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!