Granite Grey

A crash of thunderous
And white spray.
The blood is grey this day,
Of foreboding yellowish
Crash again and
White rivulets pour
Down like waterfalls.
Above cypress cling to
Jeffers' oriental rock,
Enshrouding the mass
In shadowy green.
The blood is grey this day
As of the mighty granite
That westward points.

The Coast

Fog will marry land and sea
and cloak each one in mystery.
Whilst sunlight parts the playful mist
Wind blows each a farewell kiss.
And hidden there, from you and me,
The answers lie eternally. 

pen and ink drawings of Point Lobos

The drawings were done for the book of poetry, 'Dancing on the Brink of the World,' published by the Foundation in 2004.

The drawings were done for the book of poetry, 'Dancing on the Brink of the World,' published by the Foundation in 2004.

Milk Maids by Roland Wilson, August 1951

Milk MaidsMilk Maids by Chuck B

There is the sweet little milkmaid
Standing by the trail,

All dressed in a robe of white,
but without her pail.

Nodding shyly to us
not so very tall,

But I think I love her
the very best of all.

Roland Wilson

Superintendent of Point Lobos

from 1933 to 1955

ROCK AND HAWK by Robinson Jeffers, 1939

Here is a symbol in which Many high tragic thoughts Watch their own eyes. This gray rock, standing tall On the headland, where the seawind Lets no tree grow, Earthquake-proved, and signatured By ages of storms: on its peak A falcon has perched. I think, here is your emblem To hang in the future sky; Not the cross, not the hive, But this; bright power, dark peace; Fierce consciousness joined with fina Disinterestedness; Life with calm death; the falcon’s Realist eyes and act Married to the massive Mysticism of stone, Which failure cannot cast down Nor success make proud.

Cliff Cypresses by Dora Hagemeyer, 1947

CLIFF CYPRESSES Food from the granite Stone for the hungry root - Storm for the rugged shoot. What slow flame Struggles to triumph here Year upon difficult year? What desperate faith Writhes in these twisted limbs, Sings in the wordless hymns? When the rock splits They wrestle with each other, Brother contrives with brother For writhing’s sake. No peace can smooth or define A curve, a delicate line. Summers burn blue - Yet the torture wrought in the seed In anguished form is freed Torture and triumph!