My yard stands quietly in the sun,
Morning bones of adobe bright,
Measured shadows lean like questions,
Muted fences breathe warm dust,
Mesa winds hum through still air,
Memory settles in soft light,
Motionless heart of the desert.
This house like a mother
a womb to curl into
a place calling for
prayers for the dead
I am an open book
a bible with torn pages
This house like a mother
whose heart is worn
outside the stars
live with hope
of better days
No sleep in the round
snail room, her spiral
empty and full
there is no one
who knows
the song of sorrow
except the raven
Starbird
Death, the only outcome
of living and choosing
we who love wisely and
we who don't
Bring back the magic
my son, my daughter,
my child who cries in the night
where the wild coyotes mourn
In the distance I listen
behind the mauve adobe wall
written across my chest
I find this poem
late into the night
with blue feathered tears.
A crow struts into a bar,
it's a crow, not a native American.
There's a hot wind blowing through town
Texas Rangers are drinking on the job.
A young beauty is busy
capturing boys' hearts
on her I Pad.
A land Line rings loudly
from a backroom -
no one has the skill to reply to the call.
The sleek jet-black bird
commences to dance
on the dusty wooden floor,
neck back and cawing loudly.
A picture of Clint Eastwood
looks down from an adobe wall,
he is 150 years old now
but he is still the rightful President.
Some crusty old-timer
throws a ten-dolor bill on the counter.
Soon the crow is drinking
and occasionally playing the fool.
Outside, a mule bray's,
crow flaps up and leaves
for the past.
Hollywood is still slowly arriving.
Native Americans have been on strike
for a hundred years.
The Crow Nation brews its own beer
and rez cops take their share
and don't care.
Before he could draw his mind
da Vinci made cathedrals with his fingers.
We once built an adobe hut
in New Mexico,
I was surprised how alike it was
to a poem taking shape.
When it was done, we pressed our hands
and fingers into the still wet mud walls.
The last rays of the evening sun
turned those hand-prints into gilded gold.
It was then that we knew we were Adam and Eve
and there was nothing yet but us
until the world would arrive
like an old painting out of nowhere.
A world bloodstained and crazy enough
to build helicopters or a Mona Lisa,
a bowl of fruit, or an adobe house in the desert.
That world had countless fingers
shaped from pure energy.
Together we formed a God
out of sticks and stones,
a rough idol that was holy for a while.
We kept it on a shelf above a small fireplace.
Often the flickering shadows of the flames
resembled the nimble fingers of an artist
at work.
One hot summer day
Atop of adobe flat
A white dove flying.
I intend touring around the globe
For something I just wish to now probe:
Not how many guys wear clothes like robe
Nor how many would build with adobe;
Rather, whether it is now in vogue
To put to death a suspected rogue,
Standing on reasons strong but still vague;
Mock trial: The abhorrence of Hague,
Unleashed upon some soul Egypt’s Plague;
By God first arranged for the Non-Vague
But I’ve been advised: face Africa!
For your tours you leave Costa Rica
And don’t even near America;
All through guided by Britannica…
The Mission in Milton Creek, I’ve acquisitioned
Converted into the town’s culinary mecca
Aptly designed and scenically positioned
Inspired from ancient recipes revived Azteca
An enchanting bistro tastes of old Mexicana
To lift spirits, share and warm the hearts
Paintings by Frida Kahlo the valiant Chicana
Every Sunday, an Institute of Culinary Arts
Christened ~ Saint Milt's in his memory
On the adobe walls his poems will be hung
Milt will live on here with love and glory
Mariachi folksong praises shall be sung
Welcome to St. Milt's Culinary Mission
You R my holy
You’re my Glory
You R my story
My solely, Hallelujah
Once thought myself lowly
Unholy
But Jesus in my life He role He,
Bestow me, uphold me
He’s mine Ghetto homie
None controls me
He’s mostly Love, Mercies, Grace from above;
My Father although he
Sent His Son down to die for you and I
Through Him we shall not die
Know we the Father Jesus Son He adobe
Abodes on the right hand of the Father, (Hallelujah)
Hope he
He does
Knows me
He does
Homie
He is
Ago He is
Now past, present and future
He loves me unconditional
Once thought myself lowly
Unholy
But Jesus in my life He role He,
Bestow me, uphold me
He’s mine Ghetto homie
None controls me
He’s mostly Love, Mercies, Grace from above;
You R my holy
You’re my Glory
You R my story
My solely, Hallelujah
1/9/23
Written words by James Edward Lee Sr. 2023©
I’d not thought of it before
But could swear “Two” not “Four”
Or aren’t we His planned image,
Later with Sinners’ Damage?
Please tell others: “Dazzling Bright!”
Shone that way Met Moses’ sight!
A Pair for The Furthest Probe,
No help from Man’s Screening Robe;
All corners see of The Globe,
Your Stolen Wealth’s Built Adobe…
A Breast for Cancerous Lobe,
Waiting–in–Blood–Stream Microbe,
Necks that shall wear a rope,
Ears that could never a lope;
Men who shall soon cease to cope,
Though not blind but begun to grope
For long courting. Killer Dope…
Lips with ‘Yep’ that ring as ‘Nope’…
See! I have described God’s Eyes:
They are both Eyes and The Wise!”
So strange this land, old and yet young.
Where is this place of tall green trees,
and grey-haired men in unknown tongue?
they must have traveled summer's breeze.
Adobe brick quonset "chalets"
mud-soaked roadways in all the blocks.
WACs and wives and waifs everyday
midst hollyhocks and four o'clocks.
Los Alamos*, this place must be.
A land of Oz 'neath bluest sky.
Where science dealt humanity
a fatal blow, then watched it die.
A perfect paradox is this.
How splendid to contrast the two--
a lovely place/a devil's kiss,
and wisdom sprinkled like the dew.
I left quite soon but still recall
the secrets hidden on each page.
The lilac mountains looming tall,
their perfume of fission and sage.
August 5, 2022
"Terra Incognita"
for This or That, Vol. 13, poetry contest
by Edward Ibeth
*Los Alamos Laboratories, New Mexico, are where the atomic bombs were
created then dropped on Hiroshima and Nagasaki, Japan in WWII.
I Rise
I open the windows of my humble adobe
I breathe in the mountain air
I make a pot of coffee
Then read the News...
Recession, inflation
Homeless, addiction
Waste on our streets
Men and women on the mall
Lead in the air
Another one falls
Rifles galore
Rockets hit Kyiv
Russia waring
Men take aim, insanely proud
Little ones dying
Africa starving
Immigrants waiting
Refugees seeking
It makes me ill
I open the windows more
I breathe in the mountain air
I see deer in the meadow below
Emerging from the shadows of the mission’s broken wall,
The moon falls on her shoulders like a ghostly silken shawl.
She wears a chain of silver and abalone shells.
Her eyes as bright as emeralds, her voice, like Spanish bells.
She wanders past the courtyard, the potter’s earthen jars,
The lights of the cantina, the lullaby guitars,
To step beyond the threshold of conservative affairs,
And let her dark desires be the focus of her prayers.
She conjures desperados burning ranchos built of straw.
Her reckless indiscretions led to brushes with the law.
She’s broken her piñata and found herself beguiled.
Her heart was always restless, but now she’s running wild.
She glides among the canyons like a ghostly vagabond,
Her freedom the expression of the innocence she’s pawned.
She wraps herself like water around the un-carved stone.
It’s easy to imagine, but hard to let alone.
I look for her in turquoise that mirrors desert skies,
The wind that sweeps the mesa, my lover’s sleepy eyes,
The haunted midnight pueblo, the cool adobe dawn;
Though mountains rise between us whichever side I’m on.
I LOVE YOU MUM
The house was no longer the adobe,
That I used to know.
As the sense,
Of sentiment touches my thoughts.
The tears to my eyes it brought.
It’s been quite some time,
Since you were gone.
I gazed up at the clouds,
Reminiscing and holding on.
With my innocence,
broken heart, waiting till the
break of dawn.
The fragrance resembles soft flowers,
Enduring the lawn.
Whilst I kept myself drawing in breath,
With the scent not letting you go.
Yearning for those days
till your voice has gone slow.
With my downhearted smile
began to show!
Miss you so much, my Mama!
Written by:
Rosey RMV 2021
Area 51 reruns itself.
Tube-fed alien hitchhikers
hideout in paper suits and
sweat mercury.
Mothers in desert tan caravans
bleach breakfast,
call skinny kids in,
mid-century ray guns
glitter in sparking hands.
Comical signs
on shimming roads to nowhere
direct and redirect at will.
New Mexico keeps its spells
While headlines change minds.
Local Maps are 10 dollars further.
We want to stay cool
with a low maintenance blond
in an adobe dabbed motel
but there are silver balloons out there
they are made of desert dreams.
Tequila stained shotguns
hunt aluminum tracks.
In government condo’s
workers pack for a ride
to an unnamed airport
No name tags please,
no indications of culpability,
just load your life
point it between two trailing stars
shoot the gawking rumors
wherever they appear to fly from.
Buckaroos wave in the wagons into a corral, circle of
Conestoga wagons mixed with covered wagons 100 count,
Next to the butte, a springer delivers calf alive; compadres cheer wahoo!
Exuberance looking at large remuda, choosing each a horse to mount.
Morning sun illuminates camp as mozo helps secure on a horse the rig,
Saddle up with aparejo and alforja to work on the range, the keen
Vaqueros mill the running cattle into a circle, and bulldog the doggie
Pulling down the calf to avoid the barranca deep ravine.
Noontime hot sun heats frijoles, huevos rancheros, and beef or lunch,
Cowboys drift cattle slowly ranch side, buckaroo pulls in the doggie stray calf,
Moving away from the coulee ravine towards the crick,
Dragonflies zoom near as waddys punch cattle herding,
resounding a hooray laugh.
Evening warm summer sun lights adobe viga roof beam end rustic,
Acequia irrigation canal greens the bolson flat arid valley,
Olla earthenware pot full of water complement hoedown and dinner,
Ramada shelter branches on roof give rest to camp, peaceful tally.
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