skinny and tall pines
Holy Spirit’s breath winds ‘round
steeples in forest
Whispering rainbows
thundering skies
Canyons majestic
deserts on fire
Snow covered passes
vows to renew
The altar awaits
— Grand Teton in view
(Wind River Pass: November, 2025)
Somebody said that in Wyoming
That a body could recover from
The N.Y. blues that leave your soul so dry
I bid farewell to Montauk
And the sadness in her eyes
Knowing somehow that I never
Would return.
Now the skies over Green River
Somehow are not that different
And the losing end remains the
losing end.
Some days I'd trade my highway shoes
For a key to the door back home
But the past is smoke
And the locks beneath the clay
I often think of Montauk
Though the photo is all lined now
Knowing somewhere, some days
Montauk thinks of me
Twenty-one years old,
or should I say young,
with the fair coloring and
grace of a trumpeting swan.
Youth of intellect and
a goodness.
He attended an LGBTQ+ meeting
on the campus of the
University of Wyoming on
October 6, 1998,
afterwards he dropped by
the Fireside Bar for a drink.
Two malevolent men lured
him from the bar.
They tortured the youth of
the peaceful presence.
They left him to die on
a deer-proofing fence
near a rural roadside.
Hours later a young man
on a bicycle at first thought
Matthew was a scarecrow,
then recognized him.
He, Matthew of an angelic face.
The swan, the delicate swan.
Tear tracks streamed on his cheeks.
After a six day coma in the hospital,
Matthew of this sad earth passed away.
Candlelight vigils glowed the world over.
Hate crime legislation across the U.S.
was born.
Matthew, a citizen of global humanity,
was murdered for being gay.
Love and Hope lying bereft,
bleeding still.
Matthew's angels still console the
tearful hearts of light,
neverending. ~
Wyoming sure lacks common sense
To believe in Trump, but not Pence!
A bankrupt and liar
Can prey like a friar
Wyoming is spacious yet dense!
intense intimate direct
all over art
arrested moments
of
the
energetic flamboyant
purpose filled
flings
a surfeit
of emotional energy
in controlled
abandonment
of space & time
living
the moment
of
the unconscious unwrapped
revealed
in a harmony
of the whole
dip and thrown
vibrant eclectic frantic
vigour
at a fresco scale
in
the giant closeup
a horizontal
becomes
a mural
until
inspiration
evaporates
into
the ephemera
of
selfdoubt
Wyoming is the open road
Miles of light blue sky
Tumble weeds
Cacti
Wyoming is hours and hours
Without seeing other cars
Without seeing animals
Without seeing people
We stopped at a fancy motel there once.
They had the best gift shop.
I bought myself a long brown wool coat
With white galloping horses around the hem.
Wyoming is a state to stop for food
They will leave the light on for you.
Their steaks are fresh and tasty
They make their own condiments
Wyoming is a place to drive through
A place to relax; a state to admire
Their prairie dogs are watching as you drive
But you will neither see them or Wyoming’s buffalo
There is a wrinkle in Wyoming
A sparkling fold in Old Japan
There’s a crease in Alabama
North Carolina has lost a man.
Iowa’s cornfield are all on fire
And Georgia has slipped away in the sea
Bolivia is under siege, feeling dire.
Puerto Rico’s colors have turned gray as can be.
There is a continental divide in Mexico.
A hurricane has flooded most of France.
Turn off the news, my sweetheart.
Let’s hide from the world and dance.
A man of Wyoming ate cantaloupe
While watching some galloping antelope
To his aunt he said
You must truly wed
A right proper woman just cantaloupe
The road went straight on
With the ribbon drifting as a heavenly song
They call it the “Road to Heaven” going up high
Stop and look at how it leaves the earth for the sky
So in your wandering take a look to see
I80 in Wyoming in Utah you’ll be.
© Paul Warren Poetry
They wait, deep down in the red earth,
covered from the yellow, Wyoming sun,
like Tom Horn, a while ago,
but deeper than he, not the same,
they wouldn’t kill for fun,
and the bored army busies itself beneath;
their mind-numbing repetition unclear,
but the fear, the fear stays, keeping them
on their toes and best behavior
and the specters of the cattle barons, and
rustlers and Geronimo, wonder at these busy
ants underground, eating, sweating, filling in
a thousand forms;
I wonder, do they write poems?
“Here I sit in my rocket-chair, wondering
what’s happening way up there, on the prairie;
while down here, I tick the charts and ponder,
how it would feel to turn the key, turn the key,”
blah, blah, blah….or perhaps they have
chess clubs and baby showers and tense
debating thrills, and Buddy Rich, jazz hours
between the mind-numbing shifts and drills;
and there’s a Slim Pickens, ride- em- cowboy
move still, next to every lady-soldier’s heart,
while another day on the wide-open, God’s gift
prairie passes by;
and up above, in the dawn light, Tom and Geronimo
ride by the metal hatch singing;
“I got you under my skin,”
It’s a Wyoming winter--there’s snowflakes and sleet coming down,
The cowboy is hiding away from the trouble in town.
Now, the gambler he cheated the cowboy of wages,
With cards that he chose to conceal,
So the cowboy he pulled out a pistol and shot it,
And the gambler, he lost his last deal.
Then the cowboy, he rides toward the line-shack and stays there,
While Wyoming winter-winds wail,
Soon the store-keeper’s daughter arrives with provisions,
And a posse that’s close on her trail.
Now the posse gives up and turns back in the blizzard,
While Wyoming winter winds roar,
Then the lovers, they travel from Cheyenne to Denver,
And they marry, and open a store.
It’s a Wyoming winter, there’s snowflakes and sleet coming down,
It’s a Wyoming winter, they’re safe from the trouble in town.
03-27-79
*
open plains,sparse grass
the winter chills,making splash
the news carrie's through
I see my darling
Why I have chosen to live here
For it is here I will be closer
To you and God and my family, dear.
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