Dreaming of the Afterlife

by

A boy sat outside the village
looking at the grave yard at the mesa’s edge.
“What ever happened to the dead?” he pondered.
“Are they living some where else far away?”

Skeletons walking around after
the day turns to night
inspires the boy to dream of
the darkness and deepness of rivers.

“Are the dead living somewhere else?”
Out on the mesa edge he prays every morning.
He prays, waiting for the sun to come up;
to come over and talk to him.

Every night, he dreams of the
medicine that will make him dead.
He wants to go see the corpse house. Please come.
The sound is making him old.
His dream for the crimson light is fading.

“Poem inspired from a Hopi story.”

The Early Morning

by

dark rain clouds
wander the blue sky
making the dream come
alive a vision of the
land singing

Then cries the raven
from its hollow in the
knarled tree
that twists its branches
into the ancient wind

Thunder echoes way across
the desert yonder
farther than
the eyes can see

The black rock
was the blood of
that ancient beast
that was slain so
long ago

the locust begin buzzing
and an eagle heralds the dawn
when that sun peaks
up over the rim of mountains
the clouds catch
pink-red rays

The old man pulls up his
trousers because
of no suspenders. He laughs
out with his diabetic belly
and sings of how he has
“Noassatall disease”

The grand kids pile out of
the truck, hollering and
shouting as grandpa sticks
his false teeth back in

while heavens above are glistening
and the happy meadow lark sings of
a beautiful new day

In Support of Immigration

by

Why are Americans so paranoid about illegal immigration?

Americans need to stop and think about their own roots… I know of a T-shirt that reads; “Ask an American Indian what they think of illegal immigration!”

Think about the hypocrisy Americans have towards illegal immigration, when some of our own ancestors were illegal invaders to this continent. A lot of these “illegal” immigrants are indigenous people that were here long before Columbus set foot.

These Mexicans are risking their lives and dying out in the desert for what I have. That is an indicator helping me realize how privileged I am as an American.

Americans claim they worked hard for what they have, but how hard is life for those that have to survive down there in Mexico? I see these Mexican folks on a day-to-day basis, and they are not a threat, but are friends and neighbors. Americans need to chill out and find more optimism.

I’m tired of seeing the animosity against these folks; they are good people who contribute to America. We have always been a melting pot (or tossed salad) of many different ethnic groups, cultures and peoples. In many ways, this country was built by immigrants.

Elbow Canyon Excursion

by

the Hard blue sky on a hot day tires me, under the sweltering bright fire of the sun. I’ve been on this dirt trail for hours inside a cab that lacks basic air conditioning. I started my journey crawling slowly through a valley of creosote southeast of Littlefield, Arizona. It is about 1000 feet above sea level. I was heading towards the mountains that border the western flank of high desert known as the Arizona Strip country.

I approach Elbow Canyon, which is one of the rockiest roads I have taken this rig on; jagged and short switchbacks lead all the way to the top of the canyon. The vehicle bounces back and forth in 4 wheel drive as I steadily climb the steep grade. When I get to the top, I look back into bottomless hole that leads to the valley below.

I’m heading to Toroweap. I could’ve taken the easy-quick route, but I went sixty or seventy miles off the main road. My ventures are not always for fun or recreation, but to escape from wretched daily life and I’m in no hurry to dive into these places with a swift return to town. This is personal and I am in no rush… I love the beauty of Mother Earth… Never do I take beauty for granted.

Beads of sweat gather on my forehead, the sun smolders the interior, but I love it. I park under a canopy of Junipers in a Juniper Jungle, and head to a place they call Sullivan’s Canyon. This is a wicked canyon that dives into pre-Cambrian rocks of the Virgin River Gorge. I spend the rest of my day down in there, where strange things lurk. Large and spectacular stands of Manzanita grow like ancient Bristlecone. There was something following me, I heard it nearby, but refused to react in fear. Whatever it may have been, it did not molest…

All is quiet… Nothing else really matters…

My future children may want to give me a proper burial, but I will not approve of it. If they love me, they will let the buzzards feed off my remnants… Or at least bury me somewhere in the remoteness of the Strip…

Changes

by

I am wondering through what beauty is left…

There is hardly a place to go
where man has not intruded.
Everything is changing.
I dream of what happened long ago.
What was Earth like then?
There is a divine power today,
not all is gone.

I believe that the sky
and the landscape will change.
People will have no part in it,
if they are not worthy.

Strange things come to me on the wind.
The sun in this quiet world is talking to me.
The Earth is helping me dream too.
The ravens are excited, and chatter
the news around in their little circles.
The desert is waking up,
and the ocean of silence is telling me.

So I have learned…

Voices of the Past

by

“The mountains are the last things that are remaining old and undisturbed, but even now we are building things into them. I still can go in them, camp out and watch the stars; sleep and dream in the night by an old fire; and wonder some where else other than this realm of confusion. It truly is something simple, easy, and very righteous. It is being alone and hearing the voices of the past…”

I composed this in my late teens, around the time I turned eighteen and was graduating from high school. You could say I was pretty lucky to graduate, considering I sloughed a lot of high school. If it hadn’t been for my mom’s steady motivation, I would’ve might’ve been a drop out. When I turned sixteen I took advantage of having a driver’s license, I spent a lot of free time in the hills. Friends used to go with me a lot, but they soon dwindled and went their seperate ways. I’m passed tweny now and the years are starting to slip by… Still those places that I love are still there. They sing of the past. I am going to post pieces of writings from earlier in my life, and include them under their own category. You will see them filed under Time Warp… They are quite simple, maybe even repulsive… But that was me six years ago.

Heart of a Resistant Land

by

It is gusty tonight,
as the fiery sun sinks into
the western mountains
Stars flood heavens deep
The ancient desert sings
The voice of the mountain
wails through the pinion
singing with the streams of
yellow grass and sage
The basin below
is cold and dusty

The mountain wind moves all night
The Coyotes run the midnight hills
yipping and howling
in the heart of this resistant land

Never to be taken!
Nothing is controlled
Nothing can rob the
soul of the wild

My Destiny

by

No person
will hinder me
from venturing
into shadow

creeping into the
deeper wild

where the
wind sings
ageless

further ‘n further
away from
my captors

…the wraiths
of civilization

No individual
will persuade me
from the call of
creation

forward,
into beauty
of earth and sky.

Storms of Summer, Finally Here

by

The drumming rain surrounds the little adobe this summer eve. In the morning the rising sun soaks the clouds in radiant light. The sun finally breaks from shadow, and dark golden light warms the window. Just before everything awakens, I take a morning stroll smelling the wet sage and creosote. The red rock landscape is burning fire red in morning twilight. Thunderclouds hug the mountains in the distance.

All these mourning doves have made their encampment around my quarters, enclosed by a few cottonwood. Around 8 or 9 P.M. a mourning dove flies into the door hatch and pokes its feathery head in. Another one follows, and they stay there for a while making their noise. Those pleasant birds are very charming to hear.

Tonight the constant rain awakens sensations of primordial desert. As the rain taps the roof, I think of the dawn and the dusk, and how thunderstorms travel the Colorado Plateau, always seeming to follow the sun into the west.

Another Small Victory

by

Tonight, when I checked my email, I was pleasantly surprised! One of my poems; A Spring Desert Dawn won second place in a scholarship competition for Dixie State College. It’s actually the first time that I’ve ever attempted to submit something to a literary journal, except to a few online journals.. So this gives me a little hope as to whether I should pursue this little endeavor more. As a writer, I consider my work mostly free verse and experimental.

Pondering Further…

by

The wilderness has been my only true friend. Through every trial, it is always there, listening. There is no hostility in the wild. The earth is beautiful, and quiet. No noise, except the mourning dove coming into your camp on an early spring morn, and the river roaring continually, and it has been making noise long before humans. Why did God, Creator, make me human? That is the question I ponder sometime, Why did he make me human?

And So I Ponder…

by

Man, today, I really feel on edge, like things are not working out like they should? Somewhere along the line, I made a simple mistake, and now watch things unfold and move away from reach. Sometimes it is very hard to communicate with other humans, and I should just stop worrying for a while.

My parents came down to Saint George, and spent a few days down here with me. It is hard to see them go every time, because I want to be near my loved ones. My brother is coming back from New York, this August, and we are going to room together, somewhere in Cedar City. I’m missing family way too much lately. My vehicle is still broken down, and I’m working like mad to earn the money and keep bills paid. School is up in a few weeks, and I’m working at the Chevron in Saint George. Tonight, I’m training for the graveyard shift.

No matter how hard I try, chance has me chained by the ankles, once again. It can surely be a lonesome world at times, but when you lose your footing, you just have to keep moving, and loving life. That is the way I have often known it.

I’m uncertain; I worry about many things, even those small details. I have my doubts way too much. I wander how far down I allow my self-esteem to tread, on occasion, too? 😉

With Little Sleep…

by

Today, I came off an abnormally high plane of ecstasy that wasn’t expected. I’m still just extra happy today? First off, I went and purchased a new pair of shoes. My old ones were battered, and they have survived since I was in Flagstaff. Those good shoes met their end in the garbage can just outside of Target. Walking home, there were enormous spring thunderheads over Saint George with patches of dark blue sky. These new shoes are very comfortable and I had four hours of sleep, last night; maybe this is the recipe? Anyways, I’m getting closer to having my rig fixed, and then those hills are waiting.

This current theme was a little interesting, because it reminded me a lot of the desert teaming with all kinds of flowers in the spring and the first sounds of thunder. It was a simple and elegant layout, very minimal and very nice.

Phantoms of the Night

by

Way off in those mountains,
Phantoms are better left unknown.

The sun descends beneath the large red mesa,
The clouds soak the sunset glare.
It is silent, except for the thunderstorm.
A beautiful purple thunderhead expands,
Blue lightning ignites and echoes.

Hear the wind, and the rain falling
On the sandstone mesa. Smell the sage.

In the foothills, the wind whips the juniper jungle.
There is a feast; an unearthly celebration going on.
They are busy, tonight, somewhere in those hills.
They dance and shift in dark caves.
In cobweb networks they sing.

Sun in a Quiet World

by

I travel far from the city. I leave the colony. I am moving away from this community of people. They all struggle as I do. I am apart of them in their world. They are wired like me. There’s no escaping the machine. Yet, every trip away from the colony becomes one little victory over the machine.

If you head to the mountains, alone, and stay out there long enough, it starts to change you. I’ve gone into the wild enough that I have many stories and experiences to share with my children, and grand children, if I am still around. There are things that busy city dwellers will never understand. They cannot hear it, or see it, because it is withdrawn to the shadiest and most secluded areas of the planet.

Where I go, there are no others except the sparse few that share the relatedness. On occasion I have passed them by and give them a finger wave from the steering wheel, or a shout from the top of a ridge. The isolation communicates with us. We know who we are. Gather round, sheep herder, hermit, recluse, hobo, you are welcome here. We are learning each others’ thoughts and dreams.

I am fighting the machine, because it does not have control of my life. I am free, truly free. Even the coyotes and ravens are dependent; they eat the rabbits killed along the road. Like them, I adapt and use the tools that benefit my survival. But I am sovereign from the machine, it doesn’t infiltrate my mind. I am a different from those of the popular culture. My existence is real; I am not like my captors.

My Shipwrecked 4×4

by

There’s something a lot worse than a throw-out bearing going out on my 1987 Suzuki. I went a had a shop look over my rig today, and it turns out my worst fears came tp light. The manual transmission needs replacement, on top of an new clutch, and throw-out bearing. This is stressful, because I’m not going anywhere until this is taken care of. So I am short on funds, and it’s time to get creative. A used transmission is going to cost around $200-450 dollars, and the total cost of repair is going to be $600-1000 dolalrs. When buying a used vehicle, this comes with the territory. I just wasn’t expecting it to happen so soon. Damn!

Cottonwood Grandpa

by

There is an old cottonwood, burned by lightning; it has survived longer then most. It’s stands by a muddy river that passes through sedimentary gorges, red plateaus. The river and wind have been moving long before humans and monsters. The landscape is not untouched, because people have been using it for eons. Some of us may know where we originate, and there are many tales of how we came to be.

I think of the gnarly cottonwood and call it grandpa. It is sad to see his branches torn… Still though, he is very beautiful standing by the red river. The sun is falling, the clouds ignite. The old way is singing. Thunder comes to the canyon tonight and then the rain.

The Man in Black

by

How I remember the good ‘ol times: “Hello, I’m Johnny Cash,”

As I dwell on the sorrows of humanity and the world, the desert, the animals, the wandering clouds, the sun blazing just before dark, I think of the salad days. Before those days, the old west, and the times that have long sailed into memory. Johnny Cash is a hero and he plays his spirited tunes down the old dirt road we go, the folk songs of our land. The lesser known songs pass into furthest trenches of my mind. There was no self-righteousness in Mr. Cash, especially when it came time to entertain the inmates at Folsom Prison, making them human once more in a strange land.

I think Johnny seen everything for what it really was. Never will I forget the man that makes my heart feel so big.

1987 Suzuki Samurai

by

I’ve done two crazy things in one month. I traded a DSLR while bartering for a 4×4 and sold my notebook for off-road tires. So it’s back to the library when I need to update. For a desert dweller it is justified. The 1987 Suzuki Samurai is a great 4×4. My cousin says it goes places that his Jeep cannot because it’s compact. It ain’t no speed demon, it tops about 65 miles an hour, 70 on a lucky day. It does have a new engine. There are places that I have visited that were once inaccessible, I had missed out on life with no way explore those Jeep trails.
Take a look at this.

Deep in the Precambrian

by

The Textures of Picture Sandstone

Bottomless mountains rise
above the Virgin River Gorge
It is a strange day on top of Sullivan Canyon.
Thick white crystalline ledges dive into precambrian hell.
Pegmatite yields pomegranate beads of rich garnet.
Teethy shadows cling to desert oak with fingernails.
Manzanita grows exceptionally thick in twisty stands,
hard to push my sweaty body through.
Winged phantoms fear not my approach.
From the bowels something growls with enchantment.
Somewhere among the whispering Juniper forests
hides a tunnel leading to another place,
a vortex that radiates with unknown passions.
I turn on the headlamp, looking for treasure,
cities full of creatures and monsters of long ago.
I’ve dared the Earths gaping mouth.
so don’t tease this face or make smiles.
I’ve pitied the demons that deserved heaven.
Some demons were better then human.
In the wind, Grandma’s chimes dance,
and the canyon grows heavy on my mind.
I explore the talking night after my excursion.
Someday the unknown will unlock me some answers.
I dream of Precambrian hell.

Something at Indian Peak

by

Whatever it was it was moving through the trees in our direction. All the small pinion saplings had been stripped from their tips. Maybe this is what engaged our imaginations? But the sound of snapping dead wood and breaking branches grew steadily. Perhaps it was coming from the limestone caves on the mountain above? The first time my cousin heard the comotion he came stumbling over the top of the hill asking me if I had heard it. Then we both froze in silence and I shouted in the direction of the noise. Both of us bolted back down to the Jeep in the wash below the hill. We didn;t hesitate. This was somewhere near Indian Peak, west of Milford, Utah about two weeks ago. We want to go back out there and explore those caves. My guess is what stripped the trees could’ve been a porcupine or mule deer? Maybe the large movement was a Bear? The snow was falling and was dense that day. Towards the evening the weather cleared a bit. We keep diving deeper and deeper where humans shouldn’t go, where teeth and shadows lurk. That day we had cut into fresh powder. The 4×4 trail we’d traversed hadn’t seen any tracks in months. We were the first ones in that area in a long time. I ponder what is living out there? I would’ve stood my ground had I owned .357; I never take unnecessary risks. I was a coward!

One Foot Man

by

Things should be said, whether or not people choose to believe them. I should quit keeping certain things so secret and open up a bit as to why I am going into the wilderness so much. Out there, certain mysteries have been revealed. the fact is this, I have witnessed a lot of unbelievable things that I fear to tell people because they might not believe.

One of these stories involves the one foot man that lives in the Great Basin of Southern Utah. One night I was telling a story of the one foot man to some of my brother’s friends. We were staying in a small cabin of theirs out in Hamblin Valley, which is a famous place to gather Pine Nuts in the early fall. Joe’s friends are cowboys and they act real tough and such but not on the night that I told them this story of the one foot man. He?s a little creature, not much higher then a human knee. It isn’t human, and it does roam across the landscape. I will never reveal any more detail about this creature in this journal. That night out in Hamblin Valley, was a real jittery experience, because Joe’s tough cowboy friend started getting angry and confronted me during my storytelling. He told me to shut the hell up or else, and so I did, and ever since, I am careful as to whom I tell my stories to.

So I have contemplated as to whether I should tell certain tales on West Desert Journal? Some of the stuff that I write has is sugarcoating as to what remains covered by the curtain. I hesitate to tell some stories but in due time, I may choose to reveal certain slivers of truth and knowledge in relation to the experiences that I have had on the desert. There are enough of them to pass onto my future grandchildren. The unknown definitely exists and I warn you to be careful in them hills. Always inform somebody where you are going and never go against your better judgment or you could wind up raven food.

The story of the one foot man is not all that important, but it was to my advantage to scare a few country folks. Those who have heard my tales were angered, maybe even spooked beyond reason. What I say is true and I need to start writing about some of these events.

The Unknown River

by

I go to a secret place, alonem amd sit on a ledge above the canyon labrynth choked with brush. The numerous finger canyons remain unknown to most. In the summer, the heat soars into the triple digits. Winter is the best time venture in this area, because the Mojave Rattlers hibernate. It is rich with human prehistory. I listen for those that once lived here, and died here. I feel the warmth of the canyon. It is incredible. It starts to get late in the evening, the sun fades. The skeletal mysteries of the night begin to creep. I listen carefully for the noise of the unknown river, it is flowing tonight, I should maybe go to it.

Ravens on the Arizona Strip

by

An Amazing world, this little earth
strange and magnificent.
We were headed to Toroweap
Thousands of ravens planed the sky
against orange and yellow clouds.
They followed us.
Timeless things await.
So, how do humans stew
over the most simple things,
such as daily life in a town?
I refuse to assimilate.
The raven windows the harsh beauty.
Arizona Strip, unmolested
enjoyed by few ranches, modern homesteads.
She still sings the old way.
Vivid dreams of Pinion ignite.
Simply colorful and intriging.
Virmillion Cliffs radiate.
Cold wind howls in the pines.
Smell fresh winter rain.
We passed under raging cloudbursts,
dark cloud shadows.
The road was thick mud-
in the arms of that isolated high desert.
Such brilliance creates laughter in my soul.
Those graceful ravens were soaring
beneath luminous clouds in evening mist.
Their silhouettes were abstract.
Keepers of the Spirit World.

The Christmas Dream

by

Whether you celebrate Christmas or not, this is one of the rare Christmas poems that I wrote for the season. I wish everybody a Merry Christmas and a Happy New Year!

The Christmas Dream

Tonight it snowed, but the fire danced.
The lights twinkled on the little spruce tree.
The children sang to their grandmother,
but now they sleep in their cozy beds.

The fire keeps the cabin warm in winter’s deep.
The soft bells are jingling in her mind.
We go back in time, when Jesus was born.
It was a miracle beneath the starry skies of Bethlehem.
Across the shadowy land, the shepherds
watched their herds of sheep.

The Christmas Spirit is strong tonight.
That Christmas tree sparkles.
The children sang their carols into memories,
and the old woman wept quietly in joy.

While battles are fought in far off lands,
and the snowy mountain freezes cold,
at least the little cabin is safe on Christmas Eve.
The dark earth kindles the ancient forest,
as a great-horned owl drinks the silvery moon.

The Grandmother dreams of the baby Jesus
wrapped warmly in a manger.
The candles burn bright in the Christmas dream.
The children sleep in their beds –
Inside the warm little cabin.

January is Approaching

by

In January, the sun barely melts the frost in the morning. The high reaches no more then forty degrees Fahrenheit. The clouds snuggle closer to the earth, and the sun sets further towards the Southwest. Every exhalation is a warm visible steam jetting from the nostrils of creatures able to survive the hostility of the frigid desert. At night, under the moon, groups of Mule Deer bundle together and bed down beneath cottonwoods, near the farm communities. Driving steadily at night, on a frontage road, you drive no faster then thirty to avoid bouncing a buck. Locals go spotlighting in the middle of the night.

The days are so short with barely the chance to get anything done. The farmer barely has enough time to finish the chores before returning to the house to stoke the fire, to chop the wood, and feed the chickens. The old farmer or rancher, kicks off his smelly, snuggly boots, and flips on the television.

As one watches the flames dancing in the stove, they hear the chilling winds beat the house outside. A blizzard is on the way. The mother cat gave birth to six kittens just the other night. My grandmother used her padded arm for the mother cat to grip while she was in labor. Just like a human, she wanted every body close by to show support, especially grandmother. Now the mother cat follows grandma all around the house.

January is spent in the house hugging the stove. Unless you dress up in long johns and heavy flannel cloths, and a warm heavy wool hat. Then you can venture out into the frigid.

The Desert Calls

by

His pillow is an ancient cottonwood. Wind pushes gigantic branches. He loves the twisted tree. His bare feet sift cold yellow sand. The clumps of grass push against his back. The ground is wet and moist from a previous storm. The boy sleeps to the constant summer wind and the singing creek near the reeds.. Just around the corner, big plateaus devour the landscape. He dreams of them. The cottonwood knows and sees everything.

Listen to the wind as it travels through the canyons.

He’s standing on the top of a butte looking out across Canyon Country. In the distance a thunderstorm is on the rise. The lightning calls. The earth is dark. He doesn’t fear the darkness of the night. The Unknown is waiting. Over the endless expanse, the Creator is waiting. He walks across the sky, travels with the rain clouds. Hear the wind singing.

In isolation and safety, he moves through shadows further away from the daylight into the peaceful night. In the day, he dreams of sandstone, red muddy water, and the ancient cottonwood.

The Unknown walks with him, teaching him, and guiding him.

My Job is Over

by

Bad news. It turns out that I won’t be working at the gift shop. The owner hires me, only to have second thoughts and tells me that he can’t afford to hire another employee. So tonight I was a little depressed feeling bad, because I was actually anticipating this job and would’ve enjoyed it. Cookies like me are tough, they never give up! Life is unpredictable. Working there can remain a good memory, but I am not going to let it sadden me any further.

The passed week I’ve been missing Flagstaff. Ed Little’s photos of the Peaks are a reminder! I might journey down there this January and go shoot some photos. Hopefully I can find a way to get into some four wheel drive before long and I will be long gone from civilization with all the spare time that I can muster. I’m going to start badgering those guys over at the BLM and see if they have anything to offer; if I have a snowball’s chance in hell! I might have a job later in the Spring working for the BAR 10 ranch down on the Arizona Strip.

Man, I am really craving isolation right now, not because of anything. It’s been this way for a while. I don’t really care what people have to say either. I am happy to have the opportunity to escape when needed. The wilderness is at my front porch every day. When the sun goes down, I like to watch the red rock light up like the furnace coal.

If there was a vortex that could send me back three thousand years I’d probably step back and hesitate for a moment and then jump through. Sometimes I wander why Creator put me in this time, in this reality. I’ve been waiting far too long for my ship to come in. Maybe some people have to swim out a little ways?

Travelers

by

Going back in time,
the soft clouds rewind quickly
to those passed centuries.
The sky is glowing
and the power is sweet.
Here they come,
people moving across the land,
carrying their babes,
moving to lower ground
for the winter.
The sky is always turquoise blue,
and the junipers grow wild.
They travel passed the red cliffs
and head into the Black Ridge country
on their way to the land of the whipping sands.

Soft and vivid dream
quiet like the groves of cottonwood grandpas
swaying in the steady wind.
The wind pushes the billowing clouds
through traveling sky.
Locusts buzz.

Hear the whispers.
The passed is alive
in the dreamer’s dimension.
Listen to the faded voices of the passed.
The rocks still speak.
The sacred images tell stories.
Go to the pictures on the rocks
they have the power.
Soft spoken meadow lark sings.
Those cottonwoods are angels
translucent rain falls on their branches.
The old ones revisit the land
because they are not forgotten.
They are remembered.
Peace. Sweet intelligent peace.
In a living dream, the old ones speak.

Went South Last Night

by

I went onto the Arizona Strip last night about thirty miles south of Saint George. I am going to go to Toroweap again and visit that grand place! It?s the 60-90 miles of dirt road that hinders most people from going there. The more time I spend in that country, the more I crave a BLM job there. Last night, I was shooting some photos, and had jump from one location to another so quickly, it almost gave me whip lash! The lighting was constantly changing. I would rush to my car, peel out, and fly to another location, creating those rooster tales behind my car. Then, the gigantic, beige moon climbs from behind a dark red mesa after the sun had settled. The air was warm, and the colors of dusk were quite astounding.

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