Thunder rolls across the sky in winter time. How strange that the lightning would spark on the last part of November, while snow is falling. Oh, that powerful thunder echoed across the dark valley as I was heading home tonight, with snow flakes smashing into my windshield.
Beauty is everywhere in this world. The desert is so beautiful, with the deep sparkling snow covering the valley, and covering the mountains above.
With the wind,
Aspen leaves clap
in cheerful crowds.
Yet, their yellow bodies
barely cling
against winter air.
The Aspens creak,
like rusty wooden doors,
wood screeching against wood.
With the wind,
the trees move in waves
as grass in meadows.
Leaves clap and fall
from white painted branches.
The forest sings like rivers.
An aged river slithers through the yellow sandstone canyon. For millions of years it has. The clouds are passing through the sky, like there is no human existence. This world continues without the presence of humans. We should be grateful to be here, we should try harder to protect it.
I am sitting out here, with everything washed in a soft glow. The blue sky is gentle, not rough. The clouds are majestic, old looking, yet they constantly shape shift. The water in them is ancient. The water flowing in the river, carrying the canyon’s sediments, is ancient. The Earth thunders with an awesome beauty that hides in the Southern Utah Wilderness.
When all else becomes lost, I hope this place remains. The Canyons are safe havens. They speak quietly to those, who cannot find any other comfort in a turbulent, human world of wars, bloodshed, intolerance, and hate. There?s a good side to people, but the bad side is overwhelming…
There’s nothing so peaceful, like listening to a flowing river, wind dancing around, or hearing the various songbirds whistling in old cottonwoods. I want to stay in these places forever.
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 desolate
rolling desert hills.
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 the quietness of the howling wind.
For shape-shifting shadows that
haunt human existence.
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.
Just before dawn,
Pink colors glow
on the mountain peaks.
The snow storm has passed,
leaving everything frigid and silent.
The pink reaches the forest bottom,
Mixing with the brown shadows of
queer trees.
Their trunks rise up through snow,
exposing dark textured bark,
the skin of ancient monsters.
I love their phantasm
The mountain talks with mysteries.
Long ago, some old man
passed through these mountains,
on a horse, headed for Santa Fe.
He came right through these old pines
that kiss southwestern skies,
and catch desert wind.
*I recently watched Ron Howard’s film, The Missing, and the landscape in the movie inspired this poem. The scenery in the film reminded me of similar places I’ve been. That’s why I like Westerns. Some of them provide the awesome landscape photography that envelops the story, and its characters. Ron Howard’s film did an amazing job with the photography!
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.