Horses graze, m…

Horses graze, moon-rise 
Red rock buttes cast golden glow 
Silence, stillness, peace 



Too Many Holes

Take every feeling that fights

its way in, capture it, lock it up

inside a wooden box with a skeleton

key.  Everything I feel is my enemy.


The soldiers of sadness of fear of regret,

they fire their weapons of emotion if

they get too close, leaving me with holes

clear through.  Every shot means

one more piece of me on the ground.


I have no weapon, so I arrest them as soon

as they appear.  There’s a tiny prison box

for each, so sadness never speaks to hope,

and guilt will never hear from pride.


Boxes line my walls, reverberating

cries, but I stand guard, in case more feeling

come by, for I already have too many

holes and too many skeleton keys.Image 

Monument Valley

Red rock buttes rise from the parched landscape, dotted with desert 
junipers and naked bushes.  Stacks of small red stones echo 
walls that rise in crimson suddenness between arid, windy flats. 
This is Navajo land, with no fences.  These massive rocks that rise 
like statues carved by wind and light, belong to them, and seem to bear 
a message, a code that speaks to them.  I hear it in the chant of our 
Navajo driver who names each rock formation.  The light balances; 
there is no randomness in the soft landscape and massive 
red rocks.  The Navajo understand. 


The Old Barn and the Open Door

The old barn tell is telling stories that might not

be true.   Its roof is sagging, shingles

dangling, half bare really.  Overgrown

pine branches have settled on it

like tired arms, dropping pine cones

to roll into random piles in the golden

grasses below.  A red barn once, it now

shows faded, ruddy patches between wooden

boards, worn free of paint, soaked in

hues of mossy green and gentle brown and beige.

The old barn watches with window eyes that tilt

different ways, the kind that watch, that have

seen seasons of sadness and years of abundance,

eyes that don’t close.  The mouth is that door,

scratched and worn, knob broken off years

before.  It never quite closes, and always seems

to whisper as you pass.  The old barn is telling

stories again, with the door that won’t shut.Image