West Desert Journal

Okay, I had a wild hair to break out of my shell of conformity and write a few words here on Freedom. I’m talking True Freedom and how it feels. First comes courage and faith to think outside the box and to be different from all the others. Freedom is finding the courage to really let a woman know she is beautiful. Freedom is the wild horse that roams the great basin or is the man that decides to hitch-hike the lonesome highways of America. Freedom is to enter the quiet canyons of the Colorado Plateau and to experience solitude and seclusion.

I seek to be different and to emerge with a unique identity in a world of common imagery and unchanging static. My spirit is like a wild eagle and it cannot be bound by conformity, though I choose to conform. My shadow is a true rebel, but I have learned to bridal the Poncho Villa within. As I roam the great and vast distances of the American West and live the rural small town life - I have learned to experience true freedom on a daily basis. I thank the Creator for instilling in me such a strong and innate since of being. That is, because I am truly sovereign on a personal level and no one will ever tell me what to do! I choose what I choose and discard what is useless.

My affinity is for those that are striving to discover true freedom and who are trying to break away from the mold. There are lonesome hearts and there are dreamers; they are all naturally my friends.

True freedom and happiness comes from within. It all comes from my heart and now I am expressing it here the best way I can. This is just a sliver of my heart and there are infinite ways for me to go. Life is one big adventure to me and I am excited to see what lays around the next bend. With each major rapid I roar with anticipation and excitement.

It has become Methuselah
while the sweat of black sun
drips from its wooden claws
which break
timeless howling winds

Daily
the cloud people travel
beyond its barren branches
into the ages
of silence

On the furthest edges
of God’s Holy Imagination
stands the test of time

With dark sandstone
plateaus below and
High above
on it’s heavenly throne
rules the ancient
Bristlecone Pine!

It is a candled night
in dreams they sleep
vast distances lay between

the firelight dances in their minds

with each passing hour
the dream fades
then grows

an empty void fills
the interior walls
of yesteryear
even yesterday

a vision of pairs
walks carefully down
an imagined street

the soft candled
sky shows fiery hues

spiraling galaxies throw
colorful intensities

all the while
in the deepness of the soul
the heart rakes the
rugged densities of life

the feeling of absence
grows arduous in
dark moonless hours

when a beautiful song
cannot be sung
…i know a place
where no one ever goes…
that is how the song is sung
but silence reverberates

no careful peace is felt
on a moonless night
when stars ignite the heavens

and with the silence
comes no certainty

it is peace and quietness
that claims forested hills
in the isolated mansions of earth

the quietest of solitudes
are discovered

i hear the song in my mind
while sleeping as rip van winkle
under a wise cottonwood
of thick, rattling leaves

it all seems a dream
even the labors of life

when basking
in beauty and repose

in the candled night
i dream of the azure sky
beside a mountain stream
singing the same careful tune

it is in a far off place
somewhere
far away

My love of life is incredible and God made me into a pillar of light. Because I am happy to be free, to roam the quiet folds of reality, to travel the haunted night. I drive a small vehicle down the back roads and dirt roads of a big sky desert. My time is short on earth, but spectacular! When I die, allow the coyotes, buzzards, and varmints to eat my satisfied remains. in the end, I want to give something back to the world of creation that spawned me. How grateful I am to be a part of the grand scheme, from birth to death, in a world of the thriving unknown. Where ghosts lurk behind creaky doors and phantoms float the sandy canyons and the wind truly wails.

There is a rainbow over yonder
it sings for you.
Through stands of Ponderosa
the same light creeps
across your bare feet.
While you sift
the soft
fertileness.

inside the doorway of the traveling sky,
there is quiet peace in this world.

although there is a lonely wagon filled with ashes
it wonders past sea and mountain, and through the valleys.

when it gets dark and black.
without sight, does it wonder
and cannot find peace.

the children that knew, are crying,
while their parents lay in bed dying.
and so the only mother of them all
went to her autumn grave,
and soon the peaceful snow gathered.

the wagon wonders,
with it’s ashes.

In the dark it wonders.

but in dreams, the children are free
where burdens do not exist.
where suffering has no season.

sad world, sad people.
God has been abandoned,

in a hidden place,
the wagon of ashes has stopped,
far away beneath the treeless moon.
the stars are freezing in the bitter cold.

the children that knew are crying,
while their parents were dying,
in the realm of this sad, sad world.

Dream of the old way.,
Vanish into the back woods.
The power of the wind is strong.
There is a shadow in the trees.

The powerful mystery speaks.
Dream of the spirit life
Where boundless solitude is found.
Go into the desert alone
Because it is calling you.

There’s a spirit home for every soul.
And the shadow waits.
In the hills over yonder
The mystery sleeps.

The sun is shining in a quiet world
of peace and stillness
Where the forever hills sleep,
that is where you should go

If you are a child of the mountains.

The sky is full of storm,
As I retire for the night,
listening to the dense wind blow.
The rain begins to tap the house.

This past summer
the trees were buzzing with ghosts.
And there on the edges of reality
a fiery noise did grow.
The noise is unquiet.
Listen as the coyotes howl…

Praise to those that can hear
the powerful song of beauty.
Beware to those
who do not recognize anything.

The beauty of the wilderness
is beating inside me.
Scenes from an ancient ponderosa forest
flower in dreams, deep at night.
These dreams radiate with the glow
of black sun and turquoise sky.
Wind dashes through the pines
like white water rapids.

The sound is strong, listen.
Love the beauty.
For whatever may come,
be ready!

The ferocious wind
whips through tree branches.
I close my eyes and imagine
it’s a dark and supernatural wind
blowing civilization into oblivion.
The wind is singing, howling, and rushing.
The sound is perfect, superb, and beautiful.
Into the ocean deep mind, I descend
remembering ancient days.
It is summoning the anarchy
that burns in my soul.
Where’s an escape
that leads to the past?

Buzzing power lines cut the wind
The wind howls and moans as darkness grows.
Winter pushes spring feelings away,
And brings dark cloud ships
that hug mountains,
shrouding them in eerie mist.
Fog enters the desert basin.
Mule Deer gather in cottonwood groves.
Flakes of snow start to invade.
The sun’s heat has faded.
The storm moves slow.
By morning, theres eighteen inches of
Fresh powder and growing.

A boy sat outside the village
looking at the grave yard at the mesa’s edge.
“What ever happened to the dead?” he pondered.
“Are they living some where else far away?”

Skeletons walking around after
the day turns to night
inspires the boy to dream of
the darkness and deepness of rivers.

“Are the dead living somewhere else?”
Out on the mesa edge he prays every morning.
He prays, waiting for the sun to come up;
to come over and talk to him.

Every night, he dreams of the
medicine that will make him dead.
He wants to go see the corpse house. Please come.
The sound is making him old.
His dream for the crimson light is fading.

“Poem inspired from a Hopi story.”

dark rain clouds
wander the blue sky
making the dream come
alive a vision of the
land singing

Then cries the raven
from its hollow in the
knarled tree
that twists its branches
into the ancient wind

Thunder echoes way across
the desert yonder
farther than
the eyes can see

The black rock
was the blood of
that ancient beast
that was slain so
long ago

the locust begin buzzing
and an eagle heralds the dawn
when that sun peaks
up over the rim of mountains
the clouds catch
pink-red rays

The old man pulls up his
trousers because
of no suspenders. He laughs
out with his diabetic belly
and sings of how he has
“Noassatall disease”

The grand kids pile out of
the truck, hollering and
shouting as grandpa sticks
his false teeth back in

while heavens above are glistening
and the happy meadow lark sings of
a beautiful new day

I am wondering through what beauty is left…

There is hardly a place to go
where man has not intruded.
Everything is changing.
I dream of what happened long ago.
What was Earth like then?
There is a divine power today,
not all is gone.

I believe that the sky
and the landscape will change.
People will have no part in it,
if they are not worthy.

Strange things come to me on the wind.
The sun in this quiet world is talking to me.
The Earth is helping me dream too.
The ravens are excited, and chatter
the news around in their little circles.
The desert is waking up,
and the ocean of silence is telling me.

So I have learned…

It is gusty tonight,
as the fiery sun sinks into
the western mountains
Stars flood heavens deep
The ancient desert sings
The voice of the mountain
wails through the pinion
singing with the streams of
yellow grass and sage
The basin below
is cold and dusty

The mountain wind moves all night
The Coyotes run the midnight hills
yipping and howling
in the heart of this resistant land

Never to be taken!
Nothing is controlled
Nothing can rob the
soul of the wild

No person
will hinder me
from venturing
into shadow

creeping into the
deeper wild

where the
wind sings
ageless

further ‘n further
away from
my captors

…the wraiths
of civilization

No individual
will persuade me
from the call of
creation

forward,
into beauty
of earth and sky.

Way off in those mountains,
Phantoms are better left unknown.

The sun descends beneath the large red mesa,
The clouds soak the sunset glare.
It is silent, except for the thunderstorm.
A beautiful purple thunderhead expands,
Blue lightning ignites and echoes.

Hear the wind, and the rain falling
On the sandstone mesa. Smell the sage.

In the foothills, the wind whips the juniper jungle.
There is a feast; an unearthly celebration going on.
They are busy, tonight, somewhere in those hills.
They dance and shift in dark caves.
In cobweb networks they sing.

Bottomless mountains rise
above the Virgin River Gorge
It is a strange day On top of Sullivan Canyon.
Thick white crystalline ledges dive into Precambrian hell.
Pegmatite yields pomegranate beads of rich garnet.
Teethy shadows cling to desert oak with fingernails.
Manzanita grows exceptionally thick in twisty stands,
hard to push my sweaty body through.
Winged phantoms fear not my approach.
From the bowels something growls with enchantment.
Somewhere among the whispering Juniper forests
hides a tunnel leading to another place,
a vortex that radiates with unknown passions.
I turn on the headlamp, looking for treasure,
cities full of creatures and monsters of long ago.
I’ve dared the Earths gaping mouth.
so don’t tease this face or make smiles.
I’ve pitied the demons that deserved heaven.
Some demons were better then human.
In the wind, Grandma’s chimes dance,
and the canyon grows heavy on my mind.
I explore the talking night after my excursion.
Someday the unknown will unlock me some answers.
I dream of Precambrian hell.

An Amazing world, this little earth
strange and magnificent.
We were headed to Toroweap
Thousands of ravens planed the sky
against orange and yellow clouds.
They followed us.
Timeless things await.
So, how do humans stew
over the most simple things,
such as daily life in a town?
I refuse to assimilate.
The raven windows the harsh beauty.
Arizona Strip, unmolested
enjoyed by few ranches, modern homesteads.
She still sings the old way.
Vivid dreams of Pinion ignite.
Simply colorful and intriging.
Virmillion Cliffs radiate.
Cold wind howls in the pines.
Smell fresh winter rain.
We passed under raging cloudbursts,
dark cloud shadows.
The road was thick mud-
in the arms of that isolated high desert.
Such brilliance creates laughter in my soul.
Those graceful ravens were soaring
beneath luminous clouds in evening mist.
Their silhouettes were abstract.
Keepers of the Spirit World.

Going back in time,
the soft clouds rewind quickly
to those passed centuries.
The sky is glowing
and the power is sweet.
Here they come,
people moving across the land,
carrying their babes,
moving to lower ground
for the winter.
The sky is always turquoise blue,
and the junipers grow wild.
They travel passed the red cliffs
and head into the Black Ridge country
on their way to the land of the whipping sands.

Soft and vivid dream
quiet like the groves of cottonwood grandpas
swaying in the steady wind.
The wind pushes the billowing clouds
through traveling sky.
Locusts buzz.

Hear the whispers.
The passed is alive
in the dreamer’s dimension.
Listen to the faded voices of the passed.
The rocks still speak.
The sacred images tell stories.
Go to the pictures on the rocks
they have the power.
Soft spoken meadow lark sings.
Those cottonwoods are angels
translucent rain falls on their branches.
The old ones revisit the land
because they are not forgotten.
They are remembered.
Peace. Sweet intelligent peace.
In a living dream, the old ones speak.

The horned creature draws near
His eyes sockets are filled with dust.
Something dashes through through the trees, laughing
The visitor has come.

The painted female and male are holding hands.
The thunderbird dances.
The images are animating.
The pinions grow exceptionally thick.
The dead are visible from other dimensions.
The crickets chant.

Fearless whispers draw near.
Harrowing creatures wallow close.
I hear the creek sifting the ancient rocks.
The horned one is looking at me.
Dust filled eye sockets.

The mountains are calling you brother
Come, they are waiting.
Come, there is a secret waiting.
You must go to the crossing

A child in dream
visits the mountains
converses with bears.
There is no fear.

Voices dance in shadows,
deep below luminous peaks
beneath the candled skies.

Yonder
the little mountain people dance
they dance and glow.
In the dark earth
they weave their cobwebs.

Come, says the the wailing wind.

It is windy tonight.
The fiery sun sinks into
the mountains of burnished slopes.
Stars flood the heavens deep.

The canyon voice
whips through the Pinion and Juniper.
The basin below is cold and dusty.

The mountains are singing all night.
Come to me, say the mountains,
travel far into the wild
where the unknown waits.
The Tree Man will care for you…

It is in me.
I’m walking through a deep forest,
of gigantic pines.
I can see myself moving about
in the dream.

I’m a tree.
My arms are branches.
My feet are the roots.
I grow tall beside a
small mountain cabin.

Deep cliff shadows engulf the canyon.
Softened sunlight fades.
Darkness comes quick.
After a windy evening storm
I push my feet in wet sand
and listen to storm-provoked waves
of Lake Powell crashing in the darkness

Bats chase moths around the kerosene lamp.
An owl hoots from Cottonwood skeletons.

I’m 50 miles from any town
trapped in Glen Canyon’s heart.
The only way out is a boat.
I feel the restless
waters of the Colorado River
wanting to burst.
The lake whispers!

A soft spoken meadowlark
moves from a fence post,
up into a Blue Spruce…
This spruce is growing in the desert!
It doesn’t look like other steepled evergreens.
It’s all bent out of shape
growing right up from the sage.
It stands alone.
Where’s the others?
Hmm…

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.