West Desert Journal

…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.