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A Desert That Haunts Me

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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 ghostly sorrows.

A Dent in the Drought

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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.

The Monstrosity of Lake Powell

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My latest excursion was a trip to Lake Powell, with my uncle. We spent the weekend there, and I was amazed how much the water level has dropped, leaving behind a thick white bathtub ring from the previous water level. The skeletons of dead cottonwoods, crumbling sandstone cliffs, and bleached cliff dwellings are all that remain from the original beauty of Glen Canyon. The landscape looks like a cemetery of all things drowned by Lake Powell. I feel sad and angry; I feel a few rednecks robbed Glen Canyon of its beauty when deciding to construct the artificial Glen Canyon Dam. They also robbed my generation and those to come, of a beauty that we can only view in photographs, or hear from those who loved the original canyon. I want the Colorado River to flow freely, allowing it to sculpt every area without restraint.

After seeing what the reservoir has done to Glen Canyon, it should be drained. They say with 40 years, the natural elements may be able to restore Glen Canyon to some of its original beauty. However, I know that there is a local economy built on the foundations of Lake Powell. The National Park Service calls the entire contraption; Glen Canyon Recreation Area. One tourist company’s slogan reads: Lake Powell – America’s Natural Playground.

As you can see, I would probably side with the Glen Canyon Institute and Living Rivers, on decommissioning the dam, and permanently draining Lake Powell forever; but I merely hold an opinion on this matter. I cannot speak against those who depend upon Lake Powell for their livelihood, but people need to start respecting the land, instead of exploiting it. Many see the land for economical or recreational value, or something that needs to be conquered. But the land is not ours to be exploited.

There are thousands of gas-guzzling houseboats traversing the reservoir like the Mississippi. It is a demoralizing issue altogether, and I want to see the canyon restored to its previous shape.

Mother Earth will take care of everything. A massive flood could easily rip out the dam. But the current drought has caused Lake Powell to drop nearly 130 feet. If the current drought persists, the dam may become completely useless. And whether we realize it or not, humans are only a small part of the ‘big picture.’

Silent Movies

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…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.

Hello Desert Storm

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Your thunderheads climb the glowing sky,
in a desert reflecting warm colors of sunset.
You bring sacredness this summer’s night
to enkindle a lonesome dreamer.

Desert storm of beauty,
Your clouds are breathtaking.
Your rain visits arid wastelands.

Your thunder echoes
over painted sandstone labyrinths
over cedar berried trees
over my sandblasted tent.

Your savor is intense.
Your sheer force humbles.
Your cloud juice is my soul food.
You’re my greatest friend!

Candled Skies

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Laying on my back beneath stars
galaxies and glowing gases
I think of the Creator.

There is no end, nor beginning.
There is no touchable ceiling.

Earth roams a mysterious-muted void
around a young star, quietly roaring.

My mind cannot wrap around infinity
nor the atrocious chasms of outer-space.
What about a 4th dimension?

For now,
I’ll just listen to the canyon wind
singing to my ancient soul
beneath those candled skies.

My 22 Year Old Hands

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They have felt cold desert rains-
the warm air when it sifts through sage.
They’ve dipped into fresh mountain springs.

They’ve cuddled baby lambs
and comforted nervous ewes.
They’ve been blasted by dust
and ripped over bobbed wire.

My hands are simple.
My grandmother’s hands are
deep mirrors of wisdom and silence-
I want hands that inspire
after ages of life.

At Our Meadowlark Ranch

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Dark rain clouds wander blue skies
where dreams come alive,
visions of the land singing

A raven cries from a hole in a gnarled tree
with twisted whistling branches.

Thunder echoes across the desert,
Farther than the eye can see

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

Locusts begin buzzin. An eagle heralds
The dawn when sunshine slithers
Up over the mountain rim

Grandpa pulls up his trousers because
Of no suspenders; he laughs
Out with his diabetic belly
And sings of how he suffers from
“Noassatall Disease”

Grand kids pile out of
The truck hollering and
Shouting as grandpa sticks
His false teeth back in,
Everybody is laughing

Heavens above are glistening
A joyful meadowlark sings.

The Quiet Day

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Those island clouds roll by.
The day is so quiet in summer shade.
On my back I lay.

The clouds twist and turn above mountain tops,
their shadows quietly roar.

God has been protecting my lonely heart
his olden days aren’t forgotten.

I dream and know the darkness of the woods.
I come here in the day time to feel the wind.
These things are clever.

I’m broken away from common life
thinking deeply on every rhythm
of the sleeping hidden grass.

This takes me farther away
and gives beautiful rain
from a dazzling gray.

Some of My Dreams

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I Dream of
cottonwoods gathered in river bottoms,
waving mountainous branches,
and knowing their wise spirits.

I dream of
sandstone canyons
and feeling the roaring of flash floods
and the thunder of rainstorms

I dream of
barren isolation,
of weaving through the deepest
interiors of the Colorado Plateau.

I dream of
constantly scouring the landscape on two feet,
beneath galactic clouds and blue sky.

I dream of
Creator’s artwork of sprawling wastelands.
I dream of the furthest horizon.

I dream of
someday dying in desert seclusion.
Let the wildlife feed on my remains.
Let my bones bleach under sunrays.
From dust we came.

Rivers of Faith

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The Creator gave me life.
I was born from dust and clay.
The Wind dances in my lungs.

From chrysocolla skies
my dreams are chiseled.

From granite clouds,
I was given inner strength.
My life and the land are one.

My faith flows in sandy rivers
traversing painted wastelands,
standing ageless as Bristlecone Pines.

One day,
my tangible existence will expire.
But I will forever roam
landscapes of beauty.

Something in the Mountains

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In the heart of the mountains, I hear pines singing and admire waves of grass pushing and pulling in meadows. Heavy clouds wield themselves against blue space. At meadow edges, forest gates stand dark where slender pines grow side by side.

I enter a quiet thicket where sunshine sifts through dense branches to touch an organic floor. The woods go on for miles, creeping.

There’s something very queer about high mountainous areas, or plateaus where aspen rattle; where young pines grow among dead ones. I can barely sort out their rotten, crumbling shapes. It is a cemetary.

Laying down on mossy soil, my mind crawls though mysteries. I hear the footsteps of a Sasquatch and the deep breathing in his chest. What a dream! I believe in this creature. Maybe he?s a friendly shadow in sync with earth’s quietness?

Things exist that we cannot see. I’ve spent my lifetime wandering the Southwest and I’ve heard the unusual noises whispering on windy days, or perhaps it was my hallucinogenic imagination?

I’m careful not holler with fear when alone in the mountains, faraway from roads ‘n trails. Deer, squirrels, and chipmunks visit my campsites. Maybe some day the mystery will find me alone. I fear unknown things. Often I wonder if it’s a fear of cougars, bears, and mentally-ill coyotes? Something is spying on me in the deep. The trees have eyes.

To Dad: Thanks for making me aware of the tempest inside.

Northwest of Page, Arizona

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This cold desert drowns in rain. The heat wave vanished, as clouds come strolling in over the Paria desert, just northwest of Page, Arizona. Water pelts the ground, breaking up the hard dirt. Thunder gallops across the vista, and the wind wails. Lightning flings its arms. In a pinion tree, sits a raven waiting with his head bobbed down. He’s dangling like a Christmas ornament. Water droplets fall from his folded wings, and from his dark tail feathers.

Under an alcove, I wait out the storm. Long ago, ancient Puebloans were hunting and gathering beneath these skies. I could just imagine them traversing up flashflood washes, where white caliche grows on rocks and tree branches, along Cottonwood strewn riverbanks that flow from sandstone canyons.

The raven ruffles his feathers, then flies from the pinion, landing on the ground 10-15 yards away. The little fellow just stands looking at me. Maybe he wants something to eat? I say nothing at all.

His shiny feather coat is perfect. Everything is black. His long beak stays closed and humble. By sage brush and wavy grasses, he rests. Letting the windy valley around, swallow him. Soon he squats, and bows his head falling asleep like a chicken at roost.

The desert is warm colored; dark red sandstone, deep purple clay, orange-pink cliffs, and yellow-tan mesas. The raven is surrounded by all these colors. Together they communicate the deepest message to my heart, that the beauty of this land is forever magnificent and rugged.

Old-Fashioned Heart

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I drive out of this small town early on a spring morning, and off into the wilderness. Heading down dirt roads on tires worn thin, they stir dust into clouds. Going 50 miles per hour across purple sage valleys, I’m headed for a mountain range of low rising foothills.

The road itself doesn’t intrude much. Southern Utah is a piece of the old west, where the brown foothills contrast sharply with blue sky. It is quiet, except for the distant rumbling of commercial jet airplanes, or a few cawing ravens.

Living in silence, I have an old-fashioned heart that yearns for the dying past. It is dying because humans are forgetting from whence they came. They are building new technologies and claiming to be evermore advanced. Soon they’ll be claiming to control the weather, and will have every spot of earth under their footsteps.

When that sun falls every night, I cannot stop looking into the crimson colors, knowing that one more day shrivels away. As we head into a future of uncertainty, what will we face?

I feel like a monster possessed with evils
that I cannot escape.

I’m stuck with my vehicle, a necessary evil,
four wheels to carry me across the barren planes.

I am a mass of thoughts
and dreams chasing forgotten things,
a recluse always in those mountains,
always feeling brave and alone.

The atmosphere is teeming with nomadic clouds.
I want to move with passion.

The earth owns my aching, ascetic core.

I’ve been broken and pulverized.
Still, I want to remain undeceived.
I want to resist modern-life
and day-dream.

A Spring Desert Dawn

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The sun is rising.
The dog’s lying in the grass
listening to the crickets.

The roses are blooming
along with daffodils.
The wind swings them.

My orange cat’s purring on
The window sill.
Wind whistles through
the window screens.

The sky is lighting up,
burning with
warm glowing hues.

Just outta bed, I
open the wooden door
and sit on the porch.

Chimes sing.
The air is full of
fine sediments
blown in
from the desert.

Spanish Treasure n’ Lost Gold

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There are several stories about lost gold mines and Spanish treasure in Southern Utah. After all, this land was once occupied by old Mexico. My grandpa warned me to stay away from the stories. They could drive anybody crazy who listened to them.

I was in a bakery in Cedar City and overheard two bearded guys talking about a possible gold mine that one of them found. Then one individual started telling a story about a crazy hermit that spent an entire lifetime searching for lost gold. He became desperate and found a cave in the mountains near Cedar City and collected all this petrified rat shit from inside. Filling the back of his truck trailer with this stuff, he drove to a place that would confirm it was gold ore! When they saw what it was, they busted apart laughing. I gotta be honest, it was a funny story.

This prospector must have been doped or something? There are many of these types that scourer the desert in search of hidden treasure. They seem to be the ones leaving their beer can trails all over the countryside. I’ve met a few that claim to be “expert” trackers.

lmao…

Sad Thing Happened Today

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Today, My brother, my cousin and I were coming back across a very remote area on the Arizona Strip on our way back from Toroweap, of the Grand Canyon. That is where we had been camping. You have to traverse 64 miles of Primitive dirt road to reach this part of the canyon, and we had some bad luck while heading home. My cousin took his truck because it offered 4-wheel drive, but his tire went flat because of a tear. We had some help from a stranger, and that was a lucky thing. We thanked him.

After an hour or more of driving, we came across some ranchers who were herding cattle down the road. They had a twelve-year-old boy that was following them (he was driving a truck and trailer with horses in the back!), and their sheepdog was following behind. As we were passing them, they were stopped and their sheepdog went under the truck, and maybe it was for shade? Anyways, as we were passing them the boy ran over his dog, killing it. It was terrible. We stopped and hollered them down, and the boy came out screaming for his dad with tears in his eyes. His mother had been sitting in the passenger seat. I’ve never seen anything so disheartening, and we were about 38 miles from the main highway.

All the way home, we couldn’t stop talking about what had happened. I can only imagine how this boy must be feeling? I wished I could’ve done more to help?

Stuff like this makes you realize how fragile and short life can be.

Rat Race of Modern Life

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The sky burned into ashes, leaving the vista shady and tender for my barren eyes to absorb. I’ve dodged the city. What a catchy place!

Even on the nighttime highway, and in my rearview mirror; someone’s headlights felt unsettling? This whole week, the tiny spurs of reality have been stabbing at my heart.

Then, a brief moment on a rain swept desert was curing all the misery?

Please disqualify me from rat race of modern life.

Short-lived

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The land has been swept
by winter and summer.
It’s tough and faded.
It’ll outlast any human era.

I once passed an old graveyard,
and saw the eroding tombstones.
Each individual had dreams,
a pumping heart,
and a smile.

The land
will outlive the foolishness
of lonely humans.

Ditching the Square House

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This morning, my bag was finally packed after inserting instant mash potatoes and Top Ramon. My cook’n pot is tight ‘n secure. My car is full of gasoline with blankets in the trunk. I’m prepared for the boonies, and now I’m feeling reckless, and something is waiting.

God, please, I’m leery of this formidable square house telling me how to behave and how to live. The TV is a non-stop chatter box. Society keeps rambling on… Everything has a purpose, but your face is in nature, it heals my silliness. Pity me for feeling more reclusive every hour.

Damn! I want the desert surrounding me, providing a hiding place from cities and towns of never ending man-made sounds. I love quiet days of cloud shadows passing over. This is true happiness, my friends!

The wind-swept canyon lands are awake with strange skies of soft blue complexion.

Cornstalks

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Rattle in the wind
like bones
soft and brittle,
the corn isn’t ready.
The wind loves your fields
of dead awful silence.
What creeps in your shade?

Cornstalks are friends,
they laugh,
and they cling
to Mother Earth,
graciously.

I sing to you,
from a hammock
nearby.
Just listening to your
Leaves.

The corn babies are wrapped
up in their cocoons,
still developing.

Give Me An Escape

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I picture myself somewhere in a sandstone canyon on the Colorado Plateau; a deep gully in the belly of Mother Earth. Rock walls tower hundreds of feet above my head. Looking up into a narrow sky, I see clouds drift slowly in the heavens. But really, I’m actually typing a message on the internet. There is tremendous pressure to disappear into the boonies, beyond the reaches of my home town.

A reckless wisdom taunts my footsteps, speaking to me in windy whispers. The trees have eyes looking at me. Listen to the forests howling in distant mountains. Giant Ponderosas filter wind through furry branches. Their steeples stand tall against Father Sky; their roots sink deep into Mother Earth.

I feel crazy, craving an escape. I’ve been chained to the hardware, the square house, the quilted bed, the fast food, the television, and the structured linear things of society. How bitter sweet.

Turning on the radio late last night, I listened to AM static singing from distant lands . I could imagine the radio waves bouncing and traveling hundreds, even thousands of miles to reach my little receiver and through the speakers.

Maybe I can wander off somehwere faraway?

The Cottontail

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Rocks cry under clouds pouring endless sweat
on green grass that dies slow in autumn.
The rabbit’s life grows cold and meets a fiery end.
Young was the sky that stood bold.

Shadows again hunt the black leafless night.
The sweetness is no more. Here comes he
an animal ghost laughing between
two unexplainable worlds.

It is quick with movement to steal air
carrying a joke that a jester couldn’t give.

The mystical trees paint the
coyote’s soul over a white canvas.
He answers quickly to the
injured rabbit’s eerie squeals
swiftly ending his struggle and pain
caused by the old man’s black Sedan,
as it journeyed the gravel road.

The Dreamer

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the mornings here on the desert are still,
long, and eternal
why is the landscape so barren,
and beautiful?

stories burn like the never ending past
I usually come here story hour
when Earth recites her tales
just before night when the heat sings sweet

I have found no common place
because my dream belongs to
this sea of rocks, stones, and bushes;
endless walls of grabbing beauty
and pictures painted on golden faces

when I die in my country bed
the sleeping hills bury me under their desert trees
one day walking across this endless void
will be peace within my happy cave

to my lonely fire at night,
I sing to your visions
the stars above
grow fat and twinkle
monsters are always heard
stone blood keeps flowing

never walk alone in
this world of supernatural

behind mountain doors
desert gods build palaces
Rolling thunder echoes across the land

Shadows

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Shadows creep behind images.
Unusual feelings manifest themselves
in the strange day.

A timbered forest is
where black ghost creatures
lose themselves in bushes.

A sound is made here
and then there.
The spook is a jestful trickster.

Many things speak up from the
floor of the ancient earth.
It is how the wild
animals of this forest
find peace to survive.

It crawls upon your skin,
walks upon your feet.
It dangles from wrinkled trees.

They have eyes staring
at you from nearby.
Maybe it is an unknown beast
about to jump from the brush!

Hypocritical Dude

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I enter the abominable church doors of a mall while listening to elevator music echoing down hallways of painted diversity, of various stores. Maybe I’ll go window-shop and purchase a book?

I stroll around with money in my pocket, supporting the system that I may despise? The establishment cuddles my sweet tooth for french fries and pizza. Afterwards a movie fills a spot on a lazy afternoon, a horror flick fresh after a hearty meal.

Feeling superficial in my heart, I wonder why I am plugged into this worldly infest of salad bars, and restaurants; and a town full of magic lights that buzz on street corners, and concrete-asphalt rivers that run for miles. I’ve traveled in a car, and looked at the random garbage, glass, and pop cartons that litter the edges of highways and interstates, woven from town to town in tangled lines on a map. The traffic on Interstates hums, honks, and screeches.

I complain in distress while waiting for my clothes in the dryer. The news marches across that TV screen and I’m intertwined with the machine. It has captivated me with electricity, and restrooms with indoor plumbing instead of out-houses. No walking through snow 200 feet in the middle of a winter’s night, just one simple flush.

But let me tell you, my feelings of resistance clamor! Tenacious are the glimpses of my imagination and its shimmering temptations. All else is uneasy on this strange earthy day in this minature western town. All around this eerie house, that wind keeps howling!

Through the Window

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The morning light peered through that dirty window. The dawn was dark blue. The gusts of night were settling down. Robins nestled in trees and sung in choruses. My feelings were bewildered. My brain was recovering from yesterdays unsettling world of chaos: News flashing, history popping, and radios screaming. They all had the unique affect of creating a rambunctious fury.

Where the mountain sits waiting, the white painted aspens rattle their leaves; something grows uneasy? Here in a dark bedroom, unsettled thoughts march down the main-streets of my subconscious, into halls of my conscious. They refuse to leave, and are so pugnacious.

Night time slips away, and when dawn shines through the window, there’s so many reasons to be thankful. As I write, I ponder previous days and the hardships that humans continue to face.

Desert Frying Pan

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The redrock sea still simmers shortly after dusk. During daytime hours, it was a frying pan sizzling beneath traveling blue clouds. Even green shady trees couldn’t yield to that massive fireball in heaven!

This world of crimson light hums with desert heat. Secrets shroud themselves in realms of deep starry night, after father sun drifts beyond western horizons. Listen to those humble hoots of a wasteland owl that sings from cottonwoods. Many creatures hunt skillfully in darkness.

To all furry little rodents, beware! That great winged beast haunts the midnight air.

Great Horizon

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He raises his arms to the black sky untamed knowing of an endless escape, of making voyages to limitless places, where the clouds form dark castles. The gentle rains touch the weary land with a sparkling shimmer, like stars at night. These vistas weave a web in his mind, entrenching themselves permanently.

Forever, let him travel where eagles beat their wings upon air and plane the sky so free. This Journey tonight is a different world beyond the Sun’s horizon, where heaven and Earth meet. Oh how this heart sings!

Landscapes of Isolation

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There are strange feelings in my bosom, singing in my cranium. They roar like thunder in summer. These dreams love beauty. They stand defiant against those that harm Mother Earth. For the land never stops calling my spirit. Those Pinion foothills call my name, and even spacious landscapes of isolation. Those mountains laugh and sing like coyotes, but they protect this loneliness.

I am free from the cage of society, free from chains. I throw away those consumerist woes. I can feel Earth Mother once again, and feel her beautiful dream, even on darkened nights.

The spring season draws nearer. Flowers start to bloom. The crickets are fiddling at dusk. Robins start their chaotic symphonies right before dawn. Far away from town, my mind floats through mountain valleys of sage and cedar.

In the middle of night the tower of stars glows bright. In a rocky canyon that surpasses time, I surpass the vanities of a punitive world. On that eroded desert floor my camp fire burns and crackles. The light flickers and dances off sandstone walls.

Sometimes a blackened forest is a cathedral in the bliss of night. When all else fails to make me happy, I disappear into the wild. I sometimes fear the mysteries that creep out there, to and fro; where rocks may speak their wishes! But on those long days, the Creator is looking after my lonely heart.

Forgotten whispers are carefully listened to. The old ways travel the wind. Always respect what is sacred.

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