Red Rock Chapbook
POEMS NOVEL-- BLOOD IN THE RED ROCKS
The Prologue & Chapter 1 & more!
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.
DRIVES WITHOUT A CLUE
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,
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
A CRICKET’S PLIGHT
“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!"