Red Rock Chapbook          POEMS                        NOVEL-- BLOOD IN THE RED ROCKS            work in progress         Go to www.ilovesedona.net to read The Prologue & Chapter 1 & more!                                        e-mail ilovesedonanet@aol.com for book info DESERT MORNINGS 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 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, 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  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!"                    Donna Bloomquist

UNGUARDED POOL        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 bath A mother's desperate longing A mother's cry for Help! Too late to call To beckon One more unseasoned Untried Breath    Donna Bloomquist JAZZ MAN 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 sipping water or warm tea.  "Where is that sound?"  he cried. Donna Bloomquist   DISTANT SPACES 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

NO LIVING WILL   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   Contact me