Best Mesquite Poems
Traveling through the doorway in my heart
I emerge
Gently closing it
I place my palms on the worn hinges of time
I lay my ear near its surface
As I let my lips hover close
Grazing the wood with a gentle kiss
I turn and walk down a few steps
The mist ~ the moisture ~ the fragrance
Of a million greens
Grass so tall and lush
Beckoning me
The ancient pines and redwoods
Towering above me on both sides
Whispering their secrets
I make my way
Stopping to press my nose
Against their soft bark...inhaling
Tickling my face
Bringing me back...back in time
I breathe in love
I breathe out gratitude
Opening my eyes, I see you in the distance
As shadow puppets dance and frolic
Upon rugged steep rock walls
The inner cave glows
The smell of mesquite
Rising sparks of pain and happiness
Leap from the flames
Your quiet silhouette calls to me
“Come little one...come”
I crouch down timidly at first
It is dark and I feel alone
In my nakedness
I slither along smooth stones
My belly brushing their surface
I make my way close to you
The fire alive with its dancing shadows
Sitting in silence
I gently embrace your blanketed form
You are me as an old woman
You are my lover
You are my friend
You are all of humanity
I kiss your weathered cheek
Tasting salty tears
Embracing you allows me to let go
To fully surrender to the moment
Hoo-hoo-hooooo
Crackle
Owls above
The sky illuminated through
The exposed top of the cave
Surrounded by whisps of fables and folklore
We rotate and spin
Slowly rising upward
Higher and higher
As ashes in the night
Reaching the lip of the cave
We are greeted by moonlight
Cold crisp air
A burst of light
As I spread feathered wings
Gliding towards treetops
My heart opens
My eyes open
I am here
To laugh ~ to cry
To give ~ to receive
To rejoice
To break bread with others
To love
Another day
It’s cold here in Central Texas
Winter has laid its hand upon us
The night is clean and pure
With just a whisper of oak and mesquite fires
Burning on the hilltops
And villages of old German hopes
The coyotes are calling
Packs move in the night
Instinctive without knowing the reason
They find their way into town
Old men with rifles sit on porches waiting
But nearly always miss
For winter is the friend of the coyote
And the bones of men
Are appendages meant for warmer climates
Civilized cravings or hunger drives them here
Or maybe it’s just an Comanche tear
That fell in this place
And stained the ground forever
What ever it is I welcome them here
For they are clean and pure
Of what burdens men
On the twelve days of Christmas, West Texas gave to me
twelve tarantulas creepin’,
eleven javelinas diggin’,
ten jack rabbits jumpin’,
nine skunks a stinkin’,
eight mantis prayin’,
seven snakes swimmin’,
six mountain lions,
five sunny days,
four mockingbirds,
three hoary bats,
two horned toads,
and a cowbird in a mesquite tree.
On the twelve days of Christmas, West Texas gave to me
twelve oxeye creepin’,
eleven acanthus flamin’,
ten willows twistin’,
nine cholla jumpin’,
eight tumbleweeds rollin’,
seven shin diggers stickin’,
six purple thistles,
five sunny days,
four mountain laurels,
three ruby muhly,
two hawthorn,
and mistletoe in an elm tree.
I lost it somewhere, somewhere along the way
it's not here right now, but I think I had it yesterday
but yesterday is a memory, today is a blank sheet
that will also be a memory when this day is complete
where do I find it? where is it that I look?
is it in a smile? or in an unread book?
is it in the whispered breeze? caught in a mesquite?
is it in the shadows--playing hide and seek with me?
will I know it when I find it? will it recognize?
does it know that I'm searching low and high?
find me, blanket me, surround me with you
capture, enrapture, surround me with you
The snake coils in the sun,
spectacles sheathing her eyes,
trunk warming against the earth.
They say she feels nothing,
only the hiss of hunger,
the strike of instinct.
But watch—
how she lingers where the light is softest,
how she curves herself into the shape of what she trusts,
how she returns, again, to nest in the mesquite.
The crow does not speak in ways we understand,
only leaves the glint of something small,
a silver coin at your feet.
He waits on the wire,
head tilted,
as if listening for an answer most cannot hear.
The oak does not hold,
but their roots tangle deep with another’s,
sharing water in the dark—
sharing nerves—
sharing networks.
Even the river does not let the stone go—
not yet.
Perhaps Love is beyond what we define it—
something older, quieter…the
macrocosmic marrow of all things—
a pull, a return, a reaching toward.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Without warning, they came
twelve jackrabbits rushing across
ice-kissed mesquite,
their ears shining with stars,
their hooves kicking up constellations.
Santa grabbed hold real tight,
his red hat flapping
like a startled roadrunner.
The reindeer back home
would never believe this~
Wow! How Texas moonlight
turned sleek fur silver,
how the rabbits wove
between prickly pear and oil derricks,
delivering joy in wild, bounding leaps.
By sunrise, they disappeared~
leaving just tracks in the Chihuahuan dust
and one lost jingle bell
nestled in the Texas sage.
*“A jackrabbit is a type of hare known for its long ears and powerful hind legs. Unlike rabbits, jackrabbits do not live in burrows and are typically found in open areas like deserts and grasslands.”(Source Wikipedia.com)
From the Painted Desert, head west
Past sagebrush, brittle bush, desert scrub
And The Petrified Forest at rest
To the Rocky Mountains above
Go past the Continental Divide
Below Douglas firs and pinyon pines
Head down the sunset side
Where the Colorado River cuts and winds
Many generations ago
Native Americans were inhabiting squatters
There were herds of buffalo
Along with now extinct muskrats and river otters
Beaver, cut cottonwoods and willows
Leopard frogs slept on limestone pillows
Mule deer and bighorn sheep
Climbed up and down walls so steep
Follow me down the foot trail
Like indigenous butterflies with swallowtails
In to the Valley of the Sun
Where Hopi civilization begun
Tassel eared squirrels frolic about
Bald eagles fly over and scout
Stream orchids, honey mesquite and arrow weeds
For pocket mice and other rodent species
Gray fox, weasels, bobcats
Spotted skunks, ring tails, and bats
Call this canyon their home
Where bark scorpions and rattlesnakes roam
While gila monsters and red spotted toads
Search for midges, flies and black widows
It took this river millions of years
To make this home for all who are here
an original poem by the "poemdog" Daniel Turner
Springtime has erupted; life's everywhere
With a fine chartreuse film that floats through the air.
The live oaks are blooming along with golden mesquite-
The scents of renewal are verdant and sweet.
Chameleon fields that change overnight;
A plethora of color; an artists delight
Yellow, so bright it hurts the eyes,
Covers the hills like a huge sunshine tide.
Pastures of green and wild onion white
Deceive the perception with flowered highlights.
Black and white calves frolic and play
Through the myriad of colors on display.
Seas of Indian paintbrush in brash scarlet red
Abut pink morning primrose, gently lifting its head;
Kaleidoscope gaillardia next to wine-colored phlox,
Mad impressionist Nature has pulled out the stops
Painting great Texas with colors galore
Then deciding to add just one color more
And up shoots the bonnets in startling blue.
Our states flower emblem, a salute to you.
JSC 2003
The Hill Country is dry and you can forget about California
Filled with dying live oak and mesquite
There’s a seven-year drought upon us
And momma says it’s going to get worse
Red ants on the tire trails
They don’t seem to mind the heat
The Southern Pacific blows out of the west
Heading east with a pack of coyotes behind her
Suckling pups yapping at the Estacado winds
They know a meal ticket when they see one
Sooner or later that cattle is going to need to be fed
And that pack of half-baked desperados will be waiting
They are on the trail because hunger drives all creatures
And the heat curling up from the caliche
Will wilt the best of the arid crops
Leaving nothing but jack-rabbits and mice
They look up and growl when my boots hit the ground
The dust clouds up and the scorpions scatter like quail
I walk out toward the old water tank to see if she’s still pumping
Tepid water and nightmares of creatures that couldn’t escape
They float rotting and ghoulish in the foul water
I fish them out and throw them off into a cedar break
Rules of the desert: leave the dead and the wounded behind
The flies begin to gather and the buzzards are on the wing
Nature is taking its course.
It must eat.
I see the coyote’s skitting through the low brush
I drop a bead on one with my old 30/30
But I got no reason to kill him
I haven’t raised cattle here since 92.
He stops and turns his head toward me
And for a moment we both understand
It ain’t me against him or him against me
It’s just us trying to get through this life
A life carved out in many ways
About learning to live, die, sing, and dance to the rhythm of life
Rocky Mountains
by Adrian Sutalo
North Park valley where
outdoor adventures await,
Great Lakes to Rocky Mountains
journey, to seal a cervidae’s fate.
Roads past endless cornfields stretched toward the horizon,
acres tens of thousands of rolling golden prairies,
The burning smell of asphalt of North Platte River’s railroad town,
mesquite broiled angus sirloins steaks, rest for travelers sweaty and weary.
Meadows vast as the eye can fathom, like a
view of the setting sun on the sea,
framed of snow-capped western alps,
grueling two-day drive ends with awes of the scene.
Trio of Southern Baptist Preachers,
Locked horn Marines a pair,
old war Soldier, friends rendezvous,
common goal to share.
Some not seen since
journeys of previous years,
happily reunited in fellowship,
thanksgiving and prayer.
Majestic Elk of the Rockies,
coveted target of game,
a harvest of one
cheerfully shared all the same.
Infinite Aspens aplenty for a
stand which to hunt,
all game not pursued, such
as bull and cow moose in my front.
Bugle of bull elk, turns
stomach to knots,
nestled between willows
kneeling, arrow knocked.
With cow elks a harem,
barnyard aroma fills snout,
dozen eyeballs toward me,
imperfect for bow shot.
Evening hunts over,
sun dips in skyline,
strolls out of woods unbeknownst
watched of mountain lion.
Few lucky to put down,
elk on these trips,
blessed ones share mashed
potatoes, tenderloin elk strips.
The five-day hunt over,
the journey home begins,
dreaming of next year,
to pursue elk again.
You can tell a cowhand by his trappings
Head to toe.
He’s not a drugstore cowboy
who tries to fool you, though.
His boots are manly footwear
and they’re pointed at the toe.
They’re made to fit a stirrup
and show the way to go.
The boot tops climb toward his knees
and turn back thorns and fangs.
Their soles are smooth and scoot on floors
where he dances as he "sangs".
He cleans them both fore he steps inside
so he won’t make a mess.
But I don’t think he takes them off
even when he’s at rest.
His jeans are straight cut at the leg
and stop atop his spurs.
His chaps protect his jeans and legs
from abuse that often occurs
when his mount maneuvers the heavy mesquite
To turn a cow around.
And if you check his pockets
a wallet won’t be found.
Instead you’ll see a circle worn
where a can of snuff is bound.
He wears a plain old leather belt
and the buckle’s just as simple.
His trophies are in a trunk, at rest.
to win them all was ample.
His long sleeve shirt is made of cotton.
He wears it no matter the season.
If you go to church on Sunday morn',
there’s a white one for that reason.
A cowboy wears a hat for a crown.
It’s a signature of his character.
And, if he ever lays it down,
it's best for you if you leave it there.
Yes, a cowhand has a certain look.
You can tell by the way he dresses.
Those drugstore boys are too flashy,
their hair in those beauty shop tresses.
They can dress like a cowhand, but still,
when you look them both in the eye
you’ll know which one is the cowhand.
Just gaze into his eyes and see why.
Poet: Ken Jordan
Poem: Tailgate Party
Edited by: Sparkle Jordan
written: January/2015
It's my
tailgate party
you're welcome
to come -
Music's blasting,
and
We
Popp'in
Champagne,
around
a hot
Webber Grill
In the
parking lot -
Got my
game day apron
on,
Cook'n:
Oak wood Q'd
Baby Back
Ribs,
Slow grilled
and
smoked....
Brushed
in
Sweet Hickory
BBQ sauce -
and
laced with
a
half cup
of
Jim Beam
Whiskey -
Child
this party
is Popp'in
Got
a Deep Pot
of
Baked Beans;
Maple flavored,
with
Thick Center
Cut
beacon strips
(smoked),
over
Natural Flavored
Mesquite
Wood Chips.
Child
you better
get here,
cause It's on!
Got my
Old Fashioned
Homemade
Potato Salad,
(chilled
to taste),
with
thin sliced
Black Olives -
Sweet Yellow
Corn (on cob),
precooked in
milk/honey,
then grilled
and
brushed
with
lemon or lime
juice
in
butter,
sprinkled
with
parsley flakes.
Yum! Yum! Yum!
You ain't here
yet?
I'm making
Sourdough grilled
bread,
with
a soft melt
of
Castello Reserved
Havarti cheese -
Cucumber Infused
water
over
crushed ice,
with a hint
of
Mint Leaf
flavor -
And
if you dare
to
step outside
your
comfort zone,
I have some
Angry Orchard
Hard Apple
Cider
over ice
in
the cooler -
My tailgate
party
is
Popp'n !
It's Game Time
Bon Appetite !
And the cemetery was still and serene
A palette of muted greens, browns, tans and warm gray scene
Fence-post with barbed wire surrounds the garden
Seashells and caliza, sage brush, cactus, and mesquite trees harden
Tall cold stones erect sentries
Standing on sacred ground granting entry
In the garden of seashells and sage brush
A cemetery of generations of families
Grandmothers and grandfathers
Their parents and family before them
Tugging at our memories
Whispering shadows of their secrets
All lie with crowns of stones
As their names are etched on marble stones
While others with ceramic photographs of the dearly departed
So they, won’t be forgotten
All with stories to tell
My head down with sadness
My heart skips a beat in my chest
I stand and look at the headstone of my once beautiful grandmother
And lay a bouquet of red roses at the feet of the stone
I kneel and clean the surroundings of weeds that have sprang up
And dust of the ceramic photograph
Wistful thinking
Her smile with a flicker of spark in her eyes
All the good times we used to have
She taught me not to be afraid,
To drive her white 1958 Impala
And the cemetery was still and serene
I know it’s an empty vessel that lay in the sandstone
As her soul grew wings long ago
And in heaven she’s watching over all she has left behind
5/20/2016
Free Verse Form
Contest: And The Cemetery Was
Sponsored by: Broken Wings
Spiritually Fulfilled
Gazing at the sky
Spiritually fulfilled
Cherished memories
What’s It Like?
First:
A strand of hair finer than silk in the Emperor’s robe blows across her face the very end catching in the corner of her mouth. She fills my field of vision her eyes looking full at me, there, a question therein: What’s it like?
Then:
Tiny wrinkles at the corners of her eyes. Yes, that dark spot in the iris, windswept black eyebrows thick and meaningful. Freckles (what an odd word).
Some superlatives:
She’s the orange and fire red of Oklahoma sunsets, Snake River waterfall mist, Palouse rolling richness, maple leaves drifting on the Guadalupe, warm butterscotch on vanilla ice cream clouds sweeping up the valley rain is sure to fall or is it tears? No matter.
Of another order:
The closet’s darkness she is blood on the hunter’s hands, desert dirt devil and twisted mesquite and rose thorns, hand tremors a finger on the trigger, harsh words spoken in anger; she can be cruel.
But then:
The whirligig dance at lake’s edge, white lotus above black water, the cicada wing I saw just this morning, her face so close to mine I can feel her skin’s moisture. I see most clearly that fine strand of hair.
And still the question: What’s it like?
Pine needles falling, I should think, koi blowing bubbles, a mother calling a hand on my shoulder the slightest touch whispers turn around see me. I won’t tell you lies; it hurts, that ache that arc that pain her fair hair’s autumn auburn blended sweetly with black water and her white dress, memories at the tip of mind, the spangled, star-struck twist and turn, dodge and dance of cold constellations.
That’s what it’s like.
Visited Bahrain a few years ago and took the drive to the "tree of life" It struck me odd that there was nothing there but a small fence around it. Truly in the middle of nowhere though.
Submitted for the Landscapes and Towns Contest.
The Tree of Life
Secluded, alone in the midst of the sand
On top of a mound in a desolate land
Sits a single mesquite, a fabled old tree
How it survives and thrives is a mystery
There’s no water around for its roots to find
But there it stands tall and boggles the mind
It’s forlorn location, a quiet repose
Provides shade from hot sun with green hanging boughs
Isolated from all, not even a sign
To indicate it’s role in the annals of time
This Tree of Life as the stories are told
Is all that remains of the Eden of old