Wind

                                                Photo by Mohamed Nohassi on Unsplash

Taut, alert, sensing before sight,
Howl in canyon,
Hint of power, the outstretched arm,
Deliverance or destruction?
Raising a ragamuffin or
Pulverizing Pharoah?

Barely whispering, fingers on cheek,
Catching unaware,
In Tornado,
Shattering idols, scattering debris,
Internal life thrown out
Into countless cornfields.

Water leaves you wet,

Spoken words leave invisible marks,

Unseen where you’ve been,

Impossible to grasp,

Feeling your slightest movement,

Blowing unabated.

Parched, arid, baking hot,

Cooling breeze,

Street signs screech and sigh,

Rain clouds on the horizon.

Awaiting birth,

Listen for the whisper.

Too Quiet For The Cowboys

No clopping horses or ladies to the nines,

No corner saloon, or chop houses to dine,

Not dressed up to go to meeting,

No bear hugs or back-slap greeting.

The boardwalk is oddly without noise,

Sundays are too quiet for the boys.

Moon rises, dudes thirst for what’s not water,

Heading for places you wouldn’t send your daughter.

Lace and taffeta revealing leg and thigh,

Many are the barmaids, few customers are nigh.

Oh coquettish sway, each move, she cloys,

The bars’ too quiet for the boys. 

The dust and smells, Old Garth lists well, make your blood run hot,

No cowboy competition, the Fairgrounds an empty lot.

No lassos sailing over calves, no sequined girls waving flags,

Hand loosed from the saddle, saved by wags.

Not just weekend showmen, they’re the real McCoys,

Rodeo’s hushed and gone too quiet for the boys.

Aspens white and dark-green pine down the trail a-ways,

Water’s flowing hear it roaring like the waves.

There’s a quiet and a speaking heard in Gods wide open space,

So you can keep a going; take a step, run the race.

The wildness of life brings these many joys,

But its gone too quiet for the boys. 

One Must Have A Mind Of Desert

One must have a mind of desert

To delight in gale and dry heat of day giving way to

Cold brittle nights forcing stars awake from under their blankets

Waking the coyotes who dig for water that

Surfaces for Bighorn sheep and Cottontails,

Water that San Andreas fault and fissures force into springs,

Hot saunas, cool oasis flowing through aeolian dirt that

The permanent shelled turtle thrives in though always sifting,

Like the wind always blowing dust, barely bringing wild rain

Pounding rapidly, soaking soil that can’t grasp precipitate but

Creosote, Cholla and Ocotillo, deep rooted, thick skinned,

Grab hold of moisture and fight to hold tight until Spring

Loosens calloused fingers, rough, brittle, from cracks grow

Fairy Duster and Paintbrush; polychromatic on stark backdrop

They make their stand; dig in for one more season.

---Inspired by the poem, The Snow Man by Wallace Stevens and by prompts on writing poems at https://www.tweetspeakpoetry.com/