False Promises
Sierra Nevada, 2019
Thaw
shrugs off
its ice coat
frees the slipstream
to blade granite leaves
apart, cleave mottled stone.
Rocks tumble from the dark, spark
stars rappelling down moon-slick’d peaks.
The mountains release their captive light
at dawn, the insincere promises of Sierra spring
My sister and I spent February
in the Colorado Rockies.
She skied mornings
before we looped scenic byways:
mountain passes, overlooks, dizzying curves
around chiseled cliffs to riveting valley vistas,
groves of close-packed aspens—stark-white
straight trunks, no branches until high up.
They share a singular root system.
The patterns of dark bark that scar
their trunks intrigued me most. One echoed
a body stretched onto a ragged cross,
others a streetlamp, tatted characters
of Mandarin script, a swollen knee
wound, a series of pokeholes
like a page of Braille.
A friend said the bark can’t keep up
with the tree’s growth,
so it cracks apart.
O, to be willing
to split ourselves open.
Luminous streamers of light
weave the night sky
into a corona of rays.
Your skin shimmers
green-hued, yellow
rare red.
You turn to me,
studded with joy.
I grab your hand
and we start to dance
our own primal steps,
arms waving, laughter
spilling out of us.
You are Aurora,
clearing out the dark
disturbance
of your cancer;
finally ready
to restore dawn.
I saw I had to go down to the devil’s hell
That was my home. I didn’t want to give up
Worldly things but when the Lord got me ready
I came leaping and jumping. I fell down on my knees
And said “Lord if you will save me
I’ll do anything you want me to do.”
Of course he sent me to the yellow split level
At the edge of a farm
When I was a child I spoke to the horse
At the fence, fed it sugar cubes
When I was a child I thought I was saved
I read Revelation. The horse was a white horse
Clothed in a robe dipped in blood
His name was The Word of God
And I was the rider named Faithful and True.
High-headed people, I tell you
Sometimes it’s hard to get humble
I’m no longer a child
I don’t care for the things I used to love
The farm is row after row of houses
The horse is a pale green horse
Out to kill with a sword, with famine
And pestilence. There was never anyone
Who could save us.
Man with sign
I don’t read
signs as a rule,
but the drive through
lane was backed up
and he stood
directly outside my window,
holding his sign:
I ate pickle beets last night.
No Coffee.
I drank the juice.
I deduce
he has to be
famished to write
such truth on a sign.
I roll down the window,
deciding at least I would
buy him breakfast and a cup
of Joe, so I offer to.
“Fool,”
he says, “I need
cash.”
More tales there are to tell of the Road
The land, its folks, their hopes and folly.
Sit a spell and I will tell you one not jolly
But fills the ears with a story often told.
Glitter, bling, abundance, columned glory.
There it stood, alone in splendor. Once
More humble but imaginings and resource
Found its way to the doorstep.So it grew.
There it stood saying to the world,
Look at me all the others in the row
Are but out houses to serve my need as
I Shimmer in the sunlight, preen and blow.
Cowed we were of its shiny splendor until
One day their youngest lad home alone
Tripped on a hidden red gas can.
Afraid to call to warn those gone he ran.
A spark, from where no one could ever tell,
Turned that mansion to a raging hell.
Folks came from everywhere to watch it go,
Smoke rose, flame ravaged, took its toll.
In time a modest house was to built to rise
On the ashes left by the raging flames. Yet
Neighbors never could erase the envy, pride
They felt toward the mansion risen right on
Their road not far they’d say, so grand now gone.
Driving by you can miss the place that shown
Once a majesty unlike the rest. Look for great
Trees that survived the heat and stayed to mark
The place of the golden ones praised estate.
Such a relief the world
spins not as I label it,
not so narrow and defined.
This allows more oxygen
to breathe, a place to stretch
and move, an open door to walk through.
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At this very moment on the world’s
other side she is squatting over
buzzing flies and broken concrete
as her legs vibrate with the primal thump
of bombardment not far away.
At this very moment at the edge
of the forest 2 young boys giggle as
their urine-streams fight while an unseen
pair of green eyes in the leaves is deciding
which one of them is breakfast.
At this very moment I’m sitting down
so I don’t have to turn on the light; the
dependable plumbing and the white noise
of the fan conspire to deny everything.
