In the Poets’ World
in memory of Tony Mares
and inspired by the camaraderie of those who seek
to view life through the eyes of a poet
in the poets’ world
spiders dance on the head of a pin
and princesses sleep in tangled underground caverns
where spider-milk is a delicacy
in the poets’ world
black clouds come in all shapes and sizes
to be worn as designer clothing
along the runway of latest fashion
in the poets’ world
imagination feeds the common people
rocks them to sleep where,
untouched by time, they can dream in Technicolor
or black and white if it suits them
in the poets’ world
seamless transitions between life and death are the norm
and time bends around, twists and turns
into one dimension where water flows uphill
and where tsunamis’ stop off shore and drain
into tide pools filled with marine life
in the topsy turvy world of the poet
the human experience is retold in quick slices
of metaphor where linear time serves only
to reinforce the secrets and lies that underline
the stories we are told as children
and where gallantry rests with the common people
on the blood-soaked cobbled streets of history
Three Ring Circus
after Roosevelt died
there was still war
black and white newsreels
flooded movie screens
while humanity was
on the brink
of the nuclear age
in a carnival world where
sticky cotton candy
obliterated reason
and politicians postured
toward the absurd
she came into this world
unaware
and when Chicago heat melted
her mother’s spirit
she only craved the breast more
soon she’d become
accustomed to the clink of
glass bottles boiling in metal pots
on the stove at midnight
too much for her mother
to bear alone
her father still overseas
in love with an English woman
the War Labor Board
relocation camp project
then, vinyl recordings of his
deep voice would arrive
like thin slices of licorice that
spun the truth deeper into
the hollow of her mother’s despair
storybooks with Winkin, Blinkin and Nod
only compounded the incongruity
when he returned from war
to find a toddler dancing to
Disney records in
blissful ignorance
seventy years later
the President is alive
and has launched reaper
and predator drones
against the Islamic State
of fundamentalist thugs,
not unlike Hitler’s furor
of pure genocide
where her father witnessed
not beheaded bodies,
but the truth behind
untold secrets
too horrible to share—
yet within the realm
of carnival lore
where the bearded lady
becomes the norm
and where the three ring
circus goes on and on and on
Aromas
color deprivation
washed out hues, dreary tints
on stitched hems of one way
roads to nowhere
today’s aromas, in color
wash away the gray
a sensory feast
roasting chili in permutations of
anticipation of another
New Mexico autumn
odors of pollutants
mixtures of air particles in still-born
pastures near Mammoth Lakes
where her parents ashes are scattered
near Devil’s Postpile’s obsidian shards
sharp-edged reminders of her mortality
she continues to crave color
orange, her favorite,
cloaks her in pumpkin skin
she ponders the aroma
of roasting chili
harbinger of time passing
like footprints in seasonal snow
Maroon
(published in The Rag)
maroon
that sassy combination of
reds and purples
a mixture of longing and melancholy
maroon hides in shadows on hot summer days
where dark secrets unwind like tendrils on snap peas
evoking a smile from the crawly caterpillar who tends
to munch on maroon berries in winter
Smell of No Return
shades of sonar dream into her subconscious
while her children sleep sandy-eyed and unaware
she skates away her childhood
on urban fantasies written on chalky sidewalks
an egret lifts one leg, flaps its milky wings
and in pigeon-coup flight
she wakes to the smell of no return
Two Dimension
she hovers above reality
never knowing why the shoreline
along her beach has no waves
like a child’s painting in tempera
she is boxed inside her insular world of dreams
where primary colors of red, blue, and yellow
protect her in the absence of shadow
she collects beach glass
places it in a clear jar on her dresser
waits for shadows to reappear
I Think I Understand Fishing
(published in New Mexico Mercury)
when lakes glisten with shallow ripples
and crows cry from distant pines, echoing late summer
when cicadas’ clamor breaks afternoon calm
as autumn approaches
the fisherman stands along the shoreline waiting
sentinel-like, dressed in kaki pants and shirt
sunglasses and broad-rimed brown hat
he contemplates the moment, then another in simple succession
while fish dart under glassy water avoiding the bait
the fisherman watches white billowy clouds form in the East
and seems content to follow moving shadows along
the mirrored surface of the lake
ripples shift gently at whims of breezes
smells of Ponderosa Pine remind me of
what it means to fish in lakes that go nowhere
from moment to moment to moment
thunder clouds and lighting break the silence
upheaval of torrential rain along the
smooth surface of lake now dotted with
millions of tiny rain drops
but the fisherman doesn’t move from his spot
he casts his rod into uneven swirls of murky water
one last chance to find his catch before lightning strikes again
before he must return to the other side of the mountain
La Llorona
(published in La Llorona Anthology)
maybe she had a reason for drowning her children
a reason only she could justify
to save them from a worse fate, of servitude
of the hollow stares of those who
would surely see them unworthy of
their rightful place in a divided world
of cast and class
but a mother protects her children at all cost
is she to be revered or is she the phantom banshee
who floats above glassy surfaces of lakes and
rivers to terrorize our collective unconscious
warning of our own vulnerability, our
inevitable destiny with death
her legendary tale has survived centuries of
scrutiny, has twisted and turned into fanciful
rituals of fairytale lore in dreams and nightmares
of children who stray too far from home
a warning not to let their imaginations lead them
into temptation, defiance, exploration
or La Llorona will surely find them
snatch them up as her replacement children
so beware of La Llorona
she lurks in the shadows of night
in still waters of rippled souls who let her
brush against their cheek with seductive stillness
her specter lifts us out of dreary mediocrity into
mythological realms as we sensationalize
her story, make it our own
her shrieks, her wails, her angst
resound in sync with the melodic beating of own heartbeat
so that our children can dream of crystal clear waters
starry nights and mountain tops covered with sparkling snow
Knowing
she hangs upside down
listens to rocks laughing in
cave-echoes while she
cocoons in bat wings
a chrysalis protected by darkness
and unknowing
contrasting shadows flicker moonlight
toward the cave entrance where
layers of sediment have built memories
she can relate to, even in hibernation
falling out of sync with
the natural order of things
the shroud she wears begins to dissipate
when cave-echoes hone their way
into the fabric of her reality
and bounce off hardened rocks below
forcing her to glare directly into
ancient pools of underground water
where her reflection becomes unrecognizable
and where limestone stalagmites
pierce the darkness in conical pillars
of knowing
The Desert: A Sestina
What is it about the desert
that beckons her with its open spaces
and distant vistas that meander
along dreamy horizons making the edge
of her reality a reminder she hopes
will keep her from disappearing?
A nomad in her mind, she’d disappear
from one place to another while balancing on the edge
of imagination and reality in hopes
of finding the perfect space
where her thoughts could meander
freely. In winter, her desert
takes on special meaning. Desert
wildflowers fade away to stark edges
of bare foliage that often disappear
when winds howl through spaces
where even she could not have hoped
to fit. Spaces where her thoughts could meander
showing her exactly why the meandering
was so important. Always the hope
of finding ways to disappear
from constriction that would edge
her back, away from open spaces
that filled the orange sunsets of her desert
with the passage of time. It is the desert
that calls her. She’d go each weekend, disappearing
from her world where city-life spaces
kept her always on the edge
of hope
but the long road out of the city, the meandering
black ribbon toward Desert Hot Springs where meaning
and sanity held her captive, in the hot mineral waters where she’d disappear
and collect her thoughts, until one day her edge
faded away. Her world filled with open spaces
and when she returned to the city she knew it wasn’t hopeless
anymore. She’d always be able to find her way back to the desert.
No longer on the edge, she can disappear
into the meandering spaces
of her hopeful desert.
Coiled Serpent
(published in Shadow of the Snake)
coiled serpent soaks up sunlight
sees its shadow
then returns to
the shaded boulder
waiting for night-prey
its sustenance on this stark mountain
archetypal and steeped in tradition
symbol of rebirth
transformation
immortality
healing
eternity
sexual desire
potent guardian of
sacred temples
and Aztec treasures
embedded on the Gadsden flag of the
American Revolution
coiled and poised to strike
protector of the Buddha
who sits under the Bodhi tree
of Enlightenment
coiled around the staff
of shamans, around the Rod of
Asclepius and the staff of Moses
opening the door to healing and magic
the Rainbow Serpent who rules the
underworld and makes
fruit trees bloom
who drinks lakes empty
and causes earthquakes
a feathered serpent-god
to the Aztec deity Quetzalcoatl
a monster with a hundred
heads on Gorgons
protecting ancient Greek ritual secrets
alone in darkness
on this barren mountain
coiled serpent
engulfed in shadow
waits for another day
of full sunlight
while we, oblivious to its presence
walk the same path
only to find an occasional piece
of molted skin
along the rocky trail
Cracked Mirror
Pauline looks in cracked mirror
but smoke in mirror images don’t
covers crow’s feet lines around her eyes
once, queen of the carousel
her circus world let her wander
earthen fields with elephants from Tibetan jungles
while she sat atop as queen of perfection
yet, somehow Pauline prefers her black lace mantilla
that covers her dark, thinning hair
when the mirror asks her,
“Why do you shiver when the sun is out?”