Long Outcrop Poems
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Alone on the trail, pushing daylight,
we two pull into a small arroyo to bed down.
Nigh unto exhaustion, hot food
transcends tired old bones and the smell of sweat,
but not enough for either one of us to volunteer.
The fire, more for company than for heat
soon plays its lonely desert song into night air.
We take out our stash and roll an old fashioned
lumpy cigarette, twisting the end just so,
to hold it together till lit.
Soon we’re hanging on cliff’s edge between
the real and unreal world of guided imagination.
The dreams of holy men in ancient tribes calling
shape shifters into mental matrimony,
waiting for the merge of brain and vision.
Beating ceremonial drums and asking for grace.
They soon dig into my old rusty past that hangs
some where on the fringe of past and present.
I’m riding fiery waves in the belly of the beast.
Back draft--- watch for back draft I thought.
Back draft !! That point where temperature raises
combustion to the point of a cyclonic draft of fire.
The beast feeds on oxygen, oxygen eaten so fast
it sucks the surrounding area clean of all air.
A lucky person caught thus would be incinerated.
One unlucky would slowly roast while suffocating.
Awaking abruptly, I forgot the dream. Just a dream.
The wind had settled, in fact there was deathly quiet.
Too quiet, but nothing was giving information.
So we saddled, and headed into Big Timber, the last leg.
Big Timber—a plethora of ash, alpine, and firs of all kinds.
Only the solid wall of granite ahead, separated them and
the helicopter waiting to take them back to base camp.
He felt a harsh feeling of being stalked but didn’t know why.
Besides, he still was apprehensive about the deathly stillness.
As they wound into the narrows he tasted the distinct smell.
Fire, it was very close. Back draft he thought. The warning !!
Thank God for the tiny clearing before the final opening.
He could see the funnel reaching tree tops, deafening all.
Moving behind the outcrop again, they started to retreat.
Suddenly the silence was almost as deafening as the wind.
Moving again from behind the rocks, they were astounded.
The tornado had sucked all the oxygen away from the fire.
It was out!!!!
© 22 Dec 2010 For Tirzah
On a shattered pebble beach my kernel,
becomes this dervish dancing to the maniacal symbol rash tune,
of inchoate monsoon grass beat timpani,
that’s dimly frowned on by sonic virtuoso,
but terms like briny carrageen sea sweep gain purple splotch kudos,
I gaze with indigo ocean eyesight,
at sheer rock face sunken mould gradient,
where faculties solicit august maxim,
from eternal parchment, grain whirl sand dune smorgasbord,
mud-strewn psalms primed and pumped by ebbing sotto voce stream,
gust smitten lighthouse whose solitary pulsing wink always welcome,
syntax that gray matter genesis scorned geoform tag,
I scribble quintains in a quagmire that ooze magma inkling,
prose stolen from jagged facet incline or whatever,
has this elemental moment turned ghost writer by sixth sense?
saline vista swung pivot on tsunami doorway,
brackish carcass rife with clamped seashells as mirror,
weather-worn thoughts skim eccentric apex,
behemoth undertaker facing self-scripted gauntlet,
but this pilgrim shall yearn evermore imbibing loose mist,
with marble slab as jotter and squid ink another fountain pen,
who really knows what tidemark gems may yet surface,
do metaphors sequester diurnal cycles like day/night swop?
rhetorical or not this lambent aspect must be met on grit-etch blue boulder,
vice-grip of visual plunge belies gravity,
yet this blustery conundrum is just this water drop,
something inconsequential for one clutching at faint will-o-the-wisp,
pepper-strewn haze does obstruct linguistic odour,
despite a caustic rebuff from deep down warden as inner slant,
zany whirlpool blob grasping at ambiguous twill plume,
faraway tangerine canvass might stir tongue-tied raw sketch,
ingenious quest might throb for charmed portrayal,
nought shall thwart this dreamer off-course,
spectral pantoum, geometric quatrain, jewel-crust tanka,
prolific silken sentient suzette an overarch odyssey,
regardless of vernal totem, sumptuous literary harvest,
with its dogged catalytic compass point,
to maunder without curb despite prevailing opus storm,
sculptured outcrop on an apt idyllic text,
once off ephemeral from boundless paragon,
a colour burst vocabulary pending but when?
Some pin memories delicately
and precisely like butterflies.
I, however, use railroad spikes.
This morning was spent well,
walking along a high desert trail,
close to some old railroad tracks.
My sister had shown them to me yesterday.
I am looking for signs that I was ever here before
today.
A boot print, perhaps, to match with my own
today.
Some lightly crushed sticky poppies or some low
purple lupine or yellow cactus flowers to bring back
the remembered scraps of yesterday's conversations.
Note that spring has passed with a large ant mound, bigger than
yesterday. Did I really climb to the top of the rock outcrop
moments ago?
Looking North down the valley, sun at my back,
Arkansas rippling nearby, and I'm moving along the tracks now,
Paralleled by old fashioned telephone poles, so low to the ground,
pottery and glass connectors on each one sparkling in the early morning sun.
Memory take note! This could be a decent poem.
Old rusty metal parts everywhere piled haphazardly by a thousand repair
crews running these rails forty, fifty, eighty years ago.
Are there any still around to remember those days on the rails?
Making my way back to my niece's house that I left some hours ago
and I pick up one of the railroad spikes in my path.
I'll put it in a drawer next to the spike that I and my young son found
near to his dying grandmother's house some years ago.
I knew that we would never be back and I wanted him to remember
those times.
I mean to ask my mother when I get back to my niece's house if
her "Popdaddy" ever prospected these hills.
I imagine him coming out of the hills to share a cup of coffee
with the railroad repair crew some eighty years ago.
My mother fades in and out of consciousness, unable to connect
her random disjointed memories. Will she have an answer?
Or will she ask me again just who I am and
what part of her life was I.
Two spikes to mark the passing of two ladies
and myself.
I'll put them in a drawer together, and some time, someone,
perhaps a grandchild,
will ask about them,
and I'll say,
"You know, I picked them up somewhere,
I just don't know exactly where,
or why."
The Ings showed the scars of a dust blooded past
The heavy air clouds came in way too fast
A pool outcrop showed a shining light
The air grew thin on the Ings that night
Noises were heard, movement of men underground
Rumbles under feet, voices all around
We stopped and stared, in fright, in fear
These noises, these rumbles should not be here?
Train whistles over moving wheels on tracks
Smoke filling the air, the flaming tower out back
Bustle, rumble, roar as boots hit this track
Men underground returning home and being replaced with fresh new backs
Whistling tunes heard along the main footpath
You could smell the past, taste it in your mouth.
Scraping boots create dust all along the track
A boys voice is heard after beating feet ran past
'Dad, dad, dad....mum's not well, please come back'
Their movement felt as they walked right past
The pool of water glowed then sparkling lights sprung out
The lights moved around us and then went back
The air grew strong, we could breathe deep at last
The heavy air clouds disappeared in an instant flash
We watched the glowing lights sink in the outcrop pool
The train noises ceased, an eerie silence settled down
The smell in the air grew fresh with new surrounding gorse
The track dust settled, now Tarmac faced, of course!
The Ings now settled to the calls of meadow pipets and skylarks
The blackbird song stopped as he watched the canaries fly right past!
We held hands and found a seat to sit and see
The hills and valley fields around the old colliery sat so beautifully
As we sat in silence, as we sat in peace
We saw owls fly around the flaming tower now overgrown with weeds
We heard a whistling tune from a man and saw a figure at the end of the main footpath
His whistling stopped suddenly and then he turned to face us many metres back
He stood and stared in his boots, coat, blackened face, flat cap.
He raised his hand to acknowledge we were there on his ground, on his track.
We both waved right back not blinking as we stared
Then in an instant he was gone as he vanished into the cool, summer air.
Grey cotton wool clouds enfold the mountain tops,
Creeping forward like an army on the move.
Now and then, dropping their wet cargo
On vegetation, withered from long months of sun.
Gusts of wind carry fragments of birdsong,
Rejoicing in the rain, singing their hearts out,
Snippets of melodies, tunes incomplete
Yet somehow they hold total beauty.
The local goat herd head for the cover of trees,
Their bells clanging, a discordant harmony,
Mellow and almost soothing in an odd way.
The soft falling rain gently spatters the ground,
Changing the base colour, by its very wetness.
Greens become greener, more vibrant, alive,
Flowers perk up and shine forth their beauty
Waiting for the never too far away sun to return
Adding to the life-giving rain in its role of
Sustainer of life, giver of growth and spread.
As the rain clears the tops of the mountains
Birdsong becomes more urgent, more intense.
Life is good, go forth and live it, could be
What they are saying. And why not?
Beauty is as beauty does, true as ever,
Wherever beauty is found, especially here.
High in the hills, low in the mountains
Any glade or grassy knell, rocky outcrop
And stony path, life abounds, so oft unseen
By human eyes. So few see this beauty show
Eyes blind to creatures great and small
Oblivious to picturesque valley or
Craggy mountain peaks with eagle circling high.
They care not for scenic views
Bored with not being entertained
As is the modern way, no phone signal up high
A blessing most would say, peace and quiet.
But on this Spanish mountainside, calm yet busy
Life abounds, rains fall on grateful grounds,
An ambience of peace and life fulfilled,
Beauty deep shines forth for those with open eyes,
Aware and looking for each and every gem.
Each winding track, each lofty villa
Shack or outhouse, grace the mountain
With individual promise of Spanish life,
A slice, a piece, a glimpse of another way.
No ‘mod cons’ up here, just life’s basics.
A life of one with nature, peace and harmony.
Pardon my condor sensitivity,
but can I be
dead serious candid with you
Everybody look down on me,
and talk mean about me
But, in the future, they’re gonna need me
even nuclear more
I’m nature’s finest,
best garbage collector
My critter pals,
when they get their fill of wilderness lost you
They say to me: pick up the trash, will you please,
when we’re through
So I do what I do best ...
I pick the bones clean, rotting flesh and all
I devour the things other animals
don’t got the stomach for
Circling up above,
my telescopic olfactory senses
are searching downwind
I see some fool lost drug mules
thirstily water struggling in the wilderness
They’re slowly dying ... disoriented
since wandering out of the way
Now unbeknownst to them,
the desert will be their last score grave
Once they’re dead and baked,
I’m gon have me a good cadaver brownie cake
Those stashed hash mules done football kicked me good,
‘cause I’m flying high ... higher than before
Man, what an extra-point desert score!
After that sickly sweet rancid taste of victory,
I hear my coyote friends give a howl alert:
pick-up on
Death Valley off road tourist route,
cavern aisle four
But it’s too early for a lunch break,
way too rigor mortis early for me to be eating fresh meat
That poor adventurous soul was compass challenged,
and got sextant separated from the tour group
And he just pauper purchased an early expiration date,
but some things I just can’t bring myself to eat —
I hate fresh meat!
As for now, I’m waiting patiently,
perched on a craggy, desert mountain outcrop
Waiting hungrily ...
for that Big Mushroom feast in the sky
Until that special day arrive,
it’s the same ol’ mundane work routine
Garbage carcase collecting is a thankless job,
but somebody gotta do it ... ain’t that right?
Excuse me, Ms. Mountain Lioness,
can you hand me a rib cage toothpick
from that dead prairie dog
Just give me a cleanup call
when you’re through with the rest of it
.CORLEO the robot inspired our venture
the robot with navigation control
seeking cactus fruit and rare stones
the brittlebush and desert lilies patterns
embordered in to silks and cottons
from the looms of yarners the warmth of a poncho
a tent and rv for staying
CORLEO for exploration
"the area known as desert Tulips."
The vibrant blooms of the Adenium Obesum
they sought to find the treasures in
a complicated environment.
peyote, a cactus with a button-like crowns
she spoke again in a much noticeable tone
her voice a soothing distinctive tone
a songlike chant a melonic flow
Banda the brasses and woodwinds
could her melonic tone as she spoke
nearly singing, she soothed me into her words
we came upon an outcrop of assorted rocks
one to include agate, amethyst, beryl, fluorite,
garnet, opal, barite, calcite, chalcedony,
jasper, quartz, lapis lazuli, and malachite.
walking barefoot on the concrete slab of the trailer
makes her feet as black as tar
Yeshu"a bin Yusef she spoke
of her troubles and in trouble
I will speak this name she said
then I shall seek remedy
and seek solution to our needs
all while not telling what
the crown of the desert
really meant
I felt used and foolish.
My company to her nothing special
as her next friend shall be the same.
Nothing specail, just a mere person
A polarizing perception of a weak man.
The Myth of belonging
just woman exploiting men.
A Brothel in 1800's is belived to be a myth
until a truck of gold is found
and a book with the names of many
people discovered
"Mujer tribal puta" was the cover-up
and now we know why.
they hasd discovered how to use
wires to communicate
and wished to keep
it a secret.
the Joshua Trees rattle from
Quakes.
A breezy day, and two boys biking down the lane
past meadows green with envy, soft as spring.
Picnic-packed and ready for the day's adventure.
They passed hikers who cried "Hey, lend us yer bikes!"
The lads whizzed by, not giving them a second thought.
"I bet them's fire cows," Jimmy said, (he had a wild
imagination.) "Nah, them's Holsteins, don't be daft!"
said John. The air was full of magic, and the sky
alive with seagulls. The ocean glinted to their right,
sparkling like the twinkle in a young girl's eye.
They hurried to their destination, breathless with
anticipation, hurtling to a Neverland they'd mostly
seen in pictures, a rocky outcrop, pounded by
the waves, a fearsome confrontation with the sea,
a playground where imaginations flourish.
“I bet there's dragons in them caves,” said Jimmy,
"and trolls and such, with fangs and fiery breath!"
“You're crazy!” countered John, (he read the Bible),
“'sides there's Jesus, He will shelter you from death
for now, make sure you're well and in good health."
Skittering on slabs as slick as ice fields,
tottering like lambs who've found their legs;
they played until the frigid water beckoned,
then splashed and frolicked, ducking from the heat.
Opening their back packs now, they settled down to eat.
It was then, the first time they'd discussed it,
Wally, Jimmy's brother, gone to God;
dead from cancer barely two weeks prior,
disconnected, laid beneath the sod.
Their tones were sullen, conversation somber.
“Is Wally with the Angels?” Jimmy questioned.
“Yes he is,” said John, “and safe at rest.”
They cycled home in silence, friends forever,
and settled in their beds, forever blessed,
the moon endowed their dreams, a welcome guest.
Author Notes:
...an adaptation of Dylan Thomas' short story 'Who Do You Wish Was With Us?'
A breezy day, and two boys biking down the lane
past meadows green with envy, soft as spring.
Picnic-packed and ready for the day's adventure.
They passed hikers who cried "Hey, lend us yer bikes!"
The lads whizzed by, not giving them a second thought.
"I bet them's fire cows," Jimmy said, (he had a wild
imagination.) "Nah, them's Holsteins, don't be daft!"
said John. The air was full of magic, and the sky
alive with seagulls. The ocean glinted to their right,
sparkling like the twinkle in a young girl's eye.
They hurried to their destination, breathless with
anticipation, hurtling to a Neverland they'd mostly
seen in pictures, a rocky outcrop, pounded by
the waves, a fearsome confrontation with the sea,
a playground where imaginations flourish.
“I bet there's dragons in them caves,” said Jimmy,
"and trolls and such, with fangs and fiery breath!"
“You're crazy!” countered John, (he read the Bible),
“'sides there's Jesus, He will shelter you from death
for now, make sure you're well and in good health."
Skittering on slabs as slick as ice fields,
tottering like lambs who've found their legs;
they played until the frigid water beckoned,
then splashed and frolicked, ducking from the heat.
Opening their back packs now, they settled down to eat.
It was then, the first time they'd discussed it,
Wally, Jimmy's brother, gone to God;
dead from cancer barely two weeks prior,
disconnected, laid beneath the sod.
Their tones were sullen, conversation somber.
“Is Wally with the Angels?” Jimmy questioned.
“Yes he is,” said John, “and safe at rest.”
They cycled home in silence, friends forever,
and settled in their beds, forever blessed,
the moon endowed their dreams, a welcome guest.
Author Notes:
...an adaptation of Dylan Thomas' short story 'Who Do You Wish Was With Us?'
...inspired by the Dylan Thomas short story
'Who Do You Wish Was With Us?'
A breezy day, and two boys biking down the lane,
past meadows green with envy, soft as spring.
Picnic-packed and ready for the day's adventure.
They passed hikers. "Hey, lend us yer bikes!" they cried.
The lads whizzed by, not giving them a second thought.
"I bet them's fire cows," Jimmy said, (he had a wild
imagination.) "Nah, them's Holsteins, don't be daft!"
said John. The air was full of magic, and the sky
alive with seagulls. The ocean glinted to their right,
sparkling like the twinkle in a young girl's eyes.
They hurried to their destination, breathless with
anticipation, hurtling to a Neverland they'd mostly
seen in pictures, a rocky outcrop, pounded by
the waves, a fearsome confrontation with the sea.
A playground where imaginations wander.
“I bet there's dragons in them caves,” said Jimmy,
"and trolls and such, with fangs and fiery breath!"
“You're crazy!” countered John, (he read the Bible),
“'sides there's Jesus, He will shelter you from death
for now, make sure you're well and in good health."
Skittering on slabs as slick as ice fields,
tottering like lambs who've found their legs;
they played until the frigid water beckoned,
then splashed and frolicked, ducking from the heat.
Opening their back packs now, they settled down to eat.
It was then, the first time they'd discussed it,
Wally, Jimmy's brother, gone to God;
dead from cancer barely two weeks previous,
disconnected, laid beneath the sod.
Their tones were sullen, conversation somber.
“Is Wally with the Angels?” Jimmy questioned,
“Yes he is,” said John, “and safe at rest.”
They cycled home in silence, friends together,
and settled in their beds, forever blessed,
the moon endowed their dreams, a welcome guest.