"tumbleweeds" poems
.
I’m just a lonely traveler
on this earth
Sometimes it feels as if I'm
waiting for the sky to fall
with each passing breathe
of wind
Standing alone,
a windswept tree
leans downwind;
conspicuously wrought,
naked and bowed
by the grinding
silent forces
at nature's whim
Rootless tumbleweeds
roll by randomly:
broken off,
spinning clockwise,
never looking back,
timeworn and tired
of resisting the prevailing
high desert wind
and its unheld temper
Rattling the tinder
dry sagebrush
like songless wind-chimes;
voiceless fugitives
wreathing a bellowing silence
Jesse Stillwater
Aug 26, 2018
Aug 26, 2018 at 7:04 PM UTC
I could have gone to the cemetery,
or back to my high school lab,
find him lecturing from a podium,
bony finger raised,
demagogue of the dead.
I could break him down piece by piece,
cram him in a duffle,
a femur jutting the zipper.
Ignore the groan-
Skeletons are
by nature
never satisfied.
Instead I found myself
in the carnival lot,
The dog was long dead,
the sign kept guard.
Rusty rides slouched like tumbleweeds.
Cotton candy in memory-
blue tack crunching my teeth.
Lewd.
Skeletons fixed on poles,
spiked up through pelvis and spine.
Use ****
Grip shoulders. twist. lift.
When one slid free,
he collapsed into my arms
all bone-light, lovely,
mine at last.
I just brought him home.
Sat at the kitchen table.
Named him Curly.
Zoom howled: WAG’s gone weird!
What’s his name? What’s his name?
His name is Curly,
I said, but I knew
his name was You.
We drink wine by the pool.
He never sips.
Sometimes I pour a second glass for the glint.
Sometimes he tells me Danny Elfman
wants to play his ribs like a xylophone.
Sometimes he sighs,
he hates Oingo Boingo.
I laugh. Obliging.
So do I.
When the wind kicks up
he smells of sugar and rust.
Sometimes he rattles the glassware.
Sometimes he won’t sit still.
Skeletons are
by nature
never satisfied.
Sep 25, 2025
Sep 25, 2025 at 12:11 PM UTC
The past
It's always on my mind
The grassy backyard I grew up in
This and that-memories of
Halloween, rabbits, fall, you.
All the things that pass in time.
I pick up this notion that
One may recall what happened to
Them when they were a young kid.
The balloons touching the ceiling of
My pre-school, the quiet time when
We supposedly slept but never did.
Like the color yellow, how I loved it,
The '89 earthquake, being shocked by it.
Songs in Kindergarten. Art, pictures, music.
Summer camp, exploring the wild, love, light,
And wind. I remember my brother
And I playing tag as the sun went
Down in the first house I moved in.
Running along the fields in the day,
Swimming, or memories of the
Tumbleweeds performance,
Being In the play.
All of the times I would always
Watch the sun on the swing as it rose
In the morning. I remember the vast
Wheat fields, a sense of calm quiet,
As if there were no place more peaceful.
Climbing my favorite pine tree in my back yard.
But one thing I remember more than ever
Was being on a field of my own.
The sky is filled with clouds always
Floating off like they
Were from an endless world of tranquility,
This warm sun, this was and-I forever remember
It to be-my one true home.
But that is another story...
Jul 13, 2017
Jul 13, 2017 at 5:42 AM UTC
they called it a lake home because there were
no knobs only latches
with padlocks for winter.
it was spring when I left.
the water was in the arroyo
when colorado raised her snowy head
above the hills and brush of northern new mexico.
and you wept
with tears strange to me as yellow flowers
in the canyons and flatlands, laughing for water.
the truck broke down just south of Los Lunas
the smoke and steam drawn off by a fierce wind
that drove the tumbleweeds to
new lowlands. eager with seeds.
Nov 9, 2012
Nov 9, 2012 at 5:43 PM UTC
Spalshes of blue
Bursts of pink
Dapplings of red
The smell of the ocean
The taste of ice cream
A song that makes me smile
I'm singing
I'm dancing
I'm falling
I'm running
I'm swimming
Its the Renaissance
Tumbleweeds blow by
It's Christmas
It's July
I'm happy
I'm content
I'm scared
I'm laughing
Then he's there
Holding me
Devouring me
Setting me on fire with his passionate kiss
Sometimes he's an actor
Sometimes he's a fireman or a soldier
Other times he's a knight, a lawyer, an architect or race car driver
And, he's always mine
He's tall
He's short
He's fit
He's stout
Tonight he has no face
But I remember his smile
I know his voice
We go surfing
It's bright out
The sun is warm
I'm on horseback
I'm driving a fast car
My friends are laughing
They are dancing
They are acrobats
We are at a party
We ice skate
We fight
There's an explosion
It's bright.......bright.......bright
My eyes have opened
I am awake.....or am I?
Everything here is smeared in hues of gray and blotches of black
I laugh and it doesn't sound real
I don't dance
I don't sing
I don't swim
And he's not here
I can barely capture his voice
I vaguely remember his smile
There is no great adventure
There is no great love
Is this real?
Or is this plain version of life the dream?
I am nothing here
I am no one here
I look at the clock longing to go home
Longing for my life
Longing to wake up from this terrible dream filled with gray
I want to return to my splashes of blue
His smile
And the warmth of a new adventure
I long for life
Oct 7, 2012
Oct 7, 2012 at 9:08 PM UTC
open up my lungs,
set the soiled insects free,
the water is boiling,
and the vapor gathers too quickly,
too much.
“we are mortals”
are words no twenty something wants to hear,
i would like to think i’m some greek goddess,
frolicking forever and ever,
loving until i am drained
(but i am already, darling)
once i knew a woman who closed herself up.
i think i am her now,
i see lemon fangs instead of pearly whites.
i seek adventures within myself,
to find roads with tumbleweeds and empty
ideas
i wish i knew how to stop,
because my skin is frayed and tattered,
from your yanking and feeding.
i wish i knew how to be beautiful,
because that is all we want in life,
and i keep looking at my blood vessels,
“beauty”
yet i see none.
Jun 12, 2013
Jun 12, 2013 at 6:03 PM UTC
Our snowmen, they're not made of white,
they're tumbleweeds, rolled up tight.
No top hat upon his head,
a cowboy hat sits there instead.
His face and buttons, tree ornaments,
boots and lariat, his accoutrements.
Saguaro cacti with lights wrapped round,
illuminate the landscaped grounds.
Old horse drawn wagons get the festive touch.
With lighted garlands, packages and such.
Porch rails glow with colored lights,
Christmas trees in windows, warm the nights.
Our little town gets all decked out.
Then we gather along the old parade route.
Folks on horseback with ribbons and bells.
The horses know the parade route well.
Marching school bands play Christmas songs,
trucks and tractors carry carolers along.
Floats abound from businesses and groups.
Braving the cold, the Christmas Cowboy Troops.
We all stand up to clap and cheer,
as Santa, as usual, brings up the rear.
Waving his red cowboy hat, in a horse drawn sleigh,
Welcoming Christmas, the Wickenburg way.
Dec 10, 2010
Dec 10, 2010 at 11:42 AM UTC
when the sunsets in arizona descending in the sky
the cactus are in sillouhette standing near by
gentle winds are blowing across a sandy plain
and tumbleweeds begin to tumble once again
a picture to behold that will never die
when you see the sunset in the arizona sky
Feb 17, 2010
Feb 17, 2010 at 11:21 AM UTC
If I'm the cowgirl,
courage is the bronco
and you're the stranger in the mask.
Call it geographical bias,
but I know we're both tired of tumbleweeds,
both allergic to dust.
So carry out,
carry on.
Spit and be brave, child.
This town ain't big enough
for our desert rose hearts to grow.
So give me land.
Lots of land.
Sep 16, 2013
Sep 16, 2013 at 8:26 PM UTC
You broke the umbilical cord attached to this earth . With the south by southwest winds you rode a baleful streak . Like Poncho your life was left untold . Like a desert prayer that's just a whisper in the cold evening air .
Where they laid your body to rest , no one said . Now it's too late .
The virga falls never to quench the thirsty sands . The sorrow is planted as corn in rows of fertile futility . And dust is harvested , dust and tumbleweeds .
Reasons are the excuses we need to answer all the questions why . There is no reason in the south by southwest wind . And the tumbleweeds bend to the sympathy of an incessant desire .
Oct 7, 2014
Oct 7, 2014 at 10:41 PM UTC
Would that I wave my hand
and gift the blooming of
spring flowers to you.
Or pray at the altar of winter’s slow fire
to melt away this frozen heart.
But a flurry of whiteout feelings
blind me from such a pompous display
of naive romanticism.
Yet love is blind and love blinds.
Love binds and love breaks.
If you’ve lost the trail, you are the trail.
No one said this journey would be easy.
Actually, I don’t remember anyone telling me anything about this journey.
Rubber wood for legs and pursed lips
at the sound of a secret
taunting my ensemble soul from the wings.
Space enough to relay a message.
Distance enough to lose it.
The gathering at this point is a drift of tumbleweeds and the only thing
to read on the signs is rust.
So I reach down and grab a handful of dirt,
put it in my mouth, and whistle dixie
past this graveyard of doubt.
Just in time to see the last elephant
and the sun set through the fog of memory.
That star is underground
as I sleep, lighting the dark corners
from weird angles.
The wood groans under the weight
of dreams before flesh splits
to let the light in—
pay the sandman,
it’s time
to wake up.
Sep 4, 2025
Sep 4, 2025 at 8:53 PM UTC
Cal-i-fornia (verb) the state of being golden.
Can you see the way the sand sparkles on the shore?
Golden shards of glass, or broken dreams.
Who possesses the Midas touch now?
The crushed gates of Atlantis on our shores.
Aphroditic bronze goddess of the sea,
Hair blown by the breeze.
Sea air & salty &
more than anyone could need, or was used to.
Giant sequoias stand
As mighty and proud protectors
Behemoths of lifetimes past.
Explosion of seeds inside
Fireworks waiting to explode
Pinecones, little grenades of life.
Ghost towns reminiscent of the Wild West
Mining camps from the Gold rush days.
Tumbleweeds & reptiles & powder fine dust.
Some say the earth is red from the natives’ blood spilt, and sunk in,
Reality – Oxidation turns iron in the dirt to rust.
So that’s why Mars is red.
After a bad storm in San Diego
Dollars lie broken & shattered on the shore
A bankruptcy of marine proportions!
Just go see for yourself,
The sand dollar apocalypse.
We were echinoderms too.
Life gone dormant, and violent beginnings.
As if Calliope’s harp needed to be retuned,
Sun god, Apollo & Helios with his chariot in the sky
When did we become so heliocentric?
Solitary white cross on the hill.
Never did anything to harm anyone, yet they fear you so
Enough to try to remove you from our presence.
Mount Soledad, or their SOLEs-are-DeAD.
- You know San Onofre is a power plant right?
- Radiation, is that a problem?
- Only if you want to have kids or stay cancer free.
- 25 foot sea wall -- To keep the waves out, or the kraken in?
- 4,000 tons of nuclear waste, who’s gonna get rid of that?
Ghostly tendrils of death
Blown fifty miles down the coast.
They call it SONGS, how quaint.
A symphony of catastrophe.
The greatest arias of death and destruction.
Feb 19, 2013
Feb 19, 2013 at 12:19 AM UTC
We wrestled once,
through tangled sheets
You on top, I beneath
Leading lady and her little sheep
Late into the night we stayed
Secret sapphics stowed away
When daybreak hit and eyes could see
Our heat rolled off with the tumbleweeds
Feb 23, 2017
Feb 23, 2017 at 4:31 PM UTC
An hour of terror
lost, and fighting.
Even under the eminent cerulean sky
the truth of shadows remains.
Light means nothing here,
where tumbleweeds turn to wolves,
and the slightest brush
is enough
to scare me from my skin.
Enough is enough!
In fear and no faith
I cannot face these demons again.
They say He'll save me
and tell me to find the light
but all he is, a godling,
the origin of this fight.
Sandy footsteps turn to pounding
against the hard porch steps of my nearing tomb..
Match and gas
Gas and match
and a shaky grasp.
I stop, run my fingertips over the veneer of the stair
once more.
Flick.
My liquid savior kindles so quickly
Flames engulf the world
But wait,
still dark..
He's here.
Sep 22, 2014
Sep 22, 2014 at 5:41 AM UTC
"once upon a times"
so many memories
wistful treasures
like tumbleweeds
blown .... by....
slipping through your fingers
yesterdays
gone by
like dust
in the wind....
cj 2016
Sep 30, 2016
Sep 30, 2016 at 11:59 AM UTC
the minutes roll past her like tumbleweeds
as her eyes meet the melting, setting sun.
but in the blink of an eye, the night falls
and the hour wraps its arms around her,
keeping her warm and safe in time's embrace.
Apr 24, 2021
Apr 24, 2021 at 12:05 AM UTC
Across dry plains the tumbleweed dances
off the dusty floor
As a renounced ballerina reminisces
in her old studio
On the corner of the street
towards the west
following the sun
where all dreams go
And where the wind carries the tumbleweed.
The air rustles in the drift
as she sighs
Breathing in the dusty smell
of the grass
Of the room
where she once performed
for her beloved
now carried away
by the same wind
that carries tumbleweeds
and caused dust to dance.
A tear soaks the wooden floor
a small relief from the barren span
for the lonely ballerina
who is forever carried
along the scalding land.
Lost.
Like words unsaid
on lips untouched
cracked by the sun
where all dreams go
And where the wind carries the tumbleweed.
May 30, 2013
May 30, 2013 at 1:06 AM UTC
my lips try to hold
the lingering taste
of your
love you, love you, farewell
cactus holding water
from a rainfall
that happens only once
each year
I am thinking Arizona
when you suggest
we start seeing other horizons
tumbleweeds where words should be
sandy tongue apologies
dehydrated and hallucinating
I mistook you for an oasis
Apr 20, 2015
Apr 20, 2015 at 8:53 PM UTC
when I was in Japan,
I reached in my bag for yen,
I drew a coin with the Zia on it
given to me by a gem
as I stared at the cold breezy mountains of Japan holding this, I was reminded of
The deep Roots of cracked hot concrete I would work out on
The smell of albondigas Nana would be making
The bright yellow and blue tile mismatched on the lining of the kitchen
The simpleness of living in a "this'll work" architecture
the tumbleweeds, the dry cacti landscape, vast dirt reaching to the dark amber mountains, painted with fading perfect blend from the sunset, homemade meals, la raza, tias and tios, the stray cats and dogs (and family pet names)
My Arizona desert was so hot that everything did its best to share being in the Cool casted shadows.
yet here I was in the complete opposite wishing for that sun
holding this coin brought be back to when you thought I would Judge where you were from
but your "Land of Enchantment" will always remind me of being one step closer to home...
May 10, 2024
May 10, 2024 at 9:56 PM UTC
The teacher collapsed
into a tempest migraine
rubbing her temples
in a clockwise motion
behind her desk,
presumed ************
her thoughts or bleeding.
She imagined her definite
white existence in a plane
of iodine and tumbleweeds
The children heard the moans
groans and the creaks
grouped tones
like old floor boards
kept secret in the attic
Turbulent lessons
creeping slowly up
over your shoulder
and into your ear
and out the mouth
a siren explosion
Feb 6, 2013
Feb 6, 2013 at 3:08 PM UTC
Too young for marriage
too old to stay with mom & dad.
But she hopped a bus following him West
and gave up all she had.
Skinny dipping in the salty sea
Infatuation in a rusty car
Plaid shirts and promises,
he was a thief that stole her heart
He gave her two babies
but she always felt alone,
between those wood paneling walls
his explosive temper was shown.
Beer bottles and ashtrays.
Tumbleweeds and sand.
Black, blue, and purple
painted by his hand.
So weak for so long,
she would cower in fear
Until she saw her children's faces,
filled with confusion and stained from tears
She left with just the clothes on her back
and two babies clinging to her hand
following the sunrise in the East
going home to mom & dad.
Jun 23, 2015
Jun 23, 2015 at 2:52 AM UTC
Could we cut ourselves off from our country?
Burn all the books and monochrome rules;
Sever the fragile vessels of history?
I want to walk fast without news in my ear
over hills and fields and so thrilled with fear;
I want to take a tab
of fantastic poison
and see the world lit up
in a kaleidoscope of flags.
Through woods, past trees,
I will kick leaves
and brave a universe of tumbleweeds.
And from beneath a
canopy of luxury
a paradise I see
past the sun, where all is free
and hatred wastes and bleeds.
But everything is not as it seems -
Back home I dream in cut-throat numbers
vile quantities disturb my slumbers.
My identity drifts in the TV;
Jeremy Kyle makes my last plea
as my ears fill with adultery.
And then there are debts
that flash up - my patience cracks
into a pool of anguish.
I must get away,
get away from this madness.
Aug 31, 2012
Aug 31, 2012 at 7:04 AM UTC
Rusted train tracks slip down the road, winding into the fog.
Memories of old shows and carnivals brings me back to a time when I thought cotton candy and hot dogs were sacred.
I reach into my pocket to find twenty-nine cents.
The change from the Coca-Cola I bought that day when I was traveling for the first time alone. Three hours, Los Angeles to San Diego.
I remember my mother and father telling me to cherish the time we had together on our family vacations. I was never afraid of flying or got sick in cars or boats, but homesick? I was always looking for my origin.
In the final hours before sunset, tumbleweeds tip-toe and roll across those tracks which travel to all roads and counties, residing at this final crossing.
I didn't wait for the train to arrive before I started walking.
May 21, 2014
May 21, 2014 at 12:49 PM UTC