"petroglyphs" poems
your boot was turned the wrong way
on the post out by the highway
- sharp toe pointing to the south
away from where you've been
you're no stranger to the rangers
living dangerously on the edge
- sidewinders in the sagebrush
whispering to the wind
the anasazi built this home
stacking stone one by one
- far above the canyon
of petroglyphs and wrens
i knew i'd find you by the fire
talking to the ghosts of smoke and drum
- in the ruins above the dunes
reminiscing with your friends
- reminiscing, reminiscing
on the blue mesa.
r ~ 11/6/14
Nov 6, 2014
Nov 6, 2014 at 8:09 AM UTC
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.
Aug 21, 2014
Aug 21, 2014 at 10:26 AM UTC
soft sound of shoes on new pavement
hot & clinging.
sentences strung together/hinging on subjects of a wide variety,
petroglyphs, ivory, & māori history.
touching lamposts with the wicked curiosity
of an only child.
cutting the hair of strangers in an alleyway off of downtown,
burning the strands in a bowl w/some potpourri
interpreting the smoke.
Jun 1, 2011
Jun 1, 2011 at 8:42 PM UTC
happening upon
a sacred sandstone scene
not seen coming
not intended
now illuminated
through blindness of modernity
mother nature's sweat lodge
floating and fleeting
soaring to sourcing
consciously sharp to the present
each sweatdrop, each heartbeat,
each wisdom
there are one, then two
then ten thousand
not passingly noticed
but known intimately
petroglyphs etched into
mind body soul
Jun 21, 2016
Jun 21, 2016 at 9:22 AM UTC
this dream has no other dream
it lingers in the fair Between
and seldom in the inkling think the slightest thing
less interesting
than an overture, an ode to Odin
or a stillborn child's
twitch.
in a box of halos you will find petroglyphs in the hollow of bright yellow sugar-cube skulls with red dots
you will spread the virus. or hire lemmings to do your bidding in your war
on angels with too many arms. on those little plastic shakers, with the little holes: filled with glitter.
your annex of Poland, last june, and your Easter revolution... i could go on. no less bitter.
but many harms have visited your dullard nova
you could spit in god's hand
and fix your cowlick with your reflection.
Jun 3, 2013
Jun 3, 2013 at 11:12 PM UTC
this dream has no other dream
it lingers in the fair Between
and seldom in the inkling think the slightest thing
less interesting
than an overture, an ode to Odin
or a stillborn child's
twitch.
in a box of halos you will find petroglyphs in the hollow of bright yellow sugar-cube skulls with red dots
you will spread the virus. or hire lemmings to do your bidding in your war
on angels with too many arms. on those little plastic shakers, with the little holes: filled with glitter.
your annex of Poland, last june, and your Easter revolution... i could go on. no less bitter.
but many harms have visited your dullard nova
you could spit in god's hand
and fix your cowlick with your reflection.
Oct 31, 2012
Oct 31, 2012 at 1:20 PM UTC
Go ahead pilgrim,
go ahead,
make love
to the horse
I rode in on.
You will like the way she bucks,
how her stained saddle rides,
the feel of her flesh
against your taut thighs.
I will never forget
our crossing near El Paso.
Or the time
she reared up
in Amarillo.
Tucson sure fascinated
them bandits
chasing us
for gold.
We rode like demons
constantly
through the desert,
tracing
the tail of the moon
on petroglyphs.
And she knows,
she knows deep inside
her wholesome *****
she will never forget,
she will never forget
her lonesome rider.
This wearied lonesome rider
has finally,
has finally come home.
Mar 12, 2015
Mar 12, 2015 at 11:23 AM UTC
Huck Finn is dead.
Some say
he died alone
in an apartment in Tulsa
during a Swamp People
marathon
body discovered
three days later
after neighborly complaints,
face somewhat gnawed
by his trusty cat.
Some say
he died in Montana,
struck mute by space,
rigid with terror,
dreaming of The River,
beside a trout stream,
eaten by a jealous grizzly
with a taste
for southern cuisine
and fame.
Some say
he died in Arizona
rattlesnake struck
and shrieking
beneath
a pellucid sky
seeking
to glean current events
and unlikely meanings
from ancient petroglyphs.
It does not matter
where or how;
only that
Huck Finn is dead,
and with him
the lights of the territories
gone black.
~mce
Jul 1, 2015
Jul 1, 2015 at 8:15 PM UTC
the cactus stands alone. long shadows perch in the landscape.
brooding in the rust of twilight, as an autumn moon scorches indigo
lumbering over the horizon on all fours. now only five stars
in the sky ... but soon a riot of ghosts,
something looms in the loom. it has broad shoulders -
so giants may pass and kidney-stones lodge in the smoke.
there are too many lovers clipping eyes from their stalks.
and blindness is the new tongue
of a lost mouth to a cave
of Petroglyphs.
a remote species of man
eating dirt and vibrations.
a horde of monkeys with souls
damning sunshine
to a clouded
thought,
Nov 30, 2015
Nov 30, 2015 at 2:59 PM UTC
How did I end up here?
I asked the darkness
There was no response
How did I end up here
I asked the sun
Fell asleep in its heat
There was no response
Running down to the river
I fell to my knees
The river talked non stop
But I couldn't understand a word
I ran to the ocean
to find the heart portal
at the last log
Though I looked
I could not find it anywhere
Drove the long desert valley to the petroglyphs
Ten thousand years old
Written in a language
I would never understand
The full moon rises eclipses and moves on
I open my mind
How did I end up here I ask
In the dark silence of the rising sun
desert red
By the river running to the ocean
There is no response
Again.
Feb 5, 2019
Feb 5, 2019 at 3:37 PM UTC
Drawings on the sand will be washed by waves
floods can destroy metal engraves;
writings on the wall will get eroded by rains
hurricanes can destroy petroglyphs on castles in spain,
Fire will burn scriptures on paper..
tattoos on skin can be quashed by a scraper..
So I am preserving my love for you in my heart..
will wait for you to love me back, till death tears us apart
Apr 8, 2019
Apr 8, 2019 at 1:14 PM UTC
My flagon of Ganymede, a frothy pontoon
Of ephemerals, flanking the dry-docked galleon
Of my youth. At once, prodigious and minute.
Like a fob on a club. Run aground and marooned.
Like a bald spot on stilts.
The Sea has resigned. And all Sirens departed…
Save a nameless nymph etching her song
Into the marrow of a length of bone -
Shaped like an orphaned
Hammer.
A scrimshaw calliope of petroglyphs
As garrulous as a Cauliflower
On a bed of velvet
As black
As an unborn
Sun.
Jun 3, 2018
Jun 3, 2018 at 11:20 PM UTC