The Poems Of
Call of the Valley
I am an Arizona Valley
I am coarse and wind worn
Shaped and carved by the turns of the skies
Unyielding as they are
Unceasing as they are
I am sprawling like the Mountains
Nondescript in their continuum of curves
A series of shadows
Sketched into the Earth
I am an Arizona Valley
Trek upon me in your REI boots
Wear them in
Set up camp
Start a fire
Find a gentle corner in the shadows
Take comfort in its shade
I think of the sunsets now when I wear orange
The colors blend like thoughts into one another
Bright and fleeting in their beauty
Always there but only briefly visible
an Arizona Valley
The Bell Tolls
In the distance is the toll of an old church bell
Hills harbor green, veiled in moonshine
Dilapidated once-houses still-homes
Hold an aged tapioca hue
With Baskin Robbins pink sprinkles
That church looms over me
There’s a halloweentown sky
I think of all the lives that took place there
Stories that started and stopped
Bookended by bible verses
I think of all the lives I didn’t live
I think of all those I still can
Directions
Catacombs surround
Their dust settles after movement,
like pioneers turning lands into reservations and homes into free range
Quenching their thirst with centuries old rivers--
Through them, going nowhere
Tombs foreshadow exits and
Shadowed corners tease
The labyrinth has claimed me
Stunted the journey mapped
Turned into a poorly animated video game
How many levels have passed?
If not this maze then another
Shouting the perils of indecision
So a decision made, simply to stay
Call this spot mine and turn let
the sound of closing doors become church bells
Worship the solitude
The light is soft, the shadows short
Nothing here has a place persay
But territory has been claimed
Borders quietly established.
Subtle and unassuming but seeming to say
“I’ll just rest here for a while, if you don’t mind”
No one to be bothered with the trouble of fences,
No, everything is at home
And becomes it.
Planted
​
I sewed you seeds along the brush, tailoring the road away, creating a neat hem to the overgrowth; Something breathable.
Softened earth, silkened from ware, refurbished with this modern cut,
Tucking in the dirt, calling itself cleared— fresh.
Long days sleep, wake, stagger in a daze, dress well, clean up nice.
Sons rise, till the land, everything grows. We all grow,
Into one another, styles shifting,
Buttons undoing, the guise of sharpness tangles,
Catalogues color-correct from summer to fall. Winds push indigo to royal satin nights, went from a sigh to a gasp to a gaping
velvet midnight. Bruised clouds and broken
Earth washed out, seams snapped, colors bleached,
I cried you this river that left you bare
And rushes on, unsympathetic
Unceasing.
A Tree in the Forest, or
Something Vague Like That
My time in the sun has branded me
With a freckle-speckled left arm
My own sky of constellations
I spend time using them to predict the future
Writing my own myths
Disseminating them to civilizations
I call it education
Disregard separation of church and state
Church estate
Church minus fate
Church defines my wait
My constellations jumble into connect the dots
Spell out my name
I sing it to myself like a prayer
I wonder if anyone hears me
Motherland?
​
The air is crisp, strong
strong enough to shape civilizations
strong enough to push through stone empires
The air runs through my hair
Runs through my veins
There is an essence that I am trying to put on this page,
One I can’t quite grasp
As I sit on this doorstep in the sepia concrete of Bologna on a Monday night
That essence has a brisk chill,
it smells like half a carton of cigarettes and a forgotten slice of margherita pizza
An essence I discern without knowing it well enough
To really call it anything knowable
It is familiar but not claimable
New York City White Christmas
To a snow bird