MESA VERDE WHISPERS

                                            Goodbye my heart, for I have left you in the ruins of my people.

                                            Along the cliffs where hawks float gently on the breeze.

                                            I leave my kiva, ashes in the shadows, broken vessels that match

                                            My broken heart.

                                            Beneath my feet, in sacred places, are the remains of my people.

                                            Long may my songs linger among the fragrant sage and cool recesses

                                            Of the cliffs.  Across the canyons in the rising morning haze, they will 

                                            Haunt those who follow, those who have ears to hear and hearts to

                                            Understand.

                                            My friends, whose names I do not know, say a prayer to the

                                            Great Spirit, our Creator and remember me.                                              

 

The Poem of the Watcher

The shadows still move across the canyons/

Where the Spruce tree breaks the spring's path,

I often linger there, waiting, watching for your return.

The ages are passing, one day as a year, one year as a day.

The earth continues to repeat the cycles of seasons.

   Still, I am here, a ghost that shadows the moon.

I cast my murky reflection against the kiva walls.

My path is lit by the glitter of stars ancient as time.

When will you return for me?

When will I breath the breathe you took

From me by your leaving?

I remain a shade, a shadow, until the sun forgets to bring warmth

To the distant hills and shadows to these canyons.

Only in your return can I hope to find rest.

Come from the ends of the earth!

Return to this place and release me.

Oh, my beloved, if you still exist, come!

 

                                         

                                                                    

                                        CROSSROADS

                               We meet upon your ancient paths, dusty and dry husks

                                Of humanity, still striving in your magic light,

                                Poets and pilgrims, merchants and millers come to  pursue

                                Dreams.  Bright colored dreams of freedom and peace wrought

                                With pottery and glass beads.  Tokens of tomorrow and remnants 

                                Of the past.  We weave our lives of varied hues choosing from your 

                                Vast array of summits and sunsets, serapes and silk.  Such is Taos.

                                City of myths, teacher of mysteries.  Exotic dancer at the western

                                Edge of heaven.      

                                                                

BENEATH THE ELMS

Gently the wind of autumn touches the leaves.

                                        Upon my upturned face I feel the quickening breeze.

                                        Within the circle of shadow a solitary Specter guides.

                                        My heart thumps out, "How did you die, my lovely?"

                                        In the failing darkness an answer comes.

                                        "I heard the whippoorwill calling and sought my true love

                                        Where the hyacinths bloom.  Instead, Death took my hand.

                                        Only a tiny sharpness, a moment of surprise and I lay down 

                                        To die.

                                    No longer will I linger near the blooming flowers to await

                                    His return with gladness.  No greeting, no welcome kiss, no

                                    Wedding white for me.  He shall come to me, though I can not

                                    Return to him.

                                Saying this, the shadow moved silently away and I stood in

                                Awe, for the moment I had known.  Suddenly, it came to me.

                                Why had the Specter stopped me as I sped along my way?

                                Why was it the Specter spoke to me that day?    

                                Beneath the ancient elms, from the corner of my eye, I saw a 

                                Deadly snake slither silently by.

 

                                                                 FEBRUARY WHISPER

                                    When February rolls back the blanket of winter,

                                    Stirring lazily with languid yawning,

                                    I see the tinge of green beneath the dried husks

                                    Of last year's finery.

                                    The sky is lit with a new light,

                                    Even the clouds have a happier look,

                                    There is a sense of anticipation in 

                                    The wind that sends the leftover leaves

                                    Chattering down the street.

                                    Oh February!  Don't pull that cover over

                                    Your head again!  Let Spring come forth

                                    From the death like sleep that huddles

                                    Over the earth!

                                    Be gentle and kind to the small things

                                    That peek skyward between the

                                    Cracks of Winter's guise, making

                                    My world a bit more bearable until

                                    Sweet April comes to rescue me!

                                     

                                                                              SHILOH

Dazzled by the beauty of May, I stand in a bright meadow

Birds whirling, dipping and singing in the grasses all around.

This vision of beauty hedged by elegant trees, Limbs

Heavy with the weight of leaves, nests, new life abounding.

Beneath all, the silence of long ago.  Shiloh!

The trees surround the meadows filled with cannons and

Monuments to the dead, none forgotten, but not at rest.

In all the beauty there is a sense of sorrow.

Beneath all, deep unease abides.  Shiloh!

Behind each shadow, within each sound, pain, deep loneliness

A living current of sound and vision not seen with the eyes.

Time has stopped.  The frames of nature edged with black.

Beneath all, lives impaled on the rage of war.  Shiloh!

Souls of the dead, fallen in battle, wander in this place

Tasting the bitter draught of death and defeat daily.

And the pond, the deep rust red of old blood, is calm, serene.

But, beneath, beneath all?

Rachel is still weeping for her children?  Not home?

No heath and hearth? No passage to heaven?  Too many linger here!

Awaiting the call that never comes - to leave this place, journey on.

Beneath the ground, the haunted ground.  Shiloh!

                                                             Twilight Song

                                Weave a web of childhood graced with smiles and tears

                                        I can hear my brother's laughter running 

                                                     Through the years.

                                Down in the country of green and shadowed splendors

                                            We are all playing, happy pretenders!

                                  The deep purple blossoms hang heavy in the air

                                        Twilight lasts forever without a moment's care.

                                    Voices calling out, caught in ebbing light,

                                        Stillness, falling suddenly as day 

                                                  Melts into night.

                                    Yes, we are gathered at a fireside's glow

                                    The air is filled with stories of the 

                                              "Long, Long, Ago" 

                                                    

                                    Her crisp clean linen smells of warm sunshine

                                        Her voice in the darkness paints pictures

                                                        In my mind.

                                        I can see  her now, blue eyes and silver hair,

                                               Telling the stories our loving hearts

                                                           Still bear.

                                            Each face is ever present,

                                              The moment lingers on,

                                             Of such memories are woven

                                               The heart's eternal song.

                                                

 

                        AWAITING SPRING

Spring begins in the ground,

Tiny shoots of grass greening all the land.

Bold faced daffodils peer toward the warming sun.

Yet the bare oaks lift skeletal branches heavenward,

As if in supplication.

Frenzied March whips the leftover leaves round and

Around while the tree trunks still wait for Spring’s

Sweet kiss.

Oh, those silly Bartlett Pears will early fling their white blossomed

Limbs in the frivolous March wind with Winter’s last frosty breathe

Still the giant oaks will slumber on.

Yes, all the earth will stretch and yawn with sun warmed breath

Till finally, with April’s magic touch, the great oaks shake their

Newly garnished bright green heads, for Spring has finally spread

Upward to embrace the last bare bough.

 

                                EUCHARIST 

                        Eyes searching, hands reaching

                        “Body of Christ”

                        Mouths opening, hearts yearning

                         To receive Him.

                        “Body of Christ”

                        From the ends of the earth we come,

                        Brown, black, yellow, white

                        “Body of Christ”

                        All the shades of humankind,

                        We come gather into one.

                        “Body of Christ”

                    Wherever we are He is, receive Him

                    Be aware of Him, open to Him.

                    “Body of Christ”

                    We come to Him, become one in Him.

                    “Body of Christ”

                    Smooth hands, snarled hands, open hands

                    Reaching, touching, needing, pleading

                    “Body of Christ”

                    Faces taut, hopeful, expectant revealing a life

                    Unseen, unknown except to God

                    “Body of Christ”

                As He knit us in the dark of our Mothers’

                Wombs, He knits our beings our souls

                Into His likeness, the gentle revelation

                The transformation

                “Body of Christ”

                                ONEATA, ONE AND TWO

My name is engraved on a granite headstone

With a date that isn’t mine.

I have seen her sepia pictures.

She was tall and dark with unspoken words

shaping her lips, hovering in her eyes.

She was named by my English Great Grandfather,

And I was named for her, my Grandfather’s beloved sister

As she lay dying in an agony of pain that oh, so

Slow summer, long ago.

Where did our name come from? I often

Wondered as I stood staring at her headstone nestled

In the long grass of Elmwood. Until today.

Today I discovered there is an island in the fabled land of Tongua

Named “Oneata”. How fitting that “Oneata” should be

A far away place with oceans and lands between here and there

As there are oceans of time and change lie between she and I.

Perhaps that old Englishman had heard of Oneata Island and thought it a

Good name for this daughter of his elder years. He may have thought

She would be an island of refuge and delight in the seas of his old age or

Then again maybe it was only romantic whimsy that caught his fancy.

This name, a source of family legend that has traveled further then her life, seems to me a

special link of kinship, a recognition of our shared essence though her thoughts are

hidden from me even as that tiny island floating in the vast Pacific ocean.