The only child
but favorite
of two ‘outlaws’
mare and stud
He bucked each
gelded moment
on their wild ride
of love
Until that day
he up and left
their branding iron
of pain
To wander high
and lonesome
mongst the free
and tumbling sage
In search of one
last bronc to mount
that one last
horn to make
And spur the wreckage
of his youth
as Angels
— pull the Gate
(Pendleton Round-Up: June, 1993
Elko Nevada: Cowboy Poetry Reading: January, 1994)
In the ashes of silence spent,
cinders glow, tattooing the scene.
Even when I look away
the after-glow is still there,
with scars of burns that won't heal.
The after-glow sears into the days ahead
with a red-hot branding iron
scorching the future
with cries of regret,
and the aftermath
of lies unforgotten,
errors unforgiven.
I close the door,
close my eyes
but the smoke knows the cracks,
knows the way to stain
my eyelids with
embers glowing
bright orange-red.
After-embers that haunt
my sleep, memories and dreams
with flickers, sparkles and taunts.
The afters glowed in the rafters
above my bed.
After the door slammed shut.
After your departing shouts.
After your last goodbyes.
After the raging fire,
you started and stoked,
to roaring fierce flames,
and black billowing smoke,
rendered all what we had,
to gray and white ashes.
With our futures branded
with the afters
in which the embers glowed.
That ever moving panorama,
with its diaphanous filters,
its ever changing shimmers of light –
blue skies.
Then there is the crush and crash
of an iron clad drape thundering downwards,
or yet still the burning spiral
of a remorseless gaze, a branding iron that seeks
to etch its power upon all caught under its sway –
other skies.
It’s climate, nothing more than a global swirling
of one atmosphere jousting with another
and what we see, what we encounter is nothing more
than the energies of oceans of air.
Or is it the dance of Shiva?
Some of his steps bring death and destruction,
while some give life -
breathe joy into lungs.
Where then is a sky beyond her sky,
one which is ever still in the eye of all storms?
Where the artists brush?
The climate of mind,
the climate of mind,
the climate of mind,
that’s a real sky worth painting.
Just for a day
think of a third color
perhaps-purple
then think of a
field of purple flowers
followed by a warm silver rain
making the purple more purple
than a purple sunset.
Purple clouds speckled in gold flake
in the shape of a holy man...
Now dream in purple
purple birds singing in purple tones.
While your head rests on a purple satin pillow..
Until morning arrives with its branding iron
singes the fringes of your dream
blasting you back into
that cold black and white
riotous virus again-
In the archives of my mind
Lie the thoughts that persevere
As brambles in the woods
Their briars bring a tear.
A cry for what has happened
What might have been but naught
For all the disappointments,
Mistakes, and "I forgot."
The pain comes rushing forth
Like a branding iron upon my skin
Burning with the memories
Of broken promises again.
So often have I heard
Of what I cannot do
That my small successes
Seem rare and very few.
There is no tomorrow
Only yesterdays and pain
Too much to be remembered
And too little to be gained.
I wish you had been more careful
With those words that you flung out
At me today
I guess you didn’t realize
That they were red hot
Though spoken in “jest”
And in a quiet voice
They were red hot
And they seared my heart
Branding me with the word
REJECTED
....Again.
I thought branding was for cattle
Ah....but humans are adept
At branding others
The smell of burning flesh
The stench of pain
The open wounds
That harden with time
Yet remain
As a grotesque testament
Of a heart that has been branded!
I guess you didn’t realize
That what you said
Will go with me to the grave
Because it scorched my heart
My poor little heart
that one day will tire
of all the burns
and will stop beating
a scarred little mass
Finally at rest
From the red hot branding iron
Of your tongue.
Fold your tent now
Cowboy, the prairie sunset has come
Pull the hat low
Over the silent brow, let the horse go home
Without saddle,
It's round up time for you, the trail is done.
Bit and bridle;
O let it go free, and feel the weightless
World runs with it,
Put the branding iron down, blow out the sun;
The mind's habit
Shutting out the endless tedium and stress
Now can reclaim
The dignity that future-centered men
Denied; the fame
Past-centered men recalled and softly blend
With their own hopes;
And none but the dead ever realized.
Roll up the ropes
The cowboy no more rides, or seek the prize.
Rustlers die fast
Cowboys live long, lariat looping ferile glory;
Rodeo past,
The poled hat and belt tell all the final story.
platonic allegiance and virtual dementia
crowd this room as life is washed away
the agony is sweeter than coagulate decay
burning sound and blinding noise
fight the need to scream
or give in and live the dream
bloody towers, faltered steps
to act out a purposed overthrow
capacity for agony is quick to come and go
while branding iron alone brings tears
and moans of pure despair
sit cold and silent on his lips
a deadly, dreadful prayer
in a room of rending, unending night
on a bed of rope and steel
amidst feverish dreams, cacophonies
there is pain still left to feel
the watchful, apathetic eyes
stay vigilant from the start
for agonies with no reprieve
to a barely beating heart
silence not so momentary
when all is said and done
depleted strength to fight the bullet
hiding in his gun
(This is a fictional poem)
One day I was cheating at poker and I got caught.
When I saw them get the branding iron, it sure looked hot.
They branded my balls before I could leave.
I seriously regretted hiding that ace up my sleeve.
Vast expanses of landscape
brokenly glimpsed
through darkened glass,
imposed behind the spectre
of my facial reflection;
out there in the wilderness
truth burns like a beacon,
faith sears like a branding iron,
history seethes in the rocks.
I see the galloping dead,
headless horsemen atop
lathered steeds,
pinion the malformed past
with their ghost weaponry;
feathers and buckskin trails,
displaced speed lines
beside the forked tongues
of endless highways leading
to the self-same deadening tomorrows.