Tuesday, July 3, 2018

Three poems at Mojave Heart Journal

Edit: MOJAVE HEART JOURNAL is no longer with us. The three poems are now shared here now:


a pair of crows


a pair of crows fly overhead and caw

watching lighting clouds track in from the west

but no one here to share with what I saw

holding binoculars doing my best

to find a smoke and get some overtime

or else to go inside and play the rest

of that mandolin piece in 6/8 time

a hummingbird buzzes by the door

and I would really like a glass of wine

and wind and sun on my old skin with more

lightning in the forecast grass dry like straw

seeking fire is what my life is for

with no one here to share with what I saw

a pair of crows fly overhead and caw

Fire lookout with monsoons

The wind is not quite strong enough

to keep the

goddamn flies away

and the soles of my feet are rough

and callused going barefoot every day

just watching clouds from overhead

my mountain moving big and grey

sun turning yellow orange red

and thunder lighting to the east

tho I forget what dispatch said

about tomorrow but at least

there's rain here on my metal roof

to cool things down while others feast

on fire and smoke and ash and get

their hazard pay

me I'm content

with overtime tho I forget

what day it is and/or the


just playing my guitar a lot

and singing reading Wittgenstein

and sometimes wearing clothes or not

coyotes yipping down canyon

in Santa Fe the streets glow hot

but there are women there and fun

to fantisize about tho I

am hardly there

and like to run

on flat-ish ground and eat good food

the sound of aspen leaves in wind

the rain has passed

my attitude

to life I try to be content

not think of future or of past

to sleep every night in my tent

forty-seven years went by fast

how long can this part of life last


Ode to the southwest wind

from the Pacific

across the Sonoran Desert

Tucson and Phoenix

between the Superstitions

and Four Peaks

early summer as strong as 30 mph

shaking my tower

humming and moaning through the girders

other times soft and cool

to stand naked out on the catwalk

July pushing moisture up

off the Sea of Cortez

thick anvilhead clouds

building all morning

creating their own wind

and lightning

cloud-to-cloud glowing lines

or sharp cracking ground strikes

passing north over the Mogollon Rim

leaving shattered smoking trees

smoldering in the rain

carry me up and over

and down into Cherry Creek

or Pueblo Canyon

so I could ignite

feed me and make me burn

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