Writing from the far edges of the American desert.
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.
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 …
…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.
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!
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.
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.
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 …
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.
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 …
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.
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 …
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 …
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 …
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.
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 …
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 …
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.
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.
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 …
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.
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 …
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 …
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 …
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!
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 …
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 …
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.
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!
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. …
I am not satisfied with the current design for this weblog, so I am going to change things around a bit. It was supposed to be an experiment, but I’ve become greatly attached to this. I haven’t quite figured out how to use it? There is two other places that I do some serious writing; my personal hardback journal, and my notepad where poems are born. The blog is more informal, but highly personal? This morning, I’m just waiting on some clothes in the dryer, and then I’m headed to the Canyon Country Western Arts Festival which is just a …