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Red Rock Chapbook

         POEMS                        NOVEL-- BLOOD IN THE RED ROCKS
           work in progress         Go to to read
The Prologue & Chapter 1 & more!               
                        e-mail for book info

Smokey mornings in the canyon
burned my eyes, like mesquite
branches grabbing shaggy ponies,
with sawtooth blades; their pliers
leaving salty tears, as hot for man as beast.  

Smokey mornings in crimson hills
clouded views of sunrise, and prickle-bush
of early spring hid lizards shedding skins;
their safety no more sure from rattler’s skill;                            
than baby quail in thicket nests above their heads.

Smokey mornings on desert flats
screened the red rocks rife with cacti,
inviting pain to unsuspecting traveler,
whose eyes were watching silent skies, and         
missing greater dangers on parched red earth.             

Donna Bloomquist


They rose at dawn to cross the land;                      
the morning light making moon beams dance,
sending heat ribbons glancing across the landscape, like
colored streamers passed from hand to hand.

She watched a Great Bird soar, his wings make gain
then hide in shadow of thunder heads;
towering silently, yet gaining strength; only,
to leave dust and more dry rain.

Father Sky heard Hopi prayers, but man
found them wanting more each year;
their hearts yearning for raindrops; and,
hoping for sounds of blue corn rattling in pan.

She drove with calm, yet miles stretched endlessly.
She listened to her heart, knowing she’d find the way.
Her open heart knew peace and harmony with Mother earth,
the wind against her cheek came soft; but, unceasingly.

He gave her name, DRIVES WITHOUT A CLUE.
She laughed, another place, another time?
Her son was HANS, now SMILES A LOT.
His music touched her soul, like shaman without rue.

No longer boy, but man with plan,
He sought to find his way above the masses,
To respect a soul mate’s needs before his own.
To love freely but understand.

New names made sense, like task
of healing with measured balm or gentle touch;
success gained by Grandmother's willingness to trust.
They liked her smile, a face without a mask.                                                  

The dust rolled faster than cars she had yet to see.
Her tired eyes sought hogan or shack on distant horizons.
The dust clung to skin, like fly on sticky paper,
making her ask a Native,“How far will it be?”                               

He nodded his head to the North,
and said,
“Not far.”

 Donna Bloomquist

MORNING DANCE (Haiku Sequence)

Cool damp grass beckons
a web worm’s emerging skills,
like pups chewing rugs.

Sun shines on hammock,
its fragile net a bed for
head with many legs.

Long willowy limbs
moving to staccato beats
in lone cricket’s band.

A robin brings home
a worm or two, then bumps her
skull on spider’s web.

Lilies wake with pride,
smile awhile, then wait to hear
chimes of unseen clocks

Donna Bloomquist


  “Chirp, chirp, chirp,” cried the lady in distress;
 One black long leg caught in screen door’s quick press.
 Don’t panic,” called her mate, in his louder chirp voice.
 “They’ll be back for the catsup and the powder room express.”

 Mr. Cricket stood his ground in the murky dark shadows,
With his head in a flower pot and tail in a hose.   
 He was worried that the cat would be first to the kitchen
 With his filine sharp instincts and insect-seeking nose.

 Outside there were burger smells and garlic-rich linguini;
 many plates heaped with sausage or bacon-clad fat wienie.
 Never once had someone ventured any help for her escape.
  “Chirp, chirp,” she complained, “they must think I’m some Houdini!"                   
Donna Bloomquist

Two infant quail found floating
Too young to swim
To drink
To die

Their feathers flat with death
Their quiet song
Stilled by wet red
mud and murky
A mother's desperate longing
A mother's cry for

Too late to call
To beckon
One more unseasoned
 Donna Bloomquist


Thelonius Monk came weeping
"Where is that sound?"
he cried.

He remembered views of
tobacco-rich rooms
and dancing legs
tied to grimy bar stools.

He heard the beat of the constant
loud drum
untempered by pause
unchallenged by song.

He yearned for the scream and squeal of
tenor sax,
louder than cop whistles or sirens,
never a signal for show's end.
 He dreamed a dream of singer's request,
 "Cold dry martini and hold the damn ice!"
 It was the season of scat and
 real men;

Not boardroom escapees with leather attaches
Not aerobic junkies
water or warm tea.
 "Where is that sound?"
 he cried.
Donna Bloomquist  


Trees of stone surrounded me like a neglected
forest with tentacles of eager growth
smothering my wishes.

I ran slowly, covering the ground with
leaded steps, determined to flee
earth aliens with green helmets and needles.

I sought a separate place, where
powerlessness was servitude to God,
not Man's connection to machines.

I climbed a moving mountain, its
sliding sands keeping me from summit
of cirrus-kissed monadrocks.

There was shelter among the cella walls
of chambered rooms with dark webbed curtains,
shutting out the fearful night.

My universe was now a cold damp place, but
safe from defoliants and medical stealth,
proffered as scientific progress.

The balance of power was mine,
finally detached from corps of genetic engineers,
where drugs and surgery supplanted good deed.

Now my dreams took me skyward, floating
in helium balloon; its amethyst skin filled with
noble gases; and I was free.

Morning returned me to the bloody tower, its
landscape topography a maze of elevators and
ramps leading to cellular ruins.

It was a parched land, remote from peace
of undefiled space, where solitary souls
held communion with God.

Would death bring me solitude and strength
to climb mountains?

Donna  Bloomquist


  What power has this place?  
  The prison chains grow strong,
the body cells more weak,
the quieted voice enshrouded.
A cry goes unheard.

My silent plea,
my fervent hope for peace falls
on deaf ears;
like radio frequency gone dead, or
call button placed out of reach.

I am alone.
This island has no anchor;
I float between harsh reefs
of agony.
The waves make fever pitch,
then leave me drifting . . . .
There is no buoy.

If wars were won by battle,
I'd welcome hand to hand
combat with surprise attack,
laser weaponry, and
chemical defense, before
my last defeat.

What power has this place?
Its menacing bureaucracy makes
decisions I would not choose,
if I could speak--or dictate
my last will.

My God . . .
why can't I die this night?

  Donna Bloomquist
   property of Donna Bloomquist ã1999-2005