2022 American Place Breaking Muse New Mexico Poems Road Less Travelled

Open Meeting

The Road
The Sky
And The Mountain
Met in front
Of me today
For many miles
The sky cried
Starting and Stopping
Over Space and Time
I could see it
Hard lines on the horizon
Where The Road turned dark
And slick with the waterworks
Collecting on the surface
– A mirror showing The Sky
Her own tears in the reflection
As they hit and form small crowns
Again and again
But The Mountain
Sung her a lullaby
And the road fed her tears
To the flowers
And after her raging winds
Had calmed down —
The Sun broke
The Sky into
Dreamy white cotton
And burst through
Her tumult with
Sunbeam Smiles

2022 American Place Ars Philosophica New Mexico Poems Road Less Travelled


The Highway
–Treacherous and dangerous–
She pluck lives
From her surface daily
Waves her curves
And suddenly it will emerge
She leaves in her wake
Memorial Flags
And Crosses
Holding the losses in place
Until Xolo* returns
To gather those souls
Whose People never let go
Because The Road
Took Her Toll…
So, Xolo
Barks at them
“It’s time to go!”
Yet, the souls are confused
Because everyone they knew
Still honors
The Road
For Her

*Psychopomp – Greek word for soul collector. This was the role of Hermes and Cheron in ancient Greeks. The Angel of Death. The Vikings had Valkyries. The North Americans, Whippoorwills and Loons. The Aztec had the Dog-headed Xolotl, the dark Venus, Xolo the soul collector.

2022 American Place Ars Poetica Breaking Muse Poems Road Less Travelled

The Language Becomes Death

The Good Doctor*
Misdiagnosed The People
The language is not lost —
It has been infected.
Funny that a general practitioner
(of This Language)
Could miss the signs of a clear
Secondary infection.
They have taken The WORDS
Into the Laboratory, where
They intentionally debased her
Until they had filled the vessel
Full of Hatred!
As with most hubris,
Once the weapon is made
Once every bad actor
Has deployed the arsenal…

The Infection begins and
Like so many hard-rubbed Wishes
Once made true —
The Nightmare begins and the
Rage consumes them and their
Words froth with blood and all
Missives boil up into the cellars
Where “Pa” keeps the AR–
Where The Words become Bullets
Where the language becomes Death!

* Dr. William Carlos Williams, Paterson. 
The man and the city, the language lost, 
"beautiful thing".
2021 American Place Bird Song New Mexico Poems Road Less Travelled

Last Hoorah

One last hoorah
Before The Spirit of Summer
Succumbs to the seriousness
Of Education and Work
That signals the American
Tradition of Fall
That seems to come earlier
And earlier each year
As administrative minds
Decide for the masses
That the excess of
Time and energy is the
Corruption of Mind and Learning —
So into the woods we’ve run
With cedar and river
And Freedom and Fun
To learn the bird’s songs
One last time and throw
Our poles to lure one last
Meal from the waters
The lessons of the wild
Provide the mild mind
With relaxation and realization
That a simpler life may be
Required to grasp the enlightenment
That a generation sought there
Generations back as they fought
To find what lacked in their daily life.

2021 Poems Road Less Travelled

10 Years

So many situations culminating for me
Fatherhood • Summer Solstice • Sobriety
First, there’s my children who make me proud
They are smart and alive and a little too loud
Then comes the summer with heat and abundance
And all of our pleasures made possible by
Eliminating our dependence on the alcoholic life

No, my life is not perfect, as if one could be
But my love and I have chosen to live more fully
Aware of our existence, our impact herein
Our footprints, our breathing, the path our children
Will follow by example as they seek happiness
Won’t be found in a bottle or the bottom of a glass

We toast this day with coffee, soda and Iced tea
We laugh and play in earnest not because of the drink
I have no tale to tell you how I reached the bottom
We realized before too late that we had a problem
I am not an alcoholic for I no longer drink
There’s time to change direction at least that’s what I think!

2020 Albuquerque American Place New Mexico Poems Road Less Travelled

Rio del Ciudad

Her curves cut through him
She is the center of his life
All roads in his city

End upon her shores; Her Mountains
–Earthquakes, Time and her origins–
Embrace him Day and Night

Wind and heat; parch and monsoon
She drinks from the sky
to bring his thirst to an end

He lights Her nights and
bridges her spans
They form this imperfect circle

One man, called by many names
Beeʼeldííl Dahsinil; Arawageeki; Vakêêke;
Alo:ke:k’ya; Gołgéeki’yé — now AL-bə-kur-kee

One woman, loved by the people
mets’ichi chena, posoge, paslápaane
hañapakwa, Tó Baʼáadi, Female River, Great Waters, Rio Grande

2019 Garden Psalms Poems Road Less Travelled


You and I have both known men
Who didn’t know their fathers
And in the end when daddy
dies their ship’s afloat no anchor.

I am a rare and fortun’te one
To have a father I’ve known
Throughout my life, for good
for bad who kept the lighthouse on.

So many stumble in the dark
No hand to guide them through
Your faith, your light against the void
You always knew what to do.

Yes, we are the rare and fortunate ones
to share these times with you
May we pass on just a little of your light
To those who need it too.

“How may I be of service?”

2019 Ars Poetica Poems Road Less Travelled

Prison of judgment

Oh my God are you okay?
You’re writing poetry everyday?
“Geez, oh Pete’s are you alright?”
Write rhymes of reason every night?
What prostrations come from you?
This urgent burst for what is true?
Self-indulgent acts of pride?
Surely you think of suicide?
How can you waste your time, my dear?
With flights of fancy, sex and fear!
Think of yourself as a poet, son?
Give me example of just one?
Who’s as loud as your TV?
My god, boy—they don’t even read!
People you now “represent”?
Locked in a prison of judgement…
Who are you to decide what is present?

Poems Road Less Travelled

I was a child

My early poems were childish.
Then again I was a child.

2013 Poems Road Less Travelled

I’ll Catch Up To You There

For Granny

The sun is always
shining on The Road.

It’s the place I go
to be with them,
my ancestors,
my fellows, my friends.

It is where I walk
quietly, alone
Thinking of days past
and lives well lived.

There’s no time
Out on The Road
Out of the hustle and
Bustle of everyday lives,
Just the place
where I keep walking,
talking with the
Ones I Love.


Elizabeth Sutherlin, March 7, 1917 – October 1, 2013