, plastered, rubbed, steamed, tattooed, and infused roots, stems, inner bark, and berries of this genus of ginseng, sometimes with thistles, black hawthorn, prince’s pine, cascara, and bear grease, for medicine, magic, and fishing lures.
And now to the beat of her drum, Quelcid sings: Take your walking stick. Go quietly through shadowy thickets to the river’s edge. Listen for its inner spirit speaking to a shaman, his face painted with bear grease and ash. Evil spirits know the magic, they will sneak away.
Winter Chores During WWII
This is one anecdote in an anecdotal childhood. No overarching meaning or underlying theme, no fatherson conflict, no prepubescence struggle; it is just an incident that if aggregated with those of similar youths, becomes a picture of growing up in the time and place.
This barn was built be Tom Porter in 1912; the field is the one I crossed to go home when the fences were split cedar posts and barbed wire; and we had an excessive snow storm in Dec.-Jan., 1944-45.
Winter Chores During WWII
Six animals in their stanchions. Mangers filled. Freshly bedded. Gutter emptied. Shit-splattered floor scraped clean.
It’s a warm, moist, bovine world in this old barn. Temp will drop to ten tonight.
A pale moon, almost white, rises over Porter Mountain, cast the barn’s long shadow over its yard, down the bank, and onto the field below.
High above Sauk Mountain, Queen Cassiopeia and “Big Bear” dance around North Star.
Snow covers ground. Path through the field packed. Been there a week. No rain. A miracle.. No slush. Splashing girls at school is fun, splashing in the barnyard, not.
When the Skagit is high, the meadow swales in the old river bed pond. When a northeaster blows, enough ice freezes for kids to play. Don’t let Mom or Dad find out, or fall in.
Crystalline droplets glisten on straw poking through crusty snow. Ice settling on swale slopes crack. I’ll follow a fencerow home. I can almost see it from here.
Chak-Chak, the Skagit Bald Eagle
Perched in an old-growth forest, 
Chak-Chak rouses. In morning light,
Scans the river with piercing eyes,
Searches sandy bars for dying chum.
Chak-Chak breaks silence,
Soars from Sauk Mountain,
Drifts Washington Eddy;
Glides the river’s course.
Chak-Chak skims shimmering water,
Clutches a floundering salmon,
Settles on a backwash beach,
Feeds on his catch.
Perched in barren cottonwoods,
On the south bank where the wild Skagit bends,
Chak-Chak, in stoic dignity,
Basks in warm afternoon sun.
Chak-Chak calls his mate.
Wings extended, talons interlocked 
In descending flight, they tumble,
Somersaulting earthward, breaking skyward.
Before evening shadows deepen,
Purple hues of dusk chase the day.
Chak-Chak catches an ascending draft
To his nightly roost—and slips away.
Upper Skagit River
East of Rockport, WA
The Skagit River Bald Eagle Natural Area is about two miles from my family home on the south side of the river at Rockport. I am indebted to my brother Jim (1937-2009), park ranger, naturalist, and upriver folk historian, for inspiring this poem with his United States National Park Service brochure Chak-Chak, the Skagit Bald Eagle. I am also indebted to Mary Washington (b. about 1879), Upper Skagit Tribal elder; State Senator Fred Martin (1897-1995); Simpson Timber and Scott Paper com
panies for dedicating their land to this eagle wintering habitat; and to The Nature Conservancy and Washington State Department of Wildlife for restoring and managing it. I thank my wife Helen for the pen-and-ink drawing.—RLH
William Stafford Tribute, 2013
In my introductory remarks at the William Stafford Tribute, I noted that Gary Snyder, Phil Whalen and Jack Kerouac spent summers in the Upper Skagit River Valley working for the US Forest Service as fire lookouts, and that Robert Sund lived most of his life in the lower valley. I don’t know how long William Stafford lingered in the valley; his footprint is mostly in the Methow River Valley on the eastern slope of the North Cascades.
Did I meet them? No. I moved with my parents to a primitive cabin on the banks of the Cascade River in 1935; lived there for a few months before moving to Rockport, then across the river. I left the upper valley after graduating from high school in 1951, before any of these men arrived.
I read the following at the tribute at Village Books in Fairhaven, Bellingham, WA, on January 17.
“I like to live in the sound of water,
in the feel of mountain air. A sharp
reminder hits me: this world still is alive;
it stretches out there shivering toward it own
creation, and I’m a part of it. …”
—William Stafford, Time for Serenity, Anyone?
Born in Ice
Born in ice melts and trickling creeks,
the Skagit rushes out of Canada
through gorges, faults, breached ice-age
moraines and magma,
grows in voice and spirit
as it flows to the Sound.
Raven, salmon, eagle and The-People-of-The-River
were one in word
before King-George-People and their books,
sought to make The-River their own.
With magnanimity,
The-River has borne evils
of ditches, dikes, and dams.
When leaves rustle golden,
it calls Wind-Spirit and Rain-Spirit
to return Valley-Spirit;
and when creeks quicken and fawns drop,
it calls Shaman Spirit
to awaken from dreaming-sleep
and return The-Valley
to days before the world changed.
Skagit River, B.C.-WA
On April 28, 1996, I read “How This Eagle Came To Be” during the ceremony when an eagle carved in cedar was presented to the North Cascades National Park in memory of my mother’s friend, Marge Martin Emmons, a member of the Upper Skagit Tribe. It was dedicated in the North Cascades Interpretive Center, Newhalem, WA, a few hundred yards from her birthplace on the Skagit River. Born in July when twinflowers were blooming, she was a lifelong nurse, dying when winter’s darkness was leaving the valley.
How This Eagle Came To Be
for Marge Martin Emmons, Upper Skagit Tribe
July 21, 1914-April 22, 1995.
A long time ago—
The Skagit splashed on rocks where wild goats fed,
Eagles rested in cottonwoods by quiet waters.
All beings spoke one tongue.
First-People and animals lived in harmony.
One day, Creator came to this place—
Sun was smiling. Clouds were sleeping.
Wind was touching twinflowers, tasting berries.
An eaglet danced in her virgin feathers.
Creator sang—
This eagle will soar over clouds,
Sing a caring song for all people,
Follow prophets to far mountains and rivers.
Gentle and wise, mindful of righteous paths,
She will see beyond horizons and tiny stones.
My spirit will be in her.
Then Creator said—
In the days when darkness leaves this valley,
When rain dances on the snow
And forget-me-nots are kissed by the dew,
This eagle will fly to her cedar tree,
To a totem crowned for eternity.
Her spirit will be forever free.
North Cascades Mountains
Newhalem, WA
Never Been in a Canoe
“Get in!”
Marcus hollers over a deafening river.
“We’re goin’ wid’out chuh.”
“Hurry up, chicken shit,” Frank yells!
Marcus, fourteen, staggers
to keep his footing in the canoe bow,
leans on the pole he thrust into shallows
until it bends, holding the canoe in place.
Frank, thirteen, in the stern,
teeters in a wobbly balance,
pushes his pole downward
to steady the cedar shell.
I wade into water slapping
my knees. Grab the gunnel.
I’m almost nine, never been in a canoe.
“’Not chicken shit,” I whimper.
I glance at the river—
an uprooted cottonwood is diving,
rolling in the current,
coming right at us.
I look down. Shiver.
Blurt,
“It’s not yours! You
dragged it out of the brush.”
“Damn it, chicken shit.
Get in!”
Upper Skagit River
Rockport, WA
Summer Shower
I lay here in the semi-light of our cabin’s loft,
dreaming to the rhythm of a summer shower
raining on moss-chinked cedar shakes,
collecting in rivulets coursing the pitch,
dropping softly on June roses,
drumming rhubarb leaves.
If it stops, Dad will call me
to the pasture to auger holes
for hand-split posts replacing
those homesteaders planted,
now rotted in the ground,
no longer defending hay meadows
with rusting, sagging, barbed wire.
South side of the Skagit River
Rockport, WA
Magi of the Meadow
Between May 1987 and May 2003, my wife and I gardened a "Birchwood Acre" about 3 miles north of downtown Bellingham, WA. In the late 1990's, I strung lights on three trees growing in the corner of our mini-meadow for the holidays. Whence came this poem.
Magi of the Meadow
In a far corner of our meadow
behind the wild roses,
Magi emerge in predawn light,
bearing gifts of resin gum,
oil, and sweet incense.
Leading in columnar splendor,
with branches erect, an incense cedar
bears sweetness in leaves and fiber.
Blue spruce, with gum and spring honey
hidden in a bristly cloak defying touch,
advances on the right.
Western cedar, crossed boughs
in gentle grace, spreads oil
and fragrance on the meadow trail.
Preceded by a melody slipping
on the breeze as a misty rain,
in their habits adorned
from crown to sweeping skirt,
a thousand jewels in the dawn.
Bellingham, WA
Song for Saint Sebastian
la promenade el Concha, Donostia-San Sebastian, Spain (RLH 4-19-07)
Song for Saint Sebastian
One song rises above plebian repetitions of a choir in a freshly greened copse outside my hostel window. With sharpness of arrows piercing San Sebastian, yet sonorous as his plea, this voice knows beauty in worldly sound, in its surround. A poet of dawn with sermon rising above traffic’s passing, one song above all others announces each day with its power to persuade, to proclaim.
Donostia-San Sebastian, Sp
Note: According to tradition, Sebastian was a captain in the Praetorian Guards in the third century. In about 288 CE, he was discovered to be a Christian and sentenced by the newly enthroned anti-Christian Diocletian to be bound to a stake and shot at with arrows. [St.] Irene found him alive and nursed him to health. When he was caught publicly haranguing the emperor during a parade, he was clubbed to death. He was consecrated in the fourth century after an apparition and several miracles were attributed to him. Venerated by both the Catholic and Orthodox Churches, he is patron saint of archers. Saint Sebastian Feast Days are January 20 and December 18, respectively.
Summer Shower
Which form works best: lined or prose?
Summer Shower
I lay here in the semi-light of our cabin’s loft,
dreaming to the rhythm of a summer shower
raining on moss-chinked cedar shakes,
collecting in rivulets coursing the pitch,
dropping softly on June roses,
drumming elephantine rhubarb.
If it stops, Dad will call me
to the pasture to auger holes
for hand-split posts to replace
those homesteaders planted,
now rotted in the ground,
no longer defending hay meadows
with rusting, sagging, barbed wire.
South side of the Skagit River
Rockport, WA
Summer Shower
I lay here in the semi-light of our cabin’s loft, dreaming to the rhythm of a summer shower raining on moss-chinked cedar shakes, collecting in rivulets coursing the pitch, dropping softly on June roses, drumming elephantine rhubarb.
If it stops, Dad will call me to the pasture to auger holes for hand-split posts replacing those homesteaders planted, now rotted to the ground, no longer defending the hay meadows with rusting, sagging barbed wire.
South side of Skagit River
Rockport, WA
