Welcome

to the Poetry

of

Ruth Rice-Sipila

About the Author

Ruth Rice-Sipila is a product of the desert. Born in the Mojave, soon to retire in the Sonora, she makes the wind her voice. Her poetry was learned at the knee of her mother, Phyllis Frazee-Rice, and from the genetic gleanings of twelve generations of poets before her. She has passed the voice on to her daughter, Leza Noel Frazee, who is smitten with the word. Ruth dances joyously upon the soft palms of her husband, Thomas, who is every word.

"Let us stand clean before the word and the wind."

- --Ruth Rice-Sipila, 2001

Poetry by this author can be found in:

The Wind Speaks Her Own Name

poetry by

Ruth Rice-Sipila

Format: paperback, 1st. ed., 88pp.

ISBN: 1-930293-23-2

Publisher: PoetWorks Press

Pub. Date: September 2001

Edition Desc: Available

Single Copy: $16.95

(for information on ordering, please click book cover)

Also find poems by this author in:

Format: paperback, 1st. ed., 85pp.

ISBN: 1-930293-10-0

Publisher: PoetWorks Press

Pub. Date: November 2001

Edition Desc: Available

Single Copy: $16.95

stones

i have languished

at her knees,

lain my head

upon her rocky lap,

i have spilled my tears

as stones

before her and asked,

will you show me the way?

the desert harbors

a great sadness,

for, she cannot feed

her children,

and hears their echoes

as chimes in the evening,

soft in the breeze.

oh, mother,

can you hear me?

i have dressed myself

in the feathers

of your choice,

i have coated my skin

in ochre and ash,

i have danced for days

beneath a setting sun,

calling nothing

but your name.

where are my people?

i will lay my head

between her breasts

of stone, where the oak

reaches for heaven,

there, i hear the voices,

the children of the desert,

my spirit siblings

calling me home.

universe

inside my body, resides,

an infinite universe,

clouds, stars,

island of humanity,

isthmuses of memory,

that hold, who i have been,

to who i will be.

here the children play

in complete innocence,

as god peeks,

fingers around

the edges of the moon,

and offers the light,

to see their hands.

i enter on the middle bridge,

to my true home.

i live in all realms.

borrego

the mountains

make shadows

of themselves,

slicing the sky

into evening.

soft, round, soft,

the air is a thing

of substance,

holding the light,

just a moment longer.

agaves, in verdant

yellow bloom,

hold the sides

of the mountain

in a laugh.

here, my skin

is supple,

my hair soft,

i float out of my skin

and into the wind.

sunset mountains

are etched

into my eyelids,

prefect gradiations of purple,

they are evening

when i close

my eyes.

silent canyons,

invisible,

offer shade

and rest

to willing feet.

i have seen

the orchids of the desert,

i have held them

in my hand

as a gift.

**any reproductions of these poems, whole

or in part, without the authors' consent, is a violation of Copyright law.

"Our Desert Home"

photo

©Thomas Sipila