Desert Salvation

Holding Mama’s hand

The sun blistering my face, my body

My feet burning in the sand

My throat scorched

Nothing to drink

But Mama held my hand

In the middle of the Arizona desert

Waiting for Jesus to save us

 

No cross

No crown of thorns

No white robe

In the middle of the Arizona desert;

Instead,

Sirens

Flashing lights

Fear,

But finally, the gentle hand

Of a stranger

Carrying me to safety

 

To a new home

With Grandma, Grandpa, Sisters

Dogs

Art

Music

Safety

Faith

And

Love

In the middle of the Arizona desert

The house where the wind lives

The house where the wind lives

Has no doors. The windows whisper
To the sagebrush nestled beneath them:
Hold fast, my loves. Hold fast.
Behind the weathered wooden walls
High plains stretch langurously
Their flat bodies supine beneath
The wide pale sky
Mornings, the wind has breakfast
With her lover, cloud.
Cloud’s tendril fingers reach
For sage blossoms
Which wind blows across
The sagging table. She smiles.
Cloud shakes his head, and droplets
Of rain fall from his white hair.
This is the house where the wind lives
He reminds himself. And smiles back.

Shore Story

Shore Story

 

It always was a part of me; the salt, the crashing of the sea.

Sandy toes part of the lure; waves big and small, they are the cure.

A seagull cries, my eyes they follow; he flies far off into tomorrow.

If only I could fly with him; leave the tasks of life so dim.

The sun it sets, all red and golden; treasure of this day a token.

Evening creeps upon once more; all is well when at the shore.

-Mary-Jeanne Smith

Hour Three, Image

Kinship

I left the trail temporarily,
my backpack straps tugging
my shoulders down and back
until I found this place, off
the beaten path and becoming
a part of the soil that once
supported its structure.

I laid my burden down
on a rock and wandered
the ruin, noting a rusted
refrigerator, gaping, a rotten
opening in a gap-toothed grin.

Clapboard siding was piled
and ready, the house skinned
and awaiting a cleansing fire
that never came, snow now piled
over the whole.

A single sock, a child’s doll, smashed
Ball glass jars, the half
buried detritus of lives
interrupted, transported elsewhere
in a clenched heartbeat.

I sat on a rock nearby, still,
but for the wind sliding
over the minute hairs on my skin,
akin with the emptied rooms
in front of me, now
open to the sky.

Cybernetic Hips

Laser my heart, you brimming song,
Pulverize first pause into submission.

Burn aortic passage with smokey din
Blind heat of pebbled words in, in, in.

Singe my valves, drum my beat, pain
Right where I live, not gut, not brain.

Don’t say your gun’s misfired, lie me
To sleep in one fell shot of jet stream.

Penetrate the skin of resistance there
At center stage you tore tongue, hair.

Ready, aim, spin a flame ray smashed
True to its target, seared into my flesh.

Be my one true spacey love, dream bot,
Cold chips, cybernetic hips, lover’s knot.

Johnny Willert

As he filled the jug

from the fresh, seeping spring

he thought about the girl in the skirt,

her lips wet with whiskey

her hands damp with want

her gray eyes moist

with dreams of faraway places.

 

They thought he was lonely

in the tar paper shack

with only the wind and weather

for company.

There was no electricity

no education

even in the 80’s.

 

Screaming Widow Peak couldn’t quite cast

a shadow long enough for cooling

on days the sagebrush curled

at the edges, trying to eject

itself from the ground

that was not quite soil, not quite rock.

The rattlesnakes didn’t stay to play.

 

He rode into town every once in awhile.

Kids found him odd,

adults thought him dull behind the eyes.

His blue roan ground-tied

outside Hardware Hank

as he purchased his meager

supplies: coffee, beans, flour.

 

He could kill his own meat back then.

He jerked most of it, so it would last,

the rest, stored deep in the dirt cellar out back.

The iron skillet

constantly on the fire

a mix of hopes

a gathering of memories.

 

They fenced around him,

keeping him in,

keeping him out.

The snow crunched under his boots.

Years later, he caught his arm

in an auger and went

to faraway places.

Prompt #2

https://au.pinterest.com/pin/416653403004856668/

Prompt #2

Your beauty, broken down
nakedness became the
garment clothing your skin.

You didn’t cower in your shadow
you came into the light
revealing soul and truth.

Vulnerability is your armour now.
You stand straight and tall
and you refused to succumb to
insecurities, you didn’t take a bow.

Your purity determined your
thoughts and the way you
behaved around men.

You didn’t lose your dignity
you are grace and eloquence
all wrapped in one.

j.r.m ©

Eternity (poem 3)

The moon swings in the sky like a great bronze bell, and the east rings with its light.
Minds, like drops of dew, reflect the sky; when clouds come, the moon remains.
Trapped between mirrors, we could see eternity but for our own heads.

A Life Well Spent

Dusk to dawn
Life goes on.

Life is a daily battle
We must face without a rattle.

Be strong
For life is long.

A life of length
Needs courage and strength.

Life is fun
When we act like one.

Life at its best
Is a survival test.

Between the body and the soul
Life is made whole.

Life we must tailor
For both success and failure.

Not a minute must be wasted
If life is to be tasted.

Rich is the man
With a healthy life span.

Let me make it plain
Life is about ‘gain without pain’.

Wish you all the best
In life’s every quest!

 

Necklace

I have a necklace in my drawer.

It is a locket that holds a clock.

The clock no longer moves its hands.

I bought in a Philadelphia thrift shop

with a group of friends.

For Sarah’s birthday, she takes us all

into the city, into the thrift shops.

We all bought a necklace with a clock.

I am the only one who still wears mine.

The clock no longer moves its hands.

I used to wear it with the pride of knowing

I could pop it open and tell the time.

Time was in my hands.

I wore time around my throat.

But time cannot be held for long.

It slips by, and leaves tiny brass locket cases.

It slips by, and I am the only one who still wears mine.

I wear it when my neck looks too empty.

I cover my emptiness with an empty clock.

It is still right two times a day.

The clock no longer moves its hands.

It is a beautiful conch shell:

Once home to an animal so rare and strange,

an animal that left or died,

leaving behind this necklace for me.