Tulip remnants float in my palm,
the color
of fresh blood,
of sunsets
cerise, burnt orange, gold.
A pale blue dragon
thunders
across a salmon sky.
Slowly indigo night
descends.
Only the night hawks call.
nature
Puma IV
In the poetry class this week we read Louise Erdrich. I’ve read most of her novels but did not realize she also wrote poetry. In particular I liked “Captivity” which made me think of Quanah Parker and his mother. We are supposed to be inspired by whatever author’s poems we are reading on any given week. Sometimes that occurs; sometimes not. The following poem follows the previous three puma poems I published on this blog last September. This one is different; it comes from an actual dream last week. Its unique beginnings contradict the fact that I rarely recall dreams and care nothing about dream interpretation.
Stars shining through sleep
Dreaming dark.
A white, luminescent lion
comes nuzzling arms, legs.
Should fear engulf or
a quiet peace dominate?
Tawny lions encircle:
affectionate
smiling lion smiles.
Fear slides in slightly,
logically.
These lions bring love,
a natural peace.
Fear dissipates,
the lions and I locked
in an eternal, primal dance.
In Silence
Today it warmed up considerably after some very cold weather. I love the outdoors but not the cold so really find cold winter weather confining. While cleaning up a pile of brush, I noticed how quiet it was, no birds singing, no sounds, nothing except an occasional soughing of the junipers during a wind gust. Some friends stopped by and immediately commented on the quiet. It suddenly struck me just how different this is from the rest of the year, especially spring and summer with endless birdsong and raucous insect symphonies. At dusk when I finally went inside, I sat down and wrote this poem:
The deer meander along the canyon rim,
stop, browse bare bushes
in silence.
The bobcat climbs the canyon wall,
surveys his rugged realm
in silence.
The coyotes run above the rim,
watchful, wary,
in silence.
Now, in January, the birds stop to drink
from the blue birdbath, bobbing
in silence.
At night, the stars and moon
illuminate my sleep
in silence.
Canyon in Winter
Winter stillness lies over the canyon:
a blanket of white cold.
Windless, a rarity in West Texas.
Three colors:
green juniper
adobe rocks
crystalline snow.
Suddenly,
I see reddish brown rock,
cat shaped,
large,
outlined against the snow.
I wait,
I watch.
It moves,
dashes up an arroyo,
disappears.
Bobcat?
Puma?
2012 in review
The WordPress.com stats helper monkeys prepared a 2012 annual report for this blog.
Here’s an excerpt:
600 people reached the top of Mt. Everest in 2012. This blog got about 2,800 views in 2012. If every person who reached the top of Mt. Everest viewed this blog, it would have taken 5 years to get that many views.
Click here to see the complete report.
I started this blog 11 months ago. I want to thank all my followers, commenters, and friends who follow me via WordPress, Facebook, etc. for making this a success. Thank you and Happy New Year. May this new year bring joy and prosperity to all of you.
The Encounter Poems–Poem Two
Earlier this week I mentioned I would post a group of poems that describe various “encounters” I have experienced with individuals at different times in my life, some recent, some many years ago. This is the second of that series of poems.
At the Mandala Center in New Mexico
A lady walks up to me,
“You look like you belong here.”
I sit writing,
listening to the wind,
the eternal driving wind.
It makes you stand firm,
rooted, strong.
This is no place for fragile people.
Rim Rider
I ride the rim on Rosie,
writing stories in my mind.
The neighbor’s husky howls.
Rosie listens, watches,
moves away from the canyon rim.
I write of long lost lovers,
names forgotten,
smiling brown faces,
drifting through my dreams.
I ride the rim on Rosie,
writing stories in my mind.
The bobcat climbs the canyon wall.
Rosie’s ears move,
her body tenses.
I write of childhood memories,
places loved and lost,
of family joys and sorrows,
Mom’s singing while she worked,
Dad’s napping on the blue linoleum floor.
I ride the rim on Rosie,
writing stories in my mind.
Isabella runs past, bunny hunting, barking.
Rosie wants to run, to race, is held.
I write of fragrant fields of saffron,
endless Thai seas of blue and green,
of lands I’ve loved , the Navaho Nation, the Llano Estacado.
I ride the rim on Rosie,
writing stories in my mind.
Aging
“Rage, Rage, against the dying of the light.” Dylan Thomas
Custom says, “Age gracefully.”
Are they crazy, dumb!
Who wants to look
old
wrinkled
grey?
They lie!
All of them.
Who wants a broken mind
confused
unfocused
lost?
Shoot me!
Burn my bones.
Scatter them
in the desert sands
to feed
desert willow where
rattlesnakes lie
searching for shade.
Pumas–III
This is the third in a series of poems entitled Pumas. If you have not yet read the first two, I suggest you scroll down and read those first.
I want
to walk with you
in my dreams
scream your screams
feel your blood
rushing
your heart beat
mine
soft golden fur
wound in my hair
your amber eyes
glowing
through my brown
death defying
together walking
moonlit
wild
free
Pumas
I have previously mentioned that I am taking a poetry class with Lorraine Mejia-Green through the Story Circle Network. To date we have read poetry by Mary Oliver, Lucille Clifton, Naomi Shihab Nye, and Joy Harjo. Clifton has written a very interesting series of poems called Foxes. Joy Harjo’s most famous poem is about horses. My obsession seems to be pumas even though I do love horses.
Puma I
My neighbor walked out her door,
found a puma lying on the lawn.
She arose and ambled off.
At night when I open my gate
I wonder if puma lurks
behind the cedar tree.
My daughter dreams puma dreams:
A puma chases her up a tree
There are no trees here big enough to climb.
A Zuni puma fetish guards my sleep.
I run with puma
Night wild
Free.
I scream and howl
Moonstruck
Bloodborn.
I hike the canyon
Stroll around my house
Look for puma tracks.
I see none.
I would rather die by puma
than in a car wreck.
Puma II
I watch for eyes, blue changing to amber and back.
I put my palm, fingers stretched to measure, into the footprint.
Too small, bobcat.
No puma.
My thin body squeezes between the rocks,
climbing quietly down the cliff.
Watching, listening, searching.
No puma.
Pale amber rushes across my vision line.
My heart quakes.
I watch; I wait.
It is Isabella, a golden whir chasing rabbits.
No puma.
At sunrise, I walk the rim.
watching.
At sunset, I walk the rim,
waiting.
At night, I walk the rim,
dreaming.
No puma; not yet.
writingontherim 