"mojave" poems
Out here there are no hearthstones,
Hot grains, simply. It is dry, dry.
And the air dangerous. Noonday acts queerly
On the mind's eye erecting a line
Of poplars in the middle distance, the only
Object beside the mad, straight road
One can remember men and houses by.
A cool wind should inhabit these leaves
And a dew collect on them, dearer than money,
In the blue hour before sunup.
Yet they recede, untouchable as tomorrow,
Or those glittery fictions of spilt water
That glide ahead of the very thirsty.
I think of the lizards airing their tongues
In the crevice of an extremely small shadow
And the toad guarding his heart's droplet.
The desert is white as a blind man's eye,
Comfortless as salt. Snake and bird
Doze behind the old maskss of fury.
We swelter like firedogs in the wind.
The sun puts its cinder out. Where we lie
The heat-cracked crickets congregate
In their black armorplate and cry.
The day-moon lights up like a sorry mother,
And the crickets come creeping into our hair
To fiddle the short night away.
30.8k
crested crag-spines rising
bones fierce of ancient dragons
calling out to Naga
**~~~~~~~~~
Return
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~**
*Bloom feminine essence, Flow !
Feed my ancient undulations*
wearied now to hills
sighing down with last exhaled
memory of color
washed, washed,
baked by endless sun
Mar 17, 2017
Mar 17, 2017 at 7:15 PM UTC
Her hair is blowing
in the high desert
winds
She's gotta
1942 Big Chief engine
between her knees
bequeathed
by her great granddaddy
She's heading up
395
Sierra bound.
She'll tell ya
she's had enough
straight time
driving her far from crazy
Pacing
playing losing aces
pulling her hair
she knew she
just
had to get out of there.
Now the great Mojave
has its expanse
Joshua Trees
they just had to laugh
as she rode by
China Lake
flashing
21st Century
weaponry
Passing through Independence
she's feeling free now
Now I can't say
running away
is
the way
But when your hair
is blowing in the winds
You gotta Big Chief motorcycle
between your legs
and
the ******* aren't stopping
what else can you
say?
Heading to the Sierra
gotta get the mountain view
high above it all
slump those shoulders down
breathe on through
Heading up Big Pine
smelling the Jeffrey Pines
Bishop too
ancient Mono Lake
when it ain't snowing
freedom reigns
Her hair blowing
in the mountain winds
didn't mean anybody
any harm
just had to get
out of there
alive
Bye bye
baby
take care.
Dec 22, 2015
Dec 22, 2015 at 11:07 AM UTC
What is my aim?
A fantastic query to which I have many answers
I aim to explore the most beautiful and most mundane places on our planet
And keep secrets when they should be kept
And fly to great heights and sink to great depths and
Traverse lengthy tripwires that stretch between skyscrapers in the Mojave Desert
But tonight my aim is to be with you
And be with you
And be (where was it again?)
Ah, yes. With you.
Jul 1, 2011
Jul 1, 2011 at 6:10 PM UTC
In those days all thinking took place in his heart.
It had no favorite suburb, no shelter that was home,
immersed, as he was, in the Mojave of humanity,
memories of only former places through which he'd drifted.
Yes, there were women, storms of passion, brevity in bed.
Today, they only took him back in time,
reconstructing scenarios more of actions never taken.
Bedposts served as bivouacs for the nomad.
Here in this desert water assumes a circumstance,
the nomad becoming as fond of it as ambition.
Here silence need not be kept at bay, rather welcomed in,
though it looks down upon him in uncertainty.
Out there on the horizon he hears a sigh,
a mother tongue corresponding to his own.
Jan 4, 2013
Jan 4, 2013 at 8:37 AM UTC
it was a dry mojave afternoon,
with crows cursing shrilly
the streetlamps bearing broken bulbs
and the striped cat sleeping in the sun.
the wind drew frantic breaths,
exhaling dead leaves over the hill
and sending the blackbirds
spiraling into the sky.
a lizard stirred, somniferous almond eyes
gazing lethargically over his rock
and at the old man on the porch
leaning back- impossibly uncomfortable in his rickety wooden chair.
his name was Jackson.
gnarled gray hair mixed with gnarled gray beard
appropriately framing a pinched, ornery visage
and tattered clothes adorned his whisper of a body.
it was his sixty-fourth year here in the desert-
on the fifty-second he'd lost his wife
on the fifty-eighth he'd gained a kitten
named him Waldrop and let him **** the mice and lizards.
'sixty four years is a long time,'
a thought murmured in the back of his head
eyelids peeling back to give a cursory glance to Waldrop
who was stalking the reptile watching him.
he remembered his twentieth birthday
when Edna had first said she loved him
and he remembered that glorious July morning
where she said she was his forever.
he remembered the pain of labor
down in the factory,
and the camaderie with his fellows
chewing tobacco and cursing the bosses.
he remembered the time spent weeping,
but remembered more the time spent laughing
in places miles and miles away
that now seemed imaginary.
exhaustion echoed through tired bones
and he wondered who would feed the cat,
drooping eyes closing one last time
to await the warmth of sunset.
Dec 10, 2013
Dec 10, 2013 at 5:15 PM UTC
He was far too disorganised
driving too fast
here and there
with no particular place to go.
She was a neon light
flashing
in the black Mojave night
a celestial mansion
alive
with such sweet smells.
He now had a purpose
a story to tell of
a
thousand fantasies
hotter
than the hinges
on the gates of hell
sparklers of desire
flaming through neurons on fire.
He was lite up
like
neon
in the dark Mojave night
all he could see
was
delights
in
every window burning bright.
Her fingers beckoned him
her eyes pleaded
her breath said
yes yes yes
her
body
danced and swayed
perfect harmony with all he craved.
He moved closer
moment by moment
movement by movement
to
take her to places promised.
He reached to take her hand
there was one
exquisite flash
disintegrated
shred into ash
on the pointed arrow
of
her forever flames
Just like that.
Jun 10, 2014
Jun 10, 2014 at 9:31 AM UTC
Living at hard angles,
the hemophilac in the razor blade factory
a diabetic making chocolate,
the alcoholic cooking with vanilla
A car running out of oil
in the great Mojave Desert
broke down,
while heading to Paradise, Nevada
Life at hard angles,
hard to get started
hard to get around
Rent gas water, electric insurance garbage,
car needs tires, internet phone
food
whose ever screaming the loudest
bank accounts have been known to go to zero
Cry all night
We're going to hold on to each other tight
it's all temporary
Even when you're sleeping hard
living at hard angles.
Apr 6, 2017
Apr 6, 2017 at 10:00 PM UTC
I'm about to slip
quietly into sleep
when the cat,
her food bowl bare
and the drink dried up
like Mojave,
hops on my back
and feigns affection
her sharp claws
stabbing here & there
in a soft attack
as she carves out
a cozy perch
in my flesh.
I lurch up
grunting and fumbling
pull the short chain
on the night table lamp
and in the pale green glow
pad off into the kitchen
scouting for Cat Chow
and a measure
of peace
Sep 19, 2012
Sep 19, 2012 at 6:46 PM UTC
“one day i will find the right words, and they will be simple.” - jack kerouac
pancakes on a sunday morning, jack daniel’s, getting really drunk then running naked through the forest, mosh pits, double rainbows, old trucks, freebandz, panic attacks, overflowing bubble baths, woodstock 1969, lemonade, slamming my head into wet pavement, the cranberries, jumping into someone’s arms after having gone years without seeing them, american spirits, crying, heavy metal music, innocence, laughing until a hospital visit is necessary, ragers, smiles on the faces of five year old children after stripping the shelves of a candy store bare, severe depression, the 90s, basketball hoops in driveways, putting on makeup at 1 AM, the mojave desert, life.
-z. vega
Jun 17, 2016
Jun 17, 2016 at 2:50 AM UTC
There is fire above the neon
Their shine and burn so eloquent yet brash
I am trapped beneath Fremont Street
and I hear exodus—
I am trapped beneath Fremont Street
My coffin is lined with casino carpet
The embers of cigarette ash
Burn wild within me
I want to move to Sahara Avenue
and live amongst the cracked asphalt
So I can catch a glimpse of
The Genesis I am missing
So next I am under Main Street
where the sweltering desert meets
the diminished pavement;
the metal statues that hold blinking lights
I am trapped beneath Fremont Street
As I gaze into the deep, wide Mojave
Oh, Deuteronomy, it is I,
the one you so eagerly seek!
Paradise, 2018
Sep 25, 2018
Sep 25, 2018 at 2:44 AM UTC
I gaze across the dry desert land.
It goes for miles,
nothing,
but long stretches of valleys,
tucked between mountain walls.
It's like being hidden in a dust bowl.
It's so hot,
and the traffic of cars
kicks up the desert dust,
clouding everything in sight,
but it is a place of refuge
for those seeking
a spiritual revelation.
I certainly understand
why these lands are sacred
to the Native Americans,
and to the indigenous
people of Mexico.
I have only spent
a few days here,
but I already feel more at peace,
free from the hussle,
and shackles of our society.
I have been contemplating
my place in this world,
beneath the heat of the sun,
with the sand between my toes.
I can't help that my mind wanders.
I wonder who walked
these lands thousands of years ago,
that I am now trespassing on
with my pitched up tent,
and campfire.
What was there purpose?
Were they simply settled here,
or were they just walking
in search of something more?
Possibly for a rite of passage?
Traveling across the desert,
to commune with their
Gods and Goddesses.
These are the questions
that float through my mind,
as I meditate in the dry desert.
I wonder if these
thoughts are my own,
or if the spirits of the past
have placed them in my mind,
to rekindle the magic
that used to fill these lands.
A place now,
where the wonder of the desert
has become a mirage.
A place of beauty,
but barren of magic
to those who live with eyes closed.
Mar 9, 2017
Mar 9, 2017 at 9:04 PM UTC
On a lip-crack Wednesday morning
with a mind as dry as ice
my cold Mojave fingers
make it difficult to write
and the radio is laying
sentimental sediment
on a limestone lack of lustre
that's as solid as cement
and a sad Sahara sunrise
bakes a barren riverbed
where the trickled inspiration
once went gushing through my head
and I point a brittle finger
at the unrelenting sky
and I ask it why?
Then you
dawn
upon
my memory and
My heart becomes a waterfall
cascading through my very soul
refresh the butterflies that fly
in coloured clouds below
And if you'll take me, I will grow
I will grow
I recall a conversation
from a few years down the line
one voice isn't shouting
but the other one is mine
laying words like sandbags
against the battlements
making promises which, made,
cannot be made again
I was sure of something
but my certainty was wrong
now I'm sure of something else
I can't tell for how long
I point that brittle finger
at the unrelenting sky
and ask it why?
Then you
dawn
upon
my memory and
My heart becomes a waterfall
cascading through my very soul
refresh the butterflies that fly
in coloured clouds below
and if you'll take me I will grow
If you'll take me I will grow
If you'll take me I will grow
I will grow.
Jan 8, 2012
Jan 8, 2012 at 3:23 PM UTC
First kiss
New bliss
I never knew thirst
Till we disengaged
Till we reconnect
My lips are the Mojave in summer
-JCM-
May 9, 2019
May 9, 2019 at 2:12 AM UTC
in the absence
of
the beloved
Switzerland
feels like
the Kalahari
the Sahara
or the Mojave
desert
and
heaven
becomes
hell
Oct 23, 2021
Oct 23, 2021 at 11:29 PM UTC
As dusk approached,
the fire in the sky
lit the mountains of the Mojave
aflame.
Painting the horizon
as hot coals,
destined to smolder.
Gray haze hanging
in the valleys.
The breeze brought night,
the moon, and stars
uncountable.
It was life, and
death,
the peace,
and violence
between.
Jun 9, 2022
Jun 9, 2022 at 12:20 AM UTC
I am not heartless,
life just taught me
to use my heart less.
I don’t always allow my heart
to make choices for me.
Life is saddened by love,
because when those
you care about die,
it hurts more than
if they were a stranger.
That’s why I always say,
love is not a happy journey
where the sun always shines.
It can be a barren landscape
wasting away with fattened pigs,
and chickens who lost their feathers.
Love can burn like the hot sun
in the Mojave Desert.
It can drink your blood
until you’re ready to pop.
Leaving you to die
from a broken heart.
© 2017 Amanda Shelton
Aug 17, 2017
Aug 17, 2017 at 3:12 AM UTC
The little dog sits
staring out the large window
to the street
beyond
where he is a wolf on the Steppes
a jackal on the Serengeti
a coyote of the Mojave
But for now
he sits
Jan 6, 2013
Jan 6, 2013 at 11:57 PM UTC
planes
planes
planes
rows and rows
of planes
never again to fly
up in the sky's terrains
planes
planes
planes
rows and rows
of planes
sent to the Mojave Desert's
dry weather vanes
planes
planes
planes
rows and rows
of planes
parked forever out of
the corosive rains
planes
planes
planes
rows and rows
of planes
lie idle within their
grounded lanes
Jun 6, 2021
Jun 6, 2021 at 4:34 AM UTC
I walked like water into this
Ready to be part of your cycle,
Rain and sleet and hail, and all we would need
Bountiful as light-
I slipped into your bathtub, silently
Caught in your current,
Thrown to the sea
Alone and unwilling to admit
I cannot swim and don’t want to
And all because I walked like water
And you mistook me for such.
Now, the drought has purged me of this,
Left senseless,
I’d have never taken this as the Mojave
Had I not given you my springs.
Now I walk like a continent into this,
I’ve got my own topography,
Don’t need your plains to carve into.
I walk like soil into this,
Now we mix tectonic into bliss,
Never was so beautiful a landslide,
No water, no tide
So you know I fall into this
I will not creep and crawl,
Seep through your rafters in the night
No, I’ll build you bedrooms,
Flowers in my mind,
Support,
Dependency,
Vulnerable
To your touch.
Mar 23, 2012
Mar 23, 2012 at 9:17 PM UTC
Into the dust of Mojave
On a blow-away afternoon
Wandered a traveling stranger
To the highway truck stop saloon.
Taking a seat by the window
His back to the hot blowing wind
You could tell by his face he was grateful
To be out of the sun once again.
And those desert breezes call him
When he is all alone
Ask him where he’s going
He is going home.
Mysterious sandy traces lead him
Along a distant track.
Home is out there waiting
And he is going back.
Then a laugh floated up from the corner
Where the stranger had recently been.
Except for the glass he had emptied
The booth was practically clean.
Out on the road he was walking
His back to the sweltering town.
His car was still parked at the truck stop
But the stranger did not turn around.
And those desert breezes call him
When he is all alone
Ask him where he’s going
He is going home.
Mysterious sandy traces lead him
Along a distant track.
Home is out there waiting
And he is going back.
Feb 1, 2017
Feb 1, 2017 at 1:59 PM UTC
Mountains perked out from the Earth as if Atlas himself was attempting to break free from his subterranean cage. These gargantuan, green, organic monoliths stood as gatekeepers of Lone-lands, and watched as low-hovering clouds swirled and swayed around them. Not fluffy white clouds, but deep gray, angry clouds, clouds that move freely with the orchestra of the land. Like a heartbeat, the mountains pulsed and made the horizon jagged and alive. I studied these clouds and hills until sleep bested me. My eyelids shut, and when I opened them again, the gatekeepers were no more. The horizon's heartbeat had flat-lined, and all I could see was an empty blue sky meeting the Mojave shrubbery and sand.
Apr 10, 2011
Apr 10, 2011 at 11:06 PM UTC
I understood I would never marry,
buy a house, have kids,
mow the lawn on Saturday,
wash cars, clean the pool.
I had an atypical plan,
thinking back, for my life:
a wanderer, adventurer or pilgrim
without want of firm roots.
Each destination a chance happening,
an introduction to the unexamined.
Sidewalks, cafes, alleyways, and life
being lived, journaled for remembrance.
The North Country, New York;
Watertown, Carthage, Clayton and Ogdensburg,
strolling their streets dripping
history and memoirs never told.
Lassoing thoughts from wild conversation
with caffeinated coffee shop poets,
struggling with Calvinistic thought streams
and priests in moments of doubt.
My theories in marble.
Gently chiseled with each interaction,
chipped, thoughts evolve
leaving inference among spilt beans.
All memories and dreams mingle.
l hold them gently.
As midnight creeps I’m untethered,
drifting from the shoal once more.
Suddenly I sense wonder:
The Appalachian Trail at Katahdin,
Continental divide at Loveland Pass,
Mount Hood from Pacific Crest.
Have you ever witnessed
views of Mojave’s Kelso Dunes?
Felt the Great Basin’s rainshadow chill,
or contemplated Joshua Trees in prayer?
Often the life of could have been
is more lucid than I am,
kneeling gnarled,
pulling obstinate weeds.
Shallow breath’d and gazing… scanning
my cut grass, clear pool,
a loving wife, adoring children,
my home…
This man,
mind wandering,
acquiesces,
to clarity of thought.
I would have… could have
been that man, that other life,
a Walter Mitty dreaming
a life; mine.
May 12, 2016
May 12, 2016 at 5:05 PM UTC
To not
Learn
From what
Brought
You down
Before
Leaves you
Chasing
A
Dream
Of Godly strength
Where the
Only person
To blame
Is yourself
To glare into the sun
And think
The mind won't burn
Is to live
In a
Denial
Vaster than:
The Pacific
The Mojave
The Roads of Los Angeles or
The Plains of Montana
Each finger
That lifts
Will be in vain
Will be
Energy
Wasted
The eyes
Wish not to see
What they
Cannot
Accept
Accept the
Horrible
Accept the
Madness
Admit to
Accept
The unacceptable
Accept the
Inhumanity
Of
Humanity
And then
Fight
Fight against
All of it
May 7, 2012
May 7, 2012 at 4:27 AM UTC