Strange oddities, hoodoos
they stand, stoic and timeless
stranded in red rock country
their solemn, stony faces
staring intently towards the
southwestern horizon.
I pause…
and witness their mighty stance
resolute and silent
an ancient tribal assembly
gathered and grounded
like mighty warriors of old.
Now, feeling claustrophobic
the hoodoos surround me
a stone henge courtroom
judge and jury
granite gravels at the ready
to strike judgment.
My path darkens with the fading light
I “will” my feet to carry me away
to escape the impending doom
it wants to chase me down
inside the lengthening shadows.
Hidden by nightfall
I distance myself from
the curse of the hoodoos
and their rock hard grip
and hope for a hoodoo redo
come the morning light.
ghostly Malvern Manor
haunting southwestern Iowa
growling in her attic
harsh warnings to psychic visitors
no bodily harm yet that I know of
definite psychological warfare
a few have run out screaming
others notice nothing at all
resolved to ignore the possibility of ghosts
Southwestern faerie you look too delicate to live out west
Where the prairie dogs and the tumble weeds never come to a rest
Your orange hair flies away in the tornado weather in a pretty way
Wings are citrus translucent, and lively as if they want to play
You are probably much tougher than those give you credit to be
Have the look of a pirate queen who is a bit wild and free
Your dress and manner remind me of the turquoise and coral of the south
Lovely endearing face you have, with a pretty heart-shaped soft mouth.
The Lonely Fisherman
He sat on a rowing boat in the fjord
he wore a yellow
raincoat and a southwestern cap matching his coat
was like seeing a French movie, an intellectual one
I couldn’t stand by the window all-day
reading sat on the sofa reading a novel
a book too long, a mind-numbing love story.
I read several pages, then gave up and looked out of the window
the boat was there,
and his cap was floating like a life raft for
I held my breath had he drowned, then the man got
up he had fallen in his boat, perhaps slipped on a dead fish,
but other ways looked fine
He began rowing to shore and tied the boat to the small pier
walking up the track to my cabin, he carried fish in a plastic bag
I dived behind the sofa when he knocked on my door, in case he was selling fish.
polite if he was of the talkative kind
bore me with
endless fishing tales.
Back on the boat, he untied the rope turned gave me the finger.
A bell-jar, crystalline, as transparent as an aquarium
Vibrant colors burnt umbers tints glass atop the kitchen table.
No elaborate gardening, just gentle misting in the terrarium
Muted pinks, earthy tones, texture soft as Siberian sable
My supercilious ways are overridden by fecund elegance.
Gather around my friends and behold cherished succulents.
These flowery cacti, such profuse perennial poetic ebullience,
with an award worthy, floral southwestern desert essence.
giant colorful fish from the turquoise southwestern lakes
began to stack themselves like happy golden brown pancakes
Lilly decided to join them to say hello, her hair floating like flakes.
What kind of fish is that? One asked. Without fins for goodness sakes!
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.
Arizona Spring Training Sextet
running the rapids
life jacket on fully tight
knuckles, fully white
white water rafting
I thought I would surely die
mates made me smile bright
sports-bars, fun, laughter
cowboy steak-out much later
bright time, what moonlight
karaoke, too
"The Funky Divas" were we three
fun and much laughter
my Arizona
spring training, the Oakland A's
those southwestern days
11-8-2020
11-7-2020
~~~~~
Tribute to the Sports channel Team! Thanks for crediting me to be
one of your top Sports channel Scouts and rewarding me with fun trip
of a lifetime! Wonderful to travel with all the managers of the top cable
companies. Never had so much fun in my life. Fell totally in love with
Arizona...the desert, snakes and jeep adventures in her
desert!
The earth is parched
and southwestern winds whip the sky dusty
The world feels dry
and the evening sky bleeds a little rusty
Dear Lord if you please
a little taste of rain we surely need
A fall foliage is wither and brown
no colors do the tree tops crown
The earth so cracked you can trip down
nothing as sad as thirsty ground
Rationing of precious water miles around
for a little taste of rain our sorrows drown
A crack of lightning
a darken sky roars with thunder
The smell of rain
leads raindrops to drip then rip asunder
Reviving the earth
gulping the liquid life as plunder
A little taste of rain
let it pour let it pour
Prayers answered
life reassured
Shark, the contortionist cat, is sitting catty-wampus today.
His head is north, paws west, crossed in a weird southwestern way.
Wearing his glitzy tiara and a feathered boa of blue.
He will not take direction, and has a secret kill room, maybe two
He drags these little bitty animals up, and leaves their bodies for me.
Usually headless when I step on them, sometimes in two or three.
He brings snakes, rabbits, squirrels, moles, voles, and other critters too.
Shark, such a prissy haughty character. I am his clean-up crew.
The Lonely Fisherman
He sat on a rowing boat in the fjord he wore a yellow raincoat
and a southwestern cap matching his coat` colour. Fine rain it
was like watching a movie an intellectual one and French.
I couldn’t stand by the window all day, so I sat down reading
a book that was too long a mind-numbing love story.
I read several pages then gave up looked out of the window
the boat was there, and his cap was floating like a life raft for
a mouse I held my breath had he drowned, then the man got
up he had fallen in his boat perhaps slipped on a dead fish,
but other ways looked fine and with an oar caught his cap.
He began rowing to shore tied the boat to the small pier and
walking up the track to my cabin, he carried fish in a plastic
bag I dived behind the sofa when he knocked on my door
I don`t like fish but would end up buying a couple to be polite
and if he was of the talkative kind bore me with endless tales.
Back on the boat, he untied the rope turned and gave me the finger.
you should come down to florida
this time of the year.
i miss you so much,
baby, i wish you were here
so i could drown you
in the rain,
the ocean,
and my tears.
i'm in paradise,
and you got what you prayed for
last year in the southwestern hemisphere.
In the desert
dewdrops are sparkling over cactus thorn
like icy diamonds this Southwestern morn
~*~
warm winds through the Mesquite Trees
the sweet smell of sage lingers in the breeze
~*~
the desert Sun climbs past invisible clouds
the burning sky melts the misty wet shroud
~*~
the mercury is high but the air is dry
somewhere under the tangerine sky
life in Arizona
"The Ship of State"
On Ship! New billows sweep thee out
Seaward. What wilt thou? Hold the port, be stout
See'st not thy mast
How rent by stiff Southwestern blast?
Thy side, of rowers how forlorn?
Thine hull, with groaning yards, with rigging torn,
Can ill sustain
The fierce, and ever fiercer main;
Poem by: Quintus Horatius Flaccus (Horace)
1858
Southwestern France
Mother Mary appeared 18 times
Young woman Bernadette Soubirous
Announcing: “I am the Immaculate Conception”
Mother Mary helped Bernadette
Discover a hidden spring of grotto
That Spring was soon to become
Fountain of faith, hope
Healing for millions of pilgrims
Lourdes, truly a place of healing
Church recognizes 66 miraculous cures there
Thousands more have been reported
Lourdes a place they found peace
In coming to understand
Accept Eternal God’s will for them
To all who are sick in body and spirit
The Lord brings hope
Comfort through Our Lady of Lourdes
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