Long Valley lay outside my bedroom window
high desert Northern Nevada,
each sunrise
rose
brilliant red
spirals
spires
exploding
in the passing dawn,
to
the petroglyphs
we were drawn.

The asphalt became a dirt road
then the dirt road ended.

Along Long Valley
like some drive through zoo,
herds of wild burros
cattle
sheep
grazing
separated by Pinion pines
the white sage
the dust devils
and the tumble weeds
and a 52 Studebaker body
perfectly preserved
in the high desert dry air
one could only wonder how it got there.

Long Valley had its own expanse
its own vibration to the air
distinct and unique
filled with wonder
way out there.

The petroglyphs
10,000 year old drawings
at once was
the shores of ancient
Lake Lahontan
you could feel it there.

Trying to decipher
the lines and curly cues
circles and swirls
stars and shapes
of
an alien consciousness
from another land
another time.

This was no one rock
but
acres and acres
of generations
communicating with one another
the rocks worn away
from thousands of years of sitting
forming perfect lounge chairs,
perhaps sitting alongside
some receding shore line.

There were  stone rock walls carefully stacked
mysteriously standing  scattered
in the desert
no one knows what it really means.

While lost in the tones
the scents and vision
of the millennium,
on the hillside
through the Tamarack
and Pinion
there emerged
four wild mustangs
at a distance
on the top of the ridge
not those that wandered
into our Virgina City yards

But wild animals
tied to the horses of the millennium.
Power and Strength
spirit gods
reminding us of where we were.
The winds blew
the black mane
of the male in front
wet from sweat
chest heaving in breath
and then they were gone
over the hill
from where they had come.

The petroglyphs were silent.
The sounds of the winds
the sounds of the small stream
less than a drop
in the once Great Lahontan Sea.

Before the sun went down
we needed to leave
driving along the sides
of dry river beds
up rocky hillsides
along the electrical lines
to the dirt road
to the asphalt
as the Long Valley
sunset shot
spires of red.

Remembrance**

A dirt blown wind
stings my face as I walk
this dry river bed below the mesa.
It is a barren time of year and
cold, with some snow on the ground.
This is the land of our ancestors,
it calls to me
even though I now live in a larger city
east of Four Corners
and the Four Sacred Mountains.
~~~
It is in the hogan of my Grand Mother’s family
that I am learning the ceremonial dances-
the Blessing Way;
to sand draw the signs
and dance the dance
that can heal the diseases
of the belegana’s hatred
for our traditional ways:
the Ghost Dance of the Sioux;
the Katsina Songs of the Hopi and Zuni;
the Circle Dances of the Cherokee.
~~~
Belegana society teaches our young
the ways of money, alcohol and ****,
of scorched earth, casinos
and death.
~~~
I am only a small part People,
my moccasins too new
and still hurt my feet.
And yet, I would willingly sweat out
every ounce of belegana blood
for just one glimpse of seeing
the full moon rising over Big Mountain;
of watching Coyote dancing
to Kokopelli’s flute;
our People happy, in balance
above and below,
no longer forgetful of our Origin Songs.

Aztec Warrior 1.15.16

Spirit Ghost**

I was listening to
Guns N Roses yesterday;
to Axl’s “Sweet Child O Mine”.
It’s funny cause
I always thought he was singing
“Oh oh, sweet Caroline”.
HA!
Ever have that
fantasy meets reality, or
is it reality’s fantasy feeling?
Can’t answer that one
and my guess is that
some mountains should never be climbed.
But Slash’s guitar riffs
pull me in and I start to sing,
“Oh hoh oh sweet child o mine”,
oh hoh oh sweet Caroline
as dark hair carries the wind
spiraling me into the fragrance
of moon soaked lavender,
lilies and a hint of wild sage.

“Where do we go now”?
I do not know
but there are Juniper trees on the horizon,
and dust mingles with sweat
as the sun rises to calm skies.
Walking this path
brings me face to face
with a dancing voice in the wind,
a ghost spirit seeing
present and past,
a sweet voice of healing, she sings
just when I needed it most.

I would love to dance you under the moon,
braid and feather your hair
in the old style of soft caring
and sing of the moon’s shadow
smiling in your eyes.
The music shifts,
moving more gently
into a song of renewal,
into the circle dance, into
“Ly-o lay Ale Loya”.
Come, dance,
circle, counter-circle;
let me show you the friendship,
the spirit in the ghost
you have shown me.

Aztec Warrior 1.22.16
I hope this small poem shows the respect and admiration
I have for a friend who has shown me her strength and
calmness and treated me as a human being.
She is a more than special.

~

your apothecaried words,
your healing blended herbs,
soothe this wearied soul,
reduce the aging in these bones;
like streams of cooling water
flowing down from winter's snow,
light my path and show the way,
dispel the night, usher in the day;
these like soothing raindropped kiss
brings my thirsty soul some bliss;
to the corners chases bitterness,
and nudge aside its lonliness;
you lift the scales of fury's blindness,
furl the sails of life's unkindness;
tis the secret garden where i come,
where in comfort i am home;
free from harshness of sojourning,
thee my haggard soul afirming,
by your apothecaried words,
from this bruising world
my troubled soul is carried
my hearth and heart ignited
with your overflowing warming!

~

*post script.

these walls are my home,
sacred to a few of you,
making sacred paths
for me and thee,
a port of refuge
on life's tempestous days. 
if e're i swerve from being comfort,
please...
send me messages to show my error,
for of my life and of my wit and writ,
i would not be one who seeks
to show his teeth or seek revenge
within these halls.
you and these shall ever be
sacred walls to me. 
these and the words above
are inspired by Pamela Rae,
a gentle soul and
favorite herb blender here!
though there are many others too
who hold the line,
the very best here are
in my humble opinion
those who resist the urge and
refuse to participate
in wordy blood feuds,
or other forms of bringing
the harshness of life,
into these sacred halls.
these know the power
of their pen and
choose the better path,
wisely using their words
to bring healing, life, and light
and of course some
much needed laughter!
to each and all,
you who chose this path,
you i salute!
(: Steve

Words flow across my skin'
Icy Poisoned Silver droplets
I wash way the thoughts of normality
To dance with shadowy images of time  
As I plunge into the waters of emotions seething wildly
And my face reveal the sublime

Death take my cold hand bade me follow
I swim in the ocean of forever's sorrow
So cloak my cold body with the stars of sadness
As I bathe in the moonlight of madness


This poem is copyrighted and stored in author base. All material subject to Copyright Infringement laws
Section 512(c)(3) of the U.S. Copyright
Act, 17 U.S.C. S512(c)(3), Tammy M. Darby