Archive for July, 2017



the blue in God’s eye
fell on VanGogh’s irises
and, then, he painted

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Drinking Alone


When Nature spreads her colorful robes
I prefer to sit alone on cold stones,
counting only shadows as company,
tilting my empty glass to the rising moon
filling it again with a sprinkle of falling stars.

The silence of my sanctuary is broken
only by songs I conjure from words
I find among the leaves which have fallen
in gay confusion after their summer’s work
is done and flowers have retreated once again.

Waiting, as I must, for Spring rain
to entice dancers from their lonely haunts,
inviting seed and hermit alike to sway
to the music of its private orchestra
and explore the mysteries of the galaxy.

Posted 070717


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The Grace of God


A spasm of empathy shook me
when I glanced up from Connie’s book
of poetry into the smoky grey eyes
of the rag-tag man I had seen
hobbling toward the restroom

Of course, he joined me for a cupp’a
and I sprang for a breakfast taco
while dusty stories, interrupted by
hacking coughs, fell like epitaphs
from his cyanotic lips

He talked about high school
in the Panhandle, training for track
on his grandfather’s back forty,
breaking broncos, and two-stepping
across uneven floors with his sweetheart

Memories tinkled like chimes
in the hot wind of Texas evenings,
bringing fresh color to his pallid features
as he navigated step by step
through the early sixties

He soared like a balloon at the peak
of its exhilaration, danced with clouds
until a thunderhead stopped him short,
wilted his graying moustache and drew
together his shaggy brows

A chill penetrated the air around us,
coffee shivered in cups and our tacos
fell into crumbs and drops of picante sauce
as the fledgling young man became again
an aging character at the local Whataburger

He never mentioned a war,
just thanked me for my time,
grappled with his crutches and turned
to the door… held open by a young woman
who stared at his one leg

Posted 071417

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The Guadalupe Mountain range is marked
not by an earthly encroachment in the sky,
but by shades of color and waves of light
that draw the eyes to lavender horizons
in the mornings and to shadowed canyons
pulsing in the opal darkness of night.

Prehistoric riverbeds fringe the skirts
of high desert, their desiccated flumes
peppered with fossils and rocks
the color of wizened fruit fallen
from high banks held in place by
petrified forests with no more use
for water than the scattered bones
of dinosaurs need leathery skin.

Standing in these immutable foothills,
knee-deep in the muted cloak of dusk
or twilight, snatching memories of eons
from gusts of dry wind that shave dust
from the mesas and capstone plateaus,
a low pitched flute may be heard,
the mistress of the mountains calling
to those who are unafraid to enter
her valleys and seek her sustenance.

Posted 07072107

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