Long Tumbleweed Poems
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Moving On
Youth, sits in the evening's orange light,
back against bark of a black cherry;
one of a fence of trees
that runs the railway line.
He senses the Texan desert heat,
loosening, lessening, uncoiling
while sharpened light spits
and sparks off his buckled belt.
He pulls close to the sound of a freight train,
working its way out into the desert,
Clunking, clanking in its heavy metal voice
while curious creations of tumbleweed
stumble and stroll alongside.
His imagination sways to the train's motion,
motivating his own thoughts of moving,
moving on to a better build of life.
Youth, stands on the precipice of adulthood,
dreaming of the glitter of a big city
where potential opportunities flicker
on street corners like neon lights.
The train now slips inside night's dusk,
sliding towards the ragged edges of the desert
where it performs one of nature's magic tricks ..
a swivel of metallic hips… and gone.
He now sits alone, colour minimal,
sound emptying into silence.
recognition nudging his memory
of drawing an education from the desert
but he now needed new pathways to tread.
Behind him, the horizon
slips slowly, sedately below itself
and night crawls towards him.
Youth, uneasy with dusk's, dark stare,
quickly stretches himself back home
while distant hills stride alongside;
cicadas chuckling in his slipstream.
In the wakefulness of morning
he knows the horizon will be back;
a line of encouragement, pulling him to
roads not yet taken; dreams not yet imagined.
Ian Souter
Written: September 17, 2023
______________________________________________________________
In the misty, morbid moors of winter mantle,
Meadows lay barren in gray shades and prattle.
Skies, akin to canvas, drawn with grief and woe,
Skylarks seek shelter as spartan spurs stow.
Wind whispers weakly, a woebegone wound.
Silence slopes set the slues, a solemn sound.
Bark of ancient trees bears the scars of time.
Sinew firmly in the earth, their roots entwine.
In liable land, where souls languish and swell
Winter bite runs deep, and the drear dwells.
But amid the anguish, there is a hidden flame.
A spark of creation, an optimism that tames
A durion stands lofty with its thorny crown.
A eucalyptus dances and savory shrubs abound.
Humble plantain sways; it sheds a vibrant green,
While the sumac and cypress tag hues yet unseen.
The catechu and bauhinia bestow blooms,
Litchi and Bay cram the air with fond perfumes.
Limbs of birch trees sway, twigs rending the sky.
While the tim and brier pace, with a wild cry.
Brazilwood and aeolian trees unveil vibrant hues.
As the shill of the wind gyrates, idling a tune, true
Tumbleweed rolls, a nomad in the bleak land,
With every beat of its seed, it crafts a sound, grand.
Intermittent blight may be dimming the scene,
But the spirit of nature remains evergreen.
In the misty moors, as winter holds its sway,
Nature's beauty and resilience find a way
The wind whistles in the desert
The tumbleweed rolls freely
Stranded in the desert I am
Not a single movement is seen
Not even a sound is heard
My regency dress dances with the wind
I scream and shout for help
All in vain I give up
Alas! hope is restored
A caravan is seen from a far
Where was I?
Who are these people?
Barrage of questions filled my mind
Standing in front of me
Were the men from the caravan
Taken to the palace
A party was taking place
Dancing gracefully, I was
A shriek is heard
A soul has departed
Turmoil is evident
Trying to evade from the scene
Stopped by those who saved me
With a fatal bite
I breath my last
Sweating profusely, I wake up
Just another nightmare
One that felt real
All this I ignored
But the mark is seen
I woke up in a Spaghetti Western
Not sure how this happened to me
Standing on the dusty streets of Laredo
With six desperado's down the street
I gazed off to my left
As a tumbleweed went tumbling by
There was a dog howling in the distance
With an odd sheen to the Western sky
Can't say I wasn't trigger happy
With my hand inching towards my gun
Still wondering how it is I appeared here
In this B-movie Western
Women and children were running for cover
They knew what was soon to go down
Truth is you can expect nothing less
When you live in a Spaghetti Western town
Pecos Bill was the first to draw
As I shot him between the eyes
Want you to know I took no pleasure in
Watching the other five die
As I rode off into the sunset
The credits behind me rolled
How I woke up inside of this movie
Is a mystery I will never know
With uproar, vexed, the bone-chilling wind blows...
the wooden and unlocked windows of the hut slam;
winter delights in the whims of February
that can be so destructive and savage to an unspoiled
haven hidden from remote civilization,
thus feeling no sympathy for the fragile maples:
bending, squeaking and cracking as if they were in pain!
The furious wind batters steadily,commanding the red-tailed hawks,
watching the hungry wolves hunt the scary deer,
to flee over the tumbleweed and mud-filled streams with agitation.
Dispersed by the gelid gusts, the bouncing clouds fret, and
illuminated by silver bolts of lightning, they seem to dissolve in their intense,
fiery heat; where's the friendly sun, the light-giver,
to make darkness vanish and restore tranquility in this
wilderness visited by bald and golden eagles? And is it a passing hurricane,
or a threatening storm with hail and snow?
From the parlor window,
an old woman looks beyond the decrepit wooden rails
of the low fence
Five Rhode Island Reds are grazing around in tall brown grass hunting
grasshoppers, and she welcomes the company
One cock sits perched on a post, in the shade of an elm
keeping watch
Down the deserted asphalt road,
heat waves blur the horizon
A dusty whirlwind has picked up a tumbleweed
And spins it against nearby barbed wire that surrounds the coop
The sound of the windmill moans a painful whine
She looks with empty eyes, at the room around her,
An old clock ticks away the minutes in slow motion
The mantel displays photographs of a life she hardly recalls
She lays her hand on the desk,
picks up the phone that never rings and carefully listens to the dial tone
Then, she will once again turn toward the window
that needs a good scrubbing,
where her gaze curves down the gravel driveway,
toward someone not coming
I don’t know why I was running
through its open chambers last night.
I last lived in it sixty years ago
but I can’t stop.
I don’t even know if it’s still there
long after it rose from a plot
in a new subdivision in St. Cloud,
and I wonder why I’m seeing it now.
Wooden stakes marked out
streets yet to be named
just carved out of the ground.
My parents showed off the house
to my uncle who came to visit
after the oats were harvested.
My family’s house occupied a space
in a suburb in the midst of farmlands
as the town grew. A glance
out the plate glass window showed a stretch
of unfenced yards as far as I could see
shimmering as the passing sun bled
into the sky at the end of the day.
A gust of wind blew a tumbleweed
across the lands unincumbered
after letting go of its roots,
this I remember.
My dad said it was from the Dakotas
a land of mystery I could only envision.
My uncle, proud, said it was good
to get dirt under his hands,
and talked about how families
grew from spreads of land.
Time and time again
my dad and uncle spent hours
telling their stories, the stories
filling the life I once embraced.
My uncle and dad died years ago,
but have never gone.
I look out the window of my rented space
and laugh to myself as the wind rolls
a crumpled scrap of paper across the yard.
under solace of darkness
running through
memories of my youth
When, while a father with two young girls,
ah charming children indeed
both wrapped around mine middle finger,
whose playful rebukes
this papa did heed
(who wished for a son),
he never did breed)
aplomb (fig your at Tivoli) found me
taking their fruitful lead
apple lee going bananas acceptable
mischievous behavior harmless misdeed
from this grown man,
sir render ring self to land
flat on me bum
as if drunk from mead
where playfulness my creed
years ago that streamed
by at lightspeed,
I experienced a
manifest destiny that freed
Aladdin side me, those decades,
sans long gone fatherhood
plus roles he learned to succeed
recalling catfights ('twixt
daughters) he refereed
who cherished those
offspring, he did seed
reckons adult opportunity
gifted yours truly mentoring
with excellence they did excede
to let loose once, and always frightened lad,
healthy development anxiety did impede
his spontaneity damned and leveed,
thus renaissance awoke to relive boyhood,
and prior to parenthood,
would be less apt to concede
how natural to bond with progeny
fostered by being keyed
into esprit de corps of biological charges,
now grown without need,
nor want of this
sudden embarrassment person,
whose absence in mein kampf did bleed
unstaunched sadness till affixing
available spare time with books to read,
and poems to write attempting to feed
an errant stray tear every now and again,
more pronounced as father time guaranteed
begetting precious bundles of joy,
how pedestrian days of yore like a tumbleweed
rocketed them thru preschool, kindergarten...
high school, college now this doddering
doth oft attempt (with futility) to reach them...
even cherished memories insync
with Jack and Jill Truck klaxon dost recede.
Yea, I'm living life on the road, traveling across the land,
I left my humble abode, with just my thumb on my hand,
I'm sightseeing and free....heading somewhere...
with no better place to be, in my world of no care,
Yea, I'm hitch hiking....thumbing for a ride...
half broke, left home, roaming the countryside..
like a tumbleweed blowing across the USA...
those miles keep growing behind me all the way,
I'm sightseeing and free, headed somewhere,
with no better place to be, in my world of no care,
Yea, I'm living life on the road, traveling across the land,
sometimes the nights get cold, but the sunny days are grand,
I'm a hitch hiker, hope to catch a ride,
meeting new faces, across the countryside,
like a tumbleweed blowing in a gentle wind...
with no better place to be...than where I haven't been,
I'm sightseeing and free, in my world of no care,
with no better place to be than going somewhere.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
For over two decades, my husband and I taught in Fabens, Texas, a small border community southeast of El Paso, Texas. Teaching in a border community was hard and required a certain amout of Texas grit. By spring break, we were spent and exhausted. So, a group of us teachers looked for a place where we could escape, gain perspective, and rejuvenate before the final stretch of the school year. We loaded up an SUV and made the three-hour drive from El Paso to Marfa, Texas, calling our journey Pilgrimage to Marfa.
The sun bleaches bones of old Chevys
parked like tombstones
behind the Hotel Paisano~
Marfa doesn’t rush.
Even spring break
is a slow unraveling,
a dust devil spinning
nothing but its own restless heat.
Marfa doesn’t care
that we came here to escape~
only that we did,
barefooted down a gravel road,
dust rising like slow applause.
We wander through town,
the desert swallowing us whole
in its pink-lit throat~
A tumbleweed rolls
through the motel pool,
chlorine-green and half-drained,
while the neon sign blinks:
Vacancy or Mirage?
At dusk, we drive gravel roads
chasing the Marfa lights—
not UFOs, just the desert exhaling
what we can’t explain.
Yet, we half-believe in something out here~
the Marfa Ghost Lights,
the way the highway stretches
like a long, lazy promise
The stars here don’t twinkle.
They stab.
When the wind lifts a skirt of sand
over the highway’s cracked lips,
we all pause, feeling
suddenly holy,
suddenly small.