2025 Mysteries and more

Mysteries

 

About faith they were never wrong, the desert

angels. Black clouds

above the mission church, an owl

at night for each departing soul

and prayers for rain ride the thermals

every day. An echo, echo

                                              marks the closing

of the wooden door as footprints

leave a dusty trail to midnight. Skunk time,

bats are saints flying in sacred space

and ringtails find a way

to bind their tails around belief.

Darkness is the miracle

                                           that makes miracles

complete: the crops smile again, roadkill

comes back to life and inside

old adobe walls the organ plays without

the hands of a musician. Listen:

                                                          the notes

are walking on their toes

uphill on the stony trail

to be closer to the stars.

 

 

Springtime on the Road to Sells

 

Marigolds, globe mallow, shadow

of a hawk, and there goes a runner racing back

in time to before

the border knew what it divided.

History’s in bloom:

                                  one country, two countries, no

country at all, just the land

speaking back to those

who live upon it. And saguaros

aren’t sure what

                              to believe in, earth or

holy orders or the rain. Border guards

on duty, watching for the wind

to make a run for freedom.

A few miles more

to where the journey ends

                                                   at a water tank

and a mockingbird so happy

the sky pours from its throat

as it sings until darkness

and then

                it ascends

to drink from the moon when it’s full.

 

Last Dream at Mesa’s Edge

 

The sun keeps time

but it’s lazy. Walls built of dust,

corn that prays for rain, and the chain

that holds the wind to a roof.

Nobody admits to being home

when they open their doors. It’s lonely this close

to the sky.

                 The clouds remember

when the church was built that now is returning

to earth; saints wailing

under moonlight, the last priest’s cries

trapped in the tower, and his vestments

shredded by eagles

                                    for a nest. Potshards

underfoot, every step

is a step away from treading air, from

walking on light to the future.

 

 

An Aria for Ghost Towns

 

Clouds of autumn sunshine. A high C

from where a music hall

once stood, a loose gate swings

from a fencepost. What a time it was

when the creek sang softly

and the windows were open all night in the cribs.

No roof on the jailhouse,

                                              no walls at the hotel,

nothing for sale at the general store,

no books in the schoolroom.

Sparrows on the church steps, Turkey Vultures

circling down like angels

come to purify

the men

               coated in the darkness

they brought out from the mine

before going to the evening’s chosen girl.

Deer tracks. A fox on the path. Stars

flowing overhead

and the soprano moon singing

only of the past.

 

Once Upon a House

 

A summer night, water flowing

through the cooler at the window on the west side

and the fan blowing east to the kitchen.

All the windows open. Radio

tuned to starlight;

                                 it might really

have happened like this, beginning

in the bedroom when

Mrs. gave permission to her husband

and he knew there was

no cure. Little traffic

on McDowell, less

                                  along Third Avenue

and no one walking on Palm Lane

to hear the second shot.

In the wooden shed behind the house, any job

unfinished had to stay that way.

Hammer, hacksaw, work bench all

lay quietly as if

                          to dream, and even

the mirror was blinded.

 

 

Radiation Dream

 

The sky is floating through a room equipped

with moving parts that glide

without a sound; screens

displaying numbers that relate

to the position a resting body takes while

beams are focused on places

eyes can’t reach. The world outside rolls over

in its sleep

                  until the power brings the sun

to life. An owl passes from the dark

to the bough on which she rests to address

the mysteries, calling for the agents

of destruction to turn to healing

and connect the sleeping

to the waking world.

                                       A hawk’s eye circles

over open space. A diagram appears

on screen. She fixes her attention

on the far below. The ring of parts moves gracefully

around and around. Wings angled,

she comes down from the sun to Earth, electricity

in flight.

              Blue heron, Laughing falcon, melanoma,

alligator, pocket mouse, fruit bat, Harpy eagle,

free-tailed bat, Scott’s oriole, lymphoma, Black-

tailed rattlesnake, jaguar, mountain

lion, and sometimes

                                      it seems that cancers

are the life force in the universe with

the unsuspecting simply

in their way. Lie still,

                                    the moon is on

its circle course. This room is where

a slender thread becomes slow lightning.

 

Rear View

 

Here’s a handful of sunset to savor,

a taste of last light

that will last until dawn,

a few inches of lightning

and a rain scented leaf for a keepsake.

Here’s a minute preserved

                                                  from the past,

a raindrop that fell

in the last summer storm, and a glass

full of fog from midwinter. Here’s a bone

washed clean of moonlight

and repeating all night a few bars

from a mockingbird’s song.

There’s space enough

                                          between what’s true

and false for a comet

or a dream to pass, wind running behind,

its cheeks puffed full with stars.

 

 

 

Desertology

 

A light wind blows the sunlight up and over

the mountain.

                          Dusty morning.

                                                    No clear view

of the peaks to the east. The Sunday papers

are  waking up on driveways

but the desert cares more

about coyote scat,

                                 javelina tracks

and the breeze as a breath of sincerity

amid a windstorm of lies.

 

*

 

About the worded world

                                               the mesquites know

not a thing, and neither does last light

offer insight. It trembles a little

on the ridgeline and begins its descent into

the underworld,

                             safe from the stars

and sweeping flights

of nighthawks, still searching for the question

daylight is the answer to.

 

Letting Summer In

 

Dry heat scratching at the door,

summer waking up, the afternoon

going down to peaceful waters far away

and black sunlight

                                  moving around the cul-de-sac

whose only exit leads back to the world

trouble come, trouble go, and discount

at the store one day

a month:

 

                ten percent off sadness

no questions asked, no regrets, a small chance

of rain ahead

and thunder at the edges of creation.

Inches into dusk, the backyard swing

hooked to the horns

                                        of the moon

with a handful of today

to scatter for the flicker in the morning

and so restore balance,

                                           cancel legislation

that howled when it was signed. After daylight

forgets what it has seen, float into sleep

on the day’s final sigh, cheek to the pillow

ear to the sky.

 

Owlcast

 

Here’s what we need to know today: the owls are well.

It’s mating season and they’re calling

close to home. Wings wide

beside the streetlamp, sudden glow

and plumage pale. There has to be

a house fire somewhere for the morning news,

has to be a presidential outburst

better suited

                        to a prime time sitcom

built around dysfunctionality.

New moon. Spirit voices. Midnight’s meditation.

Morning and a shower

of goldfinches out of the sun, first light

moving barefoot down the street and yesterday’s

headlines fading in the clouds.

                                                          There’s a war

and there’s a cease-fire, a scandal

breaking with high crimes

in low places. It’s rush hour, the traffic lights

are blinking: left-wing, right-wing, and the hawks

who roost beside the golf course

have a wing for each side

                                               but they’re gliding

above it all, gracefully intent

on catching prey while foreign policy

becomes more foreign and executive orders

blow coast to coast in a storm. It’s a Madison Avenue

country with a Wall Street appetite

and news blowing in from all directions.

Fire, flood, deportation,

                                            give me tariffs or give me

a voice from the spirit world, something soft

as feathers calling up the day.