~

a crystal cradle slowly falls,
from an indigo sky;
coyote’s distant howl,
blends his primal song,
with the whoot, whoot of the owl;
desert minstrels, keeping beat,
with cricket and cicada’s chorus.
above, a dark horse grazes,
in a field of ancient stars;
and below, encroaching mists
gather in the waving grasses,
crouching... waiting to devour,
all who venture near.
the endless whisperings,
of the brook, stream of
ageless waters, tell of tales
of distant ice and snow,
far above these thirsty plains.
aurora’s blend their magic,
their enchanting flame,
dancing in the rising ethers;
mesmerizing sleepy eyes,
a shepherdess is lulled away;
transported by her distant dreams.
dawn’s approach she fails to hear,
’til it's much too late;
when songbirds of the desert,
now seated in this orchestra,
sing her sleeping soul awake.

~

*post script.

watching the set of a cradle moon on a late night return from the rolling hills of Central Oregon’s high desert last month prompts just enough lines to keep these images alive, until i am able to give them complete thought and words this morning.  aside from fatigue, i love driving at night.  197’s winding crossing down to the Deschutes at Maupin and then it's descent into The Dalles beside a wide Columbia; these, and my longing to be home beside my wife, keep me from sleep driving, alone with my thoughts and imagination.  though rare to Oregon, there are times of year when the aurora borealis pushes its way far enough south to be viewed on moonless nights.

~

rivlets form beneath his feet,
where sun-parched dust
begins to weep, as it has
ten-thousand times before;
water’s endless cycle courses,
to the valleys from the hills;
retracing paths from end to source.
how many lover’s bodies
have been washed anew,
in streams of cleansing flow,
in this flood that ever cleans?
how many runner’s skyward faces
turned to welcome cooling rain;
or young girl’s pretty dresses
river-laundered; or young lips
taste of heavenly wine?
how many farmers bent a knee,
to offer grateful homage
for a gentle early sign, of
this whispered blessing,
awak’ning slumbering seeds?
have you e’re considered this...
these refreshing drops so sweet,
distilled in heaven’s winery,
bear every moment sensory;
a show of nature’s finest.
drops and sprinkles carry
every tear of grief and joy,
humanity has every cried.
a cistern gath’ring mem’ries,
like the tide gathers shells;
awash in collected tears,
caught up in heavenly swell.
oh spring that ever cools,
oh well that ever quenches...
to water we are drawn to go;
our immersion deep,
in rainfall’s drenching flow.
to its sound we drift to sleep;
caress to calm and soothe the aches;
lakeside dip for tired feet;
it's thunderous roar the soul awakes.

~

*post script.

water... so many forms, all around us, yet none is really new... only renewed!

Eroding brick wall
all that remains
refracted, fading
fishermen shadow
red dawn’s early light

brackish still water
shocked violent green
seeps from the desert
to be subsumed
by an unrelenting sea

restless dreamers rise
muscle sturdy pangas
into the churning tide
seeking quicksilver
at the continental edges

returning boats ride low
the shrinking horizon
race to safe harbor
cold beer on ice
under palm palapas

in the restaurant
a young man
shows off tuna
half as tall as he is
to admiring tourists

like me, seeking
the deep, slow burn
salt, jalapeno, lime
a fitting end to this
unraveling dream

Pueblo Mágico
of “no bad days”
walls of contention
in a fractured land
will never separate us

one margarita, two
another raised in defiance
of those who would try
to confine and define
free-range spirits

the Pacific touches
this contiguous shore
from equator to pole
we could catch
a clockwise current

follow Polaris up North
arrive transformed
magnetically charged
disparate souls fused
together bound

~

he knew the hour had come,
to keep a promise he had made.
the time to settle up,
and now a note that must be paid.
the price he’d never argued,
the terms... oh, these were clear;
but he’d not imagined this,
the cost of giving up
his freedom he held dear.
in retrospect he could have run,
he surely wouldn’t be the first;
but it was something in her eyes
that said, “boy, this ain't your worst
nightmare!  trust me hon,
to leave would be a downward slide.
best stay and walk this aisle, love,
it don't pay to leave behind your bride.
my brother’s worn his runnin’ boots,
and daddy brought his gun;
his hound dog knows your scent,
try runnin’ boy, you might be done.
if i were you i’d weigh the odds,
and besides...
is it me you fancy on your arm?
or would you wish instead
the jaws of daddy’s dog?”

~

*post script.

not my story, just my wild imagination running down the street. the thought of it made me smile and when i read it to my sweet wife she chuckled aloud. so if you did too, i will consider my work here to be done!  enjoy, my friends!!
(: Steve