Long New mexico Poems
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Jesus in Town
David J Walker
Jesus could explain life like no other
Riding in the back of the 56 Chevy pickup
The Farm to Market roads
Crossing the country of a summer
Lost in Lea County
New Mexico
We work
They pay
Is about all he would say
in broken English
Nosotros trabajamos
ellos juegan
in his TexMex Spanish
Someone else is getting rich
My uncle would btch about
Matters of money all day driving
the John Deere tractor
dragging a cultivator
over dirt as cracked and dry as his lips
A lit Pall Mall cigarette dangling
from the corner of his mouth
Smoking and swearing
there was never any money
At the end of any month
on this G-Damn rock farm
At night Aunt Nora put a hot supper
On the Formica-top table in the kitchen
Over the linoleum floor
Are you trading for a new truck
She asked
But she knew the answer
Maybe
said Uncle Ed
she knew he would
If he could
after the harvest
The Farmhouse was
six miles from town and
At night
When the fireflies came out
And the cicadas sang their
Monotonous seasonal songs
We sat on lawn chairs looking at
The distant lights in town
As if it might be a
Better place to go
There might be a
picture show
with newsreels and
cartoons
and popcorn
The paper comes only once
A week so I never know
What’s showing or going on
Jesus said there was a
Mexican Movie in town
And he might go
But
He never does
Growing the fruits of your labor in Socorro county
Around here they call it New Mexico true
Down in Lemitar you can get the best of the best
The warm days' and cool nights, the fields of green chile grew
This crop has become known worldwide in places afar
Dedicated day and night to it being a successful harvest
Long hours and true love of this way of life they embrace
The chile, beautiful and mature, it's the hot days' of August
Sacks of burlap full to the top begin the journey across the state
Crack of the burners, metal cylinders turn, roasted green chile fills the air
This smell, it is nothing short of heaven on earth
Our call to fame with a little New Mexico flare
The season is short, late Autumn wind blows the dust off a cowboys boots
The chile turns deep red now, the last of the season
The ground is bare as I take one last look across the land
The Zia on our flag gives me pride, that's my reason
Why things happen, well who's to say
Perhaps the fields will be green again someday
A hurt in my heart, I lower my Stetson and walk away
The fields belong to spirit now, looking in the distance I see the rain
Continued From:
"Quien es?" "Who is it?"
http://www.poetrysoup.com/poems_poets/poem_detail.aspx?ID=195858
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"I don't blame you for writing of me as you have. You had to believe other stories,
but then, I don't know if anyone would believe anything good of me anyway."
- Quien es? Who is it?
1859 -1861, month and day unknown.
As of this writing that's the closest we've come to his birthday.
So many records of his life are now all gone.
His tragic, short and violent life began when he was only just a very young child.
He was a lamb among wolves trying desperately to survive
the untamed Old West's most merciless and vile.
He was supposedly born in New York City,
but the state of New Mexico is where he'd be raised.
It would be there where he'd grow to young adulthood
and become familiar with the west's outlaw ways.
His first foiled crime occurred in New Mexico's Silver City.
He stole some butter and then sold it to a local merchant.
Upon discovery the local sheriff spanked the young boy silly.
Sheriff Whitehill then let the lad go with this stern warning,
"No more will I put a belt to your hide if we ever meet this way again.
If you again break the law, of this you can be sure, You'll Be Going To Jail My Friend!"
The sheriff was actually sympathetic. He wanted to give the boy a healthy fright.
He knew the kid was orphaned, alone and all on his own.
He could see that his future wasn't looking too bright.
It's sad for this boy was no dummy. Mary Richards, his teacher would say,
"He was a student who always had his homework in on time each and every day."
He would enthusiastically help with the classroom chores.
Schooling was not just education, it was an activity he adored.
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To Continue Go To:
3. "Quien es?" "Who is it?" Part 3
http://www.poetrysoup.com/poems_poets/poem_detail.aspx?ID=195853
the 1934 model 40 B Fordor deluxe sedan idled outside the gas station
Inside was Clyde Barrow, who was robbing the place
His moll, Bonnie Parker, sat inside the car, holding a shotgun
these notorious robbers were deemed “Robin hood figures”
This was the Great Depression; their crime spree teased imaginations
Stories and rumors followed them from Texas to Missouri
They took their gangster car to Oklahoma and New Mexico
Robbing gas stations, and small town banks
People liked watching them shoot things up and act wild
They were famous for their daring and their pizzazz
Bonnie was only twenty four when she died
Clyde was twenty-five, but they are remembered
and weirdly revered, even though they were gangsters
who terrorized people and small town bankers
they outsmarted the police for twenty-one months
their crime spree was a subject of books and a movie
which has continued their legacy; making them forever famous.
As I ride across the high desert plains
an open, arid scenery whisks by.
The sun is heating up rippled windows
on the railroad train, as it jostles riders
to jiggle, jerk and sway
to the click, clack of wooden tracks
towards Tucumcari, New Mexico
Gateway To The West.
Sounds of the Old Wild West
stir up the imagination
like the great train robbery
of Black Jack Ketchum in 1897
near Tucumcari, where he and his bandits
secretly hid their stash of gold
long before the train whistle
blew near the station.
Clickity clack, or could that be horses’ hooves
galloping alongside the old train tracks?
As desert dust kicks up, I envision ghosts of riders
wild west cowboys catching up
with guns out of holsters
shouting, “Stop the train! Get the gold!”
“Next stop, Tucumcari!”calls the conductor
I am shaken out of my daydream and look around.
Humble buildings huddle within the arroyos
people proud of their Southwestern heritage
for here in the desert you’ll not find a heartier folk
than those who live within this great land
of grit and sizzling sun.
Community of the Campfire
David J Walker
I
I’d forgotten the scent of the campfire
And its sense of mystery and
Community for the few who
Were invited to its borders
Offering its view of a flame
Named eternity
If only it could be harnessed and
Deciphered
II
Mother and Father
Built a campfire near a windmill
On the loneliest road
In New Mexico
They laid out in a pallet of quilts
Under the stars
While the children slept in
The spacious back seat of
A Hudson
In the morning we gathered
At the fragrant heat of dried
Mesquite branches on fire
As Mother made a breakfast of
Dice spam cooked in scrambled eggs
III
The first thing on our arrival
At the San Isabel Campgrounds
Was to gather up the
Dry tender kindling while father
Picked out the larger branches
To make a fire
The mountains provided the pine while
He used his crossbow saw and an ax
To attack the chore as a man with experience
I watched and learned as the
Campfire burned in the pit
Later I would mimic it
IV
On crisp Autumn Sunday mornings
My love and I would sit
In our backyard Garden of Eden
By a raised firepit
Warming ourselves
As the morning sun rose
Wondering if
Adam and Eve had it so good
Anyway, we had clothes,
Hoodies and sweats
And no snakes to contend with
As i crossed new mexico
On the bus to ...whatever just gonna let it go
Learned why i had nightmares over and over again
Year after year about bus rides
Driving the essence of all i fear
The death of hope of what i thought was clear
My finest hour of defeat
To that ...il drink a beer
If ive learned one thing
Its that war....war will never change
So the question...
am i a moth?
Or did i become the flame?
Or am i a flaming moth enchanted through the struggle
With much more to gain?
Dont know but my humor is what keeps me sane
That and the essence of another i see
reflections opposite
In ways the same
Maybe its another delusion
God knows i remember all the previous others
By Name
Rymnes keep repeating
So il just say good day
I've seen the Rocky Mountains
From Alberta to New Mexico
Heavenly reaching cathedrals
Rock walls like stained glass windows
Death Valley's crystalline sands
Sparkle like moonlit seas
Red orange cactus roses
Saguaro and Joshua Trees
Green meadows covered with weeds
Deep purple to crimson red
Melting in waves of heat
Reflecting in lakes where they bled
Looked out, over Niagara Falls
Sunlit mist of every hue
Thousand Islands, covered with snow
In The St Lawrence of indigo blue
Multicolored hot air balloons
Floating lazily 'cross baby blue skies
But the place most beautiful to me
Is here, with you by my side
an original poem by Daniel Turner
West Texas is a vast, wide-open area, dusty, windy, and dry. Many a time I hid the mostly unbranded calves I took from the herd on the XIT ranch behind the tumbleweeds that had built up in the small valleys across the open plains only the moonlight could see. I tried to move at night as much as I could because rustling cattle had become a dangerous occupation as I was finding out. Cattle barons had hired gunslingers and trackers to bring justice to outlaws like me and they were on my trail. Hoping the wind would erase my tracks I moved as many miles as I could, stopping only when water was found which wasn't often enough and the cattle, I stole were gettin' weak. I was halfway through New Mexico territory trying to get to the Magdalena cattle drive to sell my stock to wranglers I knew but I had to let the calves go and save myself. I could see four mounted cowboys on the mesa under the clear blue sky with me in their sight. I ditched all the weight I was carrying except the rifle and Colt on my hip as I headed into the Sawtooth mountains when a shot rang out. My horse, spooked by the noise reared up, throwin' me off onto the hard ground below as another shot rings out. I feel a burning sensation in my side as I get up to run for cover in a grove of gnarled trees' close by. Bleedin' from a gut shot, I know I won't recover as I hear the four cowboys drawing near. "Give it up boy, you aint goin' nowhere, this is the end of the line" the cowboy said. I replied "go to hell lawman!" as I fired from my Colt hittin' one of the riders. I tried to run further in the brush when I was struck again through the back. Mortally wounded, I thought about home and the woman I loved there. The cowboy on the black steed said "your rustlin' days are over son, anything you want to say?" "Give me a drink will Ya". The cowboy dismounted and handed me a bottle of whiskey, I pulled the cork with my teeth and took a swig. Handing the bottle back to him, it was getting hard to breathe as I said "grant me my dying', wish will Ya". "What is it boy" he said. With my last struggling breath, I said "bury me in Datil".
Another Day’s Rhyme
I’ve seen majestic mountains on a celestial plain,
beautiful valleys with waving fields of grain.
I have marked buttes of red rock scraping the clear blue sky,
a view of the Grand Canyon that brought a tear to my eye.
I’ve seen the desert in New Mexico covered in snow,
the salt flats of Utah, and felt the cool breeze blow.
I have witnessed God’s beauty, naturally first hand,
and seen his many wonders that cover this great land.
I’ve discovered the true form of art with colors so bright,
and stars far away in the darkness of night.
We are surrounded by beauty and touched by true love.
None of this would be here, without help from above.
I’ve heard beautiful words that made me smile.
We each get our turn for just a short while.
Appreciate these gifts and enjoy your time.
I’m thankful for all and another day’s rhyme.