The Desert
The Desert Hills
The Desert Hills are calling me
Dark Mesa
Called the Pedernal
Whose proud form has stood
Damn near eternal,
Watches over the sand stone cliffs
Across the valley as sage scents drift
From the scorched earth
Of a July day on Piedre Lumbre
In search,
In search, of
Bronze Amulet
To give to my love as an Anniversary gift.
None have I found
That is up to the task.
Most are unworthy
A facade, a mask.
Not the malleable mettle that makes up our love.
None that protects like a shield forged from above.
No patina to show that through thick and thin
We’ve endured the onslaught from without and within.
No, our love deserves
Much more recognition
Than a candle stick or
A dime store trinket.
Yes, our love endures
In Re-creation.
We wear our Bronze
On Our Hearts
In Our Spirit.
A visitor sat in
The Golden Rain Tree
Sitting and awaiting
Still and patiently
Usually, the Finches
And busy bobbing
Their red heads
But today if they
Come to visit
They may end up
Quite dead.
Brushing my teeth
In the back of the Jeep
Watching the birds
Watching you
Watching me
I watched the Big Dipper rise
And Orion set
As the stars
Spun ’round
Above my head
The stones
Tall Figures
Holding council in the dark
While firelight dances
And waves and arcs.
The birdsong is quiet
And held close to the ground
In this otherwise silent
Place with small sounds.
Just the occasional coo
Of a mating white dove;
The cries of the crows
As they pass above.
Everything here is over your head
The Stars
The Birds
The Rocks
Who once said,
“Not even we will stand
For Eternity in this land.”
I wish I had words
That painted the brush
Strokes of Georgia O’Keffe
Into your mind, so you
Could see these desert colors
Bleed into oily black shadows
Of grooves and crevices
Touched in browns and reds
Yellow grass waving on a
Horizon of gold juxtaposed
By the dim mountains
Rising in the background
The seasons are changing
The frost is coming
To bring its crystal blanket
And cover the ground with winter
Turning everything brown and
Changing summer’s growth
Into next spring’s compost
It looks as though
It is laying waste
Desolating everything in its path
But with every cycle
Destruction breeds creation
We must not despair
For a withered stalk
Makes food for the next
Wiley buds
Of spring
Chaco, Chaco
Pueblo, pueblo
Solar and lunar
Casting shadow
Crossed perfect symmetry
Over generations
Passing down
Great calculations
To one day build
A night full of houses
That track the Sun
As it falls and rises
To follow the Moon
As it waxes and wanes
Over eighteen years
Of coming and goings
Houses full of empty rooms
For ghostly guests
Not even tombs
For no body rests
In the broken vessels
Of offerings made
To the ancestors travels
North to South
Down roads that unravel
After countless miles
Chaco, Chaco
Pueblo, pueblo
The presence of The Peoples
Persists through the morrows
I look up
Into the night sky
Looking back into
The history of the universe
This mystery I see
A thousand stars
And clouds of dust
Presented to me
From long, long ago
And just a fragment
Not even a whole
Arm of the galaxy
For it unfolds
Well beyond the sky
That sits on the horizon
Before my small eye
A dizzying array
In the dark, dark desert
This bright reminder
Of how dark and small
I am
On this ball of dust
And water
Spinning out into an eternity
Of history
With the possibility that
Empires are falling
Before my eyes like
Stars caught in the greater
Gravity of a singularity
Ignoble afternoon–
A beautiful day full
Of Unproductive adventure
A morning of attempts
Seen successful by
Others all around us
Empty handed we returned
To the road in search of
Vivacious waters
One last stop at
At the end of our journey–
–A great discovery
This riverbed full
Of our treasures
Great swimmers in abundance
And then great luck
A catch, a beauty
Long and strong, shimmering
With its rainbow skin
A triumph for the picture book
–Alas, against the rules
We had taken what we can’t keep
But greed made for bad decisions
And before I had enlightenment
The light went out of its eyes
There was death in the water
A waste of a noble creature
Now fish food — We must listen
To our children, their
Natural moral instincts
Are better than our
Ignoble age.