Tuesday, September 06, 2016

Storm over Grand Junction

I cannot find it in me to relinquish that weekend: The sun setting my arrival in Grand Junction, the virga gray over Grand Mesa lit by drifting rays, and the splinter of light slicing a bit of rainbow.
It is beyond me to forsake the desert; all her reds and golds bowled by Books, and Monuments, and Grand Mesa... how does one abandon Grand Mesa? Where evergreens and volcanic rock skirt a hundred lakes and aspen groves applaud the wind that conducts afternoon lightning shows, thunder echoed in their clap.
Where Saturday night, when the tent was pitched next to a single, white columbine, the rain came, and we escaped the downpour by sitting in the cab of your Ranger sipping Knob Creek and interrupting the chatter of rain, then hail, then rain punctuated by booming expiations. And then afterward, when the fire was blazing down to cooking coals, we filled time drunk and tented away.
How does one obliterate this beauty? I cannot omit the Sunday night storm approaching from the east as the sun set behind us in the west. The wonder of sitting in the Colorado National Monument under a shelter overlooking Book Cliffs; watching rainbows rise from the valley where Independence stands red and resolute in the dusk of day. The lightning cutting caliginous curtains and swells of thunder rolling up the valley to wash over us in undulating repercussions.  
If I could define this missing, if I could write it out, perhaps he would understand storm-spilled tears and forgive the fingers that still reach to touch cascades of rain and reserve the surge of cloudbursts. Perchance he could comprehend why my upturned face still seeks the kiss that mists rainbows across my lips. But I cannot put the chill of Colorado summer rain against his skin or impress upon him the icy drops that soaked your hair and trickled through your beard. He cannot hold the weight of Colorado rain in the cup of his hands.

Tuesday, September 09, 2014

Seeking after that sweet golden clime*


Nothing fills the chasm of your absence
like the crest of a wind swept summit
the arm of summer warm on my shoulders
and the craggy echo of September sun
reflected in the face of a placid lake

*with a nod to William Blake

Friday, June 27, 2014

she brings me dragonflies (for Aysia)

with wide eyes, wonder-full
and outstretched arms

she comes to me

I have a gift for you
something I found


delicate hands lift
the jarred amber insect
      
vellum wings gravely
drawn under its body

perfectly still

Wednesday, May 14, 2014

Poet’s Lament



what courage, to sacrifice essence
on the altar of misconception
to those who may not know
enough to plunge the knife

so what if I find time to
frolic through a phrase?
perhaps I would sell myself
for a splash of assonance
very likely I am slave
to the lure of alliteration

when I lie on these stones
I do not mind the quiet

Thursday, May 08, 2014

*Seeking after that sweet golden clime

nothing fills the chasm of your absence like a wind swept summit and the arm of summer across my shoulders
*with a nod to William Blake

Friday, April 04, 2014

Grand Junction July 20 - 22, 2007

I cannot find it in me to write a poem about that weekend: The sun setting my arrival in Grand Junction, the virga gray over Grand Mesa lit by drifting rays, and the splinter of light slicing a bit of rainbow.

It is beyond me to compose the desert; all her reds and golds bowled by Books, and Monuments, and Grand Mesa. How does one define Grand Mesa? Evergreens and volcanic rock skirt a hundred lakes and aspen groves applaud the wind that conducts afternoon lightning shows, thunder echoed in their clap.

How Saturday night, when the tent was pitched next to a single, white columbine, the rain came cold, and we escaped the downpour by sitting in the cab of the truck sipping Knob Creek and talking through the chatter of rain, then hail, then rain punctuated by booming expiation. And how afterward, when the fire was blazing down to cooking coals, we filled time drunk and zipped away.

How does one compose this beautiful? I cannot give you a Sunday night storm approaching from the east as the sun sets behind us in the west. The awe of sitting in the Colorado National Monument, under a shelter overlooking Book Cliffs, watching rainbows rise from the valley where Independence Monument stands red and resolute in the dusk of day. The lightning cutting caliginous curtains while swells of thunder roll up the valley and wash over us. I cannot put the chill of Colorado summer rain against your skin or impress upon you the icy drops that soak your hair and trickle down your face.

If I could write it, perhaps you would understand the storm-spilled tears and perchance forgive the heart that could not come back.

Friday, April 05, 2013

The Hard Fall

October weight settles on maples
in thick wet mounds that bend
branches until they rip
away from limbs.

Power lines bow and bounce
beneath white as it slips
off in long, crashing dashes
and a citywide blackout
brings traffic to a freeze.

I’ve pushed the bed
against the window
and lie pillowed in the frame
watching early snow
frock my backyard.

As beautiful as it comes,
I know this kind of falling
soaks through carefully worn
layers and leaves a bitter chill.