Poems

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.

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 …

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The mountains are calling you brother Come, they are waiting. Come, there is a secret waiting. You must go to the crossing A child in dream visits the mountains converses with bears. There is no fear. Voices dance in shadows, deep below luminous peaks beneath the candled skies. Yonder the little mountain people dance they dance and glow. In the dark earth they weave their cobwebs. Come, says the the wailing wind.

It is windy tonight. The fiery sun sinks into the mountains of burnished slopes. Stars flood the heavens deep. The canyon voice whips through the Pinion and Juniper. The basin below is cold and dusty. The mountains are singing all night. Come to me, say the mountains, travel far into the wild where the unknown waits. The Tree Man will care for you… It is in me. I’m walking through a deep forest, of gigantic pines. I can see myself moving about in the dream. I’m a tree. My arms are branches. My feet are the roots. I grow tall …

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A soft spoken meadowlark moves from a fence post, up into a Blue Spruce… This spruce is growing in the desert! It doesn’t look like other steepled evergreens. It’s all bent out of shape growing right up from the sage. It stands alone. Where’s the others? Hmm…

She will confuse her companion, test his might, and his will. Her insecurity kills dreams. She’s clouded, worried, and faithless. Then she stops, and changes course. All is happy again. Everything is without manipulation. A few days go by, and then she’s worried and judgmental. Then, she’s happy again, and becomes afraid. She washes the dishes with deep sorrows. The husband watches her from the kitchen table. He’s uncertain. His muscles are sulking, his feet feel heavy on the linoleum. The woman is quiet. Her conspiracy is planted. There’s an escape, and she will vanish. He cannot place a finger …

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Somebody blew out all the windows in that ragged saloon. You know that old ghost town, on the edge of town? The building still stands, with broken glass on creaky floor boards. I feel deep, complex memories associated with that old western ruin. I can hear sounds from inside; something dances… a beating ghost heart… a wicked shadow still carrying two persuaders!

With this type of poetry: When it came to woman, I never saw a thing, until you, walking up and down the halls of my mind. And how I would dance to you. Maybe I’m succumbing to your deep, intrusive gaze?

The fire ignites the oily wood cracking and echoing into the forest. Infinite candled stars glitter in the black staircase above the trees. There are whispers in the Quaking Aspen in the dark grass. Faraway from the settlements A Great Horned Owl sings in the tallest Ponderosa. With every hoot he becomes a shadow. The ghost soon stops? as I enter into the darkness. I hear the fire behind… Eating the pitch, snapping and casting orange ribbons of light. Deeper and deeper my footsteps go into the black labyrinth? creating excitement mystery, courage, tears, and dreams. This was long ago. …

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There in the sky’s cathedral, in the white painted aspens, where the land is still untouched; is a place where I can go to get away from the ignorance of the world. In this space is the space in which I tick. This miraculous landscape is alien to its own existence. It’s unlike anywhere else. Like the song of the hidden valley, where no one ever goes. I sit beneath a living tree, below the foot of a large sleeping hill. Now from this place, the Earth Mother speaks to me in dreams. In the sun soaked clouds, those dreams …

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I’d been hiking through sage, and sand for hours. The sky was blue and calm, but small clouds soon grew thunderous. I brought my two dogs with me on that afternoon excursion in July. The wind wailed, and whistled through stone crevices. The cloud shadows began to merge, and soon rain was falling. I was hours away from my vehicle parked on the highway’s edge. After spending time at a petroglyph site, I was able to find a small cave, to wait out the storm. Lightning clapped and echoed through the canyon… As I reached the entrance of the cave, …

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I hold a blue mineral colored as the turquoise sky like an azurite dawn before sunrise. or even the deep blue night holding a silver moon. A polished cabochon of Chrysocolla emanates the early spring morning glow or a dreamlike trance that clouds traverse. My grandmother’s oxidized silver ring, is inlaid with Robin’s Egg Turquoise. She purchased it in Kingman back when Highway 66 was in its prime. The blue of the turquoise resonates her own beauty, and her age. Pieces of Chrysocolla Turquoise, and Azurite unite shades of dense blue minerals. The earth painted them from her soul of …

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I wonder the lonely electric, internet abyss twisting with uncertainty while sifting through uncanny piles of restless information. Raw data wants to reach sheltered minds. Screams are muted in the static of internet space choked by joyous or horrible manifestations. Religious or progressive fanatics stretch forth leery hands to offer weary hopes. In a shattered world, tangled up in magic power lines nothing is really safe. Cities sit next to dark oceans towns next to old landscapes. The internet motor continues to purr. I am waiting for the lights to go out. For the story-telling TV to shut down. For …

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I’m the sandstone cliffs, that overshadow cottonwood trees. I’m the dark basin valley that engulfs your little cabin. The shrieking wind is my soul. I am the wasteland that gives you access to sleepless dreams. My age will outlast human eras. My heart will sustain life forever. My wisdom will never die. My grace is endless, eternal beauty.

Rusty, painted figures animate on yellow sandstone pallets- made from red ochre that endured forty centuries. These supernatural beings dance across the pallet. They are living, breathing souls. Trees grow from finger tips, Antennas and tangled hair sprout from alien heads I feel the beating heart of the canyon. I can feel their ghostly patterns. What are they doing when nobody draws near? They look without eyes, Whisper at night. Painted humans travel across the rocks. Headless human beings hold hands, or connect feet. I leave a gift, a coin, Or something.

Eddie was the old banchee-like man with a twisted, hairy face. From town to town he went- singing quiet to himself along yellow grasses and highway. Eddie says he’s the Bigfoot Man. At night-time he sings, while watching the ancient moon rise. Over each belt of cloud, and dark mesa dream.

An elderly woman sits above a sandstone canyon, looking at the moon, in the shape of a cow’s horn. Thin and silver, its rests behind clouds. She deserted her home, before her children arrived to haul her away to the rest home. Looking into the darkness of cottonwoods below, She listens to the tireless flow of the river, traversing an ageless path towards the sea. Her own children betrayed her. They ignored her dreams, with their busy cell-phone lives. This canyon overlaps her age, or the wrinkles of her skin. Her mind became wise from listening to the wind. She …

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I WILL NOT accept the things I cannot change. I’ll break the windows of everything I know! I’ll listen to passionate dissidents. I want to deconstruct civilization. I’m tired of frivolous squares forcing circles to become squares. I’m sick of Uncle Sam the greedy pig, smoking his cigar on top of Mother Earth. I’m sad, because I’m sick of the beast. Squeezed by the left and right to follow their political lead. All I want, Is the safety of thunderstorms and gentle rains and windswept red deserts. Give me a horse, or a mule. I’ll become an old hermit With …

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I’m waiting in autumn for you. I’m freezing in the snow, waiting for the unknown to dissipate, so I can witness a dream untold. Somewhere in canyon country, you are waiting. I see your crystal eyes reflect off canyon pools in summer, but nothing is there… It rouses me, like weeping. Only the howling wind is heard. Sharpened trees, slice the wind. Sunglow illuminates their flickering leaves. The earth pads my tired feet. Everything on the outside, is stirring inside. Something sensual and dark hides in the bushes and rocks, in the infrared clouds. Deep from within Mother Earth, the …

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Chipmunks eat Starburst’sweet, fruity, and sour. It’s not quite like regular seed! They enjoy the hiker. But shy of humans, ravens plane the cliffs looking down on the hiker in suspicion. Junipers yield naked bluish berries, hard like steel between the teeth. The sandy creek winds its way cutting through banks of fine sediment. Boulders sit in rock slide piles, coming in endless shapes. Some without faces. Some frown, or smile, to show glittering, sandstone teeth. There’s the canyon’s shadowy ghost, it doesn’t mind the human, either. Clouds travel the September skies. The hiker shouts while finishing lunch, his voice …

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Deep in the harmony of painted labyrinths, and steeply slanted canyons-hidden in time, I feel condemned or exalted in the silence. As I traverse blue mountain ranges, The lure of Canyon Country is very strong. If absent from its stark beauty, The desert intensifies within my mind. I feel safe with loneliness, my curse. Between Earth and sky, my wandering shadow moves. Clouds shadows creep over gnarled plateaus, dreaming. The wind softly sweeping, sings to my soul. The desert hears my song, my spirit. The murmur of sleepless coyotes shakes me with delight. The darkness of the wilderness quenches my …

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The clock’s ticking; crickets singing Monsoon rains are outside eating August away. Rivers flow down streets. The town at night illuminates cloud systems in dark purple and pink. There are no stars out. Dense humidity smells up the house, making everything unbearable, sleepless, hot. Lightning slams the earth scaring neighborhood dogs, whining and pawing at midnight doors.

…I remember those early silent films of the twentieth century, playing to music and captions; the music always weeping along with muted actors… Humans know nothing of their existence. …I love the antiquity of flickering, and voiceless motion pictures. The art was waged against newly pioneered camera eyes… We experiment and explore because we feel alone in the futility of our inscrutable universe. …I can see true human dreams and excitement escaping through every frozen frame… We can only speculate, and have faith to believe we know where to venture.