Regards to all those solitary places
where unaccompanied, some fear to stroll,
located in a wasteland that erases,
then redefines and purifies the soul.
A beating muscle somewhere in the middle
of wilderness is sensed before its seen,
there ‘found’ and ‘lost’ united, form a riddle
and pinnacle inverts into ravine.
Where time is only relative to season,
dimensions shared by life and death converge,
recombinant, these patterns beyond reason
adapt spontaneously and emerge.
A frequent misconception that forsaken,
within this void, there wander the forlorn.
Clear glimpses of existence are mistaken
for dirges sung by landscapes left to mourn


Unwinding, hissing, passing eons out,
ballooning flapped, elastic: time’s disease.
The years deflated under winter drought,
while oceans were reduced to antifreeze.
Through complicated wars of circumstance,
in heat and dust, a few survived. Though stiff
at first, our body-language did advance
and printed verse became a hieroglyph
and sneezed. Exotic font and serif said
it all, to modern scholars looking back
from Times New Roman, Palatine, instead
of Courier, Papyrus, Copper Black.
The future pouring over poems found
the curvature of letter minus sound.

Once in a While

The scarlet butte of Mexican Hat chokes
on unrelenting seasoned winds, (blew clear
through me). The huge stone sombrero shape, jokes
in sandstone, its humor drew me. Austere
walls rise to mesa’s, somber table tops,
that flatten under the skies, dropping down.
Then stair step to another level, stops,
deposited like silt, this silly town
with tourist prices, gas, deserted bar.
I met a stranded couple, (French) with brittle
nerves exposed, (the woman, nice), their car
was stalled and they just hung around a little.
Gave them a ride and finally a smile
at chance and switching hats once in a while.

Over There Sonnet

Before inhaling minted atmosphere,
or we observed this clotted light through blood,
were we a pucker in the stratosphere,
a sonnet enveloped; a darling bud.
Until our crowning, did we dwell beyond
as equal subjects in normality.
Prepared for berth from voyages; re-spawned
and moored to comprehend mortality.
Perhaps emoting here we are refined
for frequencies we cannot engineer.
Intangibles forgotten, left behind,
will be expanded when we disappear.
When first in love or deep in grief’s despair,
then freed and delicate, we’re over there.

Taking Turns

sign directed: FRYBREAD – TAKE A TURN =>
I steered off 95 and mumbled “it’ll 
taste authentic.” I had tried to learn
as much about their ancient past, as strangers
could, explored archaic thoroughfares.
On foot alone, or camping trips with dangers,
played odd games of desert solitaire
with Rattlesnakes and Kestrels. I would practice 
blending into stone where I could pray
with yellow blooms of unforgiving cactus,
grew to love the birth and death of day.

Now I was buying food from a descendent,
living proof the ghosts I’d chased were here,
while waiting, watched a child and her attendant,
she unsteady, but she had no fear.
The tiny girl was very busy walking,
holding hands above her, towered him,
who I presumed to be her father, talking
softly, reinforcing wobbling limb.
“Is she just taking her first steps?” I queried.
“Yes, we didn’t push her much” he said.
“We figure she’ll have all her life,” he wearied,
pausing, sighed, “of walking, up ahead.”
Just then the child looked up and saw me staring,
penetrating eyes held my surprise.
The pride in them, triumphant and declaring
“I am here and its my turn to rise.”

The Only Thing Between Us 

Complacently, the unraked orchard leaves
conceal the grass. How tenderly a tool
abandoned by your touch, now leans and grieves;
your quietness remains. I am a fool
to hear your voice just underneath the gate
with rusting hinge. Our animals all stare
at me, anticipating more. The weight
and measure of an empty room can glare
unkindly back. Acquainted well with tears,
the face of courage wears a brave disguise.
Experience has disciplined my fears
like soldiers drill. Forgetting sad goodbyes
when evening comes and day is in the drawer,
the only thing between us is a war.

What We Know Sonnet


Possessing not the insight found in time,
that wraps a journey unaware, and claps
inaudibly in cadence, fractal rhymes.
We yawp, express this life in tattered scraps
of what we feel and map what seems so new,
but is it fresh or just repeated strolls;
the human gait still searching for a clue.
Insisting on rewriting former scrolls
of dead ideas there inked by bygone blooms
of us. Immersed and yoked with joy and pain,
the wonder of encounters since the womb,
our consciousness evovles beyond the brain.
Alive, unchaperoned and forth we go,
from youth through death recalling what we know.