Impetus

Wind through the desert finds levity
rising with the accumulated heat
flowing past deep read monoliths
that whisper of oceans long dead,
of fish and whales and other beasts.
Whispers overwhelmed by present sounds
birds, coyotes and rodents
rocks tumbling beneath careless paws
and – another noise, angry and forced.

The skyline is a well tended furnace
clouds just kindling in the fire
thick cords of pine
brittle bark, fractured and eclectic
some loose straw stretching over the canopy;
the fires on the horizon catch them all
draw them over the precipice of day
to slumber amongst the embers
yet – a false light rises with the night.

The smell of ancient minerals
millions of years in the heat,
rust and stagnation permeates
with mesquite and forgotten rain.
When the sun is at its highest
the scent of burnt oxygen prevails
now at night creosote returns
a muted persistent dream
but – a foul odor imposes.

Steel tracks scream through the canyons
level the mountains, fell the trees
cutting through with lines and destinations
like the maps that inspired their creation
while great pillars of soot vomit out their tops,
too dark to for any light to survive
and the smell of coal, ground metal, motor oil
announce that the train has arrived.

Flagellation

The sun rises.
From up there this must all seem vexing.
We imprison ourselves
torture ourselves
all for the glory of our future selves
a version of ourselves that won’t want to manifest
with all that we’ve done to ourselves
just to get there,
reducing the distance a little each day
becoming more realistic
spinning tires.

The sun sets.
with its head low to the ground
wondering why we measure ourselves against it
when it is the earth that is spinning
kicking up history
sinking deeper into the void.

Mountain Ash

A tree standing tall
isolated on a mountain top
moves and is moved by a world unseen
                                               but tangible
                     as it always has been

You can sense the years between
time refined as it passes by
       more clearly defined
              while still anchored in history

The rocks beneath
        broken and
                 bound
in roots that are fed from all around
      embraced tightly
               by what fruits they’ve found
always hungry.

When wind rises
      against brittle limbs
the tree will cast off what has died
      make room for stronger branches
                                                   to reside

Now, as the cold bares down,
        it reminds us of change
in hues of fire
        that slowly fall to embers
left against the world
                           naked,
waiting for warmer days.

English Channel in Late Spring

A cold wind is blowing – across blue mysteries
where fabled depths are made – with dreadful histories
the fog that hides our shores – honest beyond distance
reminds us there is more – than water’s resistance

Those sunken tragedies – speak to us in the mist
like lost souls rekindled – struggling to persist
to have their stories told – in hidden waves crashing
a song of desperate need – sung with somber splashing

Gulls and hearts hear those words – cry out in harmony
though the mind binds their mouths – and call it larceny
Why should time take those things – we enjoy in life now
and give them to the past – that we have disavowed?

Those far off shores stay hid – behind veils of regret
while we must remain here – on all our sides beset
by the antiquities – of an empire long dead.
From those sober ashes – we always look ahead.

Laika

Space was first conquered by a dog
as a child conquers an anthill
her story but an epilogue.

A tool of political will
found stray on the streets of Moscow
as a child conquers an anthill

In order to fulfill their vow
less courage, more indifference
found stray on the streets of Moscow

Hubris their deliverance
they calculated for her death
less courage, more indifference

Assuming she would run out of breath
such progress built on that one crime
they calculated for her death

Her martyrdom transcends her time
space was first conquered by a dog
such progress built on that one crime
her story but an epilogue.