West Desert Journal

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.

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 dust we came.

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.