Wholistic Fitness

a new poem and pictures by steve ilg

Writing poetry has long been established within the Wholistic Fitness Personal Training System as a form of what i termed, “Passive Meditation,” back in the early years. To this day, if you look upon Bala’s cartop carrier rack, you’ll see a decal, one of many, expressing; POETRY IS NECESSARY. And it is. Sadly, the pace of Kali Yuga seems to have diminished the soul-nourishing action of reading, contemplating, and creating poetry. Not in this Tribe, however. I will not let your notion of Personal Fitness exclude the necessity of cultivating a poetic mind. From the poetic mind comes poetic action; something that is needed in each of our parenting, relationship, occupational, and fitness skills. This new poem, upon which i worked during the month of August, is offered as an honor to the now freezing nights and sweeping color changes of early autumn. though my chi accelerates towards near constant blissful realms during this most precious season of the falling leaves, it is not without sadness i already miss my hammock, heated smells, and stentorian monsoon rains! this poem is a work in process for a new book of poetry; Kinlani Speaks! a sequel to my first book of poems;

Pagosa Speaks!

May your Practice reflect poetry,
the mountain yogi

***

into fabric jaws wide open
swallowed by a summer hammock,
lyrical see-sawing hugs skin,
melts bones
swaying DreamCatcher of bird- and windsong.
leaf dappled shadows
frolic upon my suspended cocoon.

flesh and mind dissolve
multiplicity’s of high country August emerge:

surfing fertile waves of nature,
ripe yet unhurried sweeps of Heaven’s breath
the dance of deciduous and evergreen scapes
claw Father Sky.
towering Ponderosa extend silky
green needle fingers
shimmering mock futility
transforming scratch of wind
into Father’s own beautiful Ujjayi!

alas,
this symphony has only just begun
the endless motif of wind pinballs down from Ponderosa arms
into the coin like leaves of Aspens
quivering as they take up the charge!

swaying before this symphonic structure of delight
no place to go
no one to be
easy comes calmness
who says the musicality of high country wind is
less potent a balm to those infected by thought
and afflicted mind?
is my hammock somehow less of a psychologist’s fancy couch?

north; a thunderhead blossoms over Doko Oosliid.
heaving uproars of curled columns
a monsoon beacon’s blare
passionate with moisture
stopped anapestic drumbeat crackles Father’s hide
tribal beating
belching
until Father’s pores pour upon Mother
that which is the most Sacred of all Blood in the Southwest.

before this eternity of divine rhythm,
the joints of my consciousness
set the paltry human score
to the tympanic rush of these
ancient, arcing
notes.

8*14*07