Storm at the Wheelwright Museum

Up the narrow, foothill road
we hear thunder and see tall clouds
churning the hot desert sky,
as lightning in gleaming metal spears
thrust from slate-grey nimbus
into the bleeding body of earth.

But our road is still dry,
the rain falling
in tall curtains
between sharp shafts
of bright sunlight.

So we drive higher
to the museum at the top,
to see the soul
of a murdered nation.

We park on the gravel
when, at last, the sky breaks,
and running for the door, laughing
in the unexpected warmth of pounding rain,
we fly into the hogan,
safe from the storm,  
and still breathless,
we walk through dim galleries,
gazing at Navajo carpets,
their patterns whispering tales of
life and love and loss.

Urgent hale beats the roof,
drums, like wild hearts, urging war,
and thunder responds
with volley of angry cannon,
when sudden darkness
swallows us
power shifting
to the avenging storm,

and, bat-blind, we drift,
touching walls
reaching for any door,
because all art is utterly useless now,
all beauty unknowable
in this uterine cave

where all we can hope
is to find our way out
and be born again
into the sodden world.

(13 May 2011)

The Palace of the Governors

Along the wall,
deep in the shade
of the Palace of the Governors
Indians recline,
casting invisible lines
with slender wooden rods,
nudging their rings of soft green
and glittering silver, hoping
to catch the eye of
a lingering tourist
fishing
for a spark of interest.



But every angler knows
that if you show
your desire,
the fish
will pass you by.

And so they idly glance
into the bright, busy
city square beyond
as we slowly walk by,
nodding politely,
inspecting their rings
gleaming like lures,

when at last we come
to the smiling potter.

Gently he pulls us into,
the curving, perfect void

to touch this black-ware,
to feel what it holds:

the smooth darkness of
everything.

(11 July 2011)

Graduation Dance

Graduation Dance

The gym was dim.

Red and white balloons
glittered in the dusk
while flashing lights writhed
on the dark floor
like enchanted water-snakes
gliding through scented fog.

This was a celebration dance!

Eighth grade done at last,
they stepped, hesitant, into the roiling
teen-age sea,their synchronous, bobbing heads
attuned to the be-bop rhythms of the city (not their city),
and the lusty calls of the hood (not their hood).

Smooth gym walls echoed the dj's mechanical angst
endless, relentless beats, the racing heart of the machine,
artificial sighs, nano-seconds long and gigabytes wide.

The boys, spinning on heads and leaping from hands and
flailing legs, showed an athleticism
never seen in PE,
while the girls huddled in their own dark corner
and planned their move;

their fashion walk,
legs strutting ahead
of swaying hips,
heels clicking the hard, dark floor,
as they stalked right up to the foul line

where boys were spinning and leaping
through throbbing lights
to the tribal, primal beat.

So the girls turned,
hips flung in defiance,
and sashayed back to the wall,
staring hard at the gaping boys
over their swaying shoulders.

(28 May 2009)

Endless Summer

The hot, autumn sun
spills effulgent;
dark branches, roused,
glow lustrous as blue day.

Burgeoning trees
cling to verdant leaves
denying impending
vermillion days.

Summer's love abides,
warming laggard blooms
under the flowing fern.

Summer will stay for now;
Winter patiently waits
to renew the ripe world.

(12 Sept. 2012)

Evening Star Rising

Evening star rising

into day’s fading sky,

alone, serene,

and wondrously bright,

surpassing dark hills

to cerulean night.

(7 May 2012)