West Desert Journal

Okay, I am trying to get a handle on room mates. They are starting to feel like family, so they are a social institution much like school, government, or the Mafia. So far, I enjoy the room mates, but the disagreements grow deeper. The key is silence, and learning to listen to them when they talk.

For my Cultural Anthropogy class, I am supposed to do field work. I’ve been eyeing the social interaction of my room mates. How do other room mates interact with each other?

She will confuse her companion,
test his might, and his will.
Her insecurity kills dreams.
She’s clouded, worried, and faithless.
Then she stops, and changes course.
All is happy again.
Everything is without manipulation.
A few days go by,
and then she’s worried and judgmental.
Then, she’s happy again,
and becomes afraid.
She washes the dishes
with deep sorrows.
The husband watches her
from the kitchen table.
He’s uncertain.
His muscles are sulking,
his feet feel heavy on the linoleum.
The woman is quiet.
Her conspiracy is planted.
There’s an escape,
and she will vanish.
He cannot place a finger on her sorrows,
or the grief on the dishes.
All he can hear
is her footsteps moving restlessly
through the corridors
of the noisy farm house.
Later, he’s sitting in his study,
reading the latest in world affairs.
While sipping on hot coffee,
and eating Swedish Fish.
The television is buzzing
in the background.
The tree outside, is violent with
wind from the desert.
It’s clashing the chimes,
and rapping the unpainted picket fence.
Off in the distance
a windmill swiftly turns
in the face of the oncoming storm.
He hears a sudden noise.
The wife has vanished.
He walks slowly upstairs.
He knew she struggled,
and wanted someone new.
She wanted to twist
his feelings into a tight ball,
that she could knit.
Her misery belonged to him.
It was his fault.
He was the villain.

I usually don’t write fictional story poems like this. I was also challenged to write something a bit more dark.

The clouds are like monsters descending upon the plateau, with shadows that blanket the landscape. The rain comes in February, in place of snow. When the desert is sweet, and quiet, nothing moves but the occasional wind. The sweet smell of rain mixes with fresh smells of Juniper, sage, and even the aromatic sand. I can feel spring coming, on the horizon; coming like a cloud shadow, to greet me. Spring comes to my window, song birds come to the trees.

On another note, I keep thinking of myself as an old man. I fear the thought of being prepared by some mortuary. To my future children, please don’t let these villians do this to me! I want you to haul me out into the middle of nowhere, and let the coyotes fill their stomachs. Let the hungry raptors feed their young. I don’t want to be stuck into one of those airtight coffins.

Somebody blew out all the windows
in that ragged saloon.
You know that
old ghost town,
on the edge of town?

The building still stands,
with broken glass
on creaky floor boards.
I feel deep, complex memories
associated with that
old western ruin.

I can hear sounds from inside;
something dances…
a beating ghost heart…
a wicked shadow
still carrying two persuaders!

With this type of poetry:

When it came to woman,
I never saw a thing, until you,
walking up and down
the halls of my mind.
And how I would dance to you.
Maybe I’m succumbing
to your deep, intrusive gaze?

The cloud shadows pass through my mind, through my spirit like flickering light. I venture into a trance-like day dream, somewhere quiet, deep into the dreamer’s wilderness. There are no cities, no structures, except black desert shadows trailing from the hot sun. The planet is a hearth of quiet suspension. I can meditate on what happened so long ago. There is nothing in my existence more powerful then the turning wind, and the flow of natural elements. Neither is there anything more great than the turquoise sky, and the deep sandstone canyons. Except for the image of an old rusty grandmother, shrouded in mystery. Through my eye, I see her in long sleeves and skirt, moving about, gathering corn, or the eggs from her chickens. She’s nursing the doggies as they struggle to survive. I see her moving around on a dusty afternoon, on some desolate ranch, working hard and long, until dusk. Her deep eyes gaze into mine as she smiles every now and then, and every time she passes by. Her image quietly fades away… I ponder the deepness of rivers, and of deep sandstone canyons, and the sweet smell of desert rain.

I think about the previous worlds of long ago, and the sight of this grandma. She didn’t speak to me, but she gave the most incredible smile. Way out in the boonies, where no one ever goes; there is something waiting to take me to another place, where wisdom never stops, where people have been on the journey of life much, much longer.