flame skimmer

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.

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

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

Poet’s Lament

what courage, to sacrifice essence

on the altar of misconception

to those who may not know

enough to plunge the knife

when I lie on these stones

when darkness draws 

me into his arms 

I do not mind the quiet

*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

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.

Misplaced Mountain Laurel

I don’t think I should be here
among the star gazers and velvet
tongued empresses, I am awkward

petals and stiff limbs, my leaves
do not fade and fall, I am never reborn
nor do I return to earth to poke
my way into warmth. Snow settles

on my evergreen sleep, wind rattles
through branches that do not bare.
Yet every summer, when the sun
moves away, pink and white

blossoms remind me I am
more than just a shrub.

The stars are getting high

Ketchum smoke hangs
fog-like, ghosts the limestone
cliffs and mountain mahogany
of Pass Creek Canyon.

I’ve scrambled up to peek
in the small mouth of a cave
above camp and hiked
among pines to taste afternoon
warmth. In the tent, kids
cocoon in hard-play sleep
and blue nylon bags.

Firelight licks the Merlot
in my plastic cup as the haze
lifts and I see Orion’s belt
span a dark delta. The air
is clearing as if zodiacs are
inhaling the burning grass.

Summer Solstice

It’s 4 a.m. and sunlit
grass bobs in the breeze,
tall and summer heavy
where we sprawl,
almost touching.

A masked waxwing darts
through quaking aspen,
chirping as he flits away
on crimson-dipped flight.

Cicada tymbals chatter,
and our laughter
gurgles spring-like
as your gaze reflects
the opulent caramel
of Tiger’s Eye.

And though I am afraid
of waking, I lean
across to kiss you.

closing the miles between

I can’t look at mountains
without wanting you
trekking ahead of me,

leading me to summits
I would not explore alone,
taking me to a world
where only you and I

see the vastness of time
rise to touch eternity
as history spreads
in peaks and valleys.

Western clouds gather
to rumble and spill.
How many thunderstorms
will resound through my pane

with flashes of light
and tremulous echoes
before my heart stops
waiting for you?

Petticoat Peak

A wooden frame stands
on her rocky top
time-gray and warped.
Rusted penny nails hold
cracked boards carved
with names and years
as far away as 1919.

To the east, Salt River’s
snowy peaks are prairie points
binding ground blocks;
fresh plowed brown
and new-growth green
quilted by pivots and roads.

Below us, a dust devil
curls a dirty column
from exposed soil,
winds into oblivion
on a grass border.

Westward, mountain tops
fan across Earth's palm
like a hand of cards
dealt for play and cool
breezes venture fragrant
offerings of sage across
the windswept ridges
of Fish Creek Range.

Stones and Rainbows

Needles of Lodgepole fasten
sheets of charcoal clouds
to the ridgeline of the narrow
canyon between Butte and Helena.

An outburst of hail ricochets off asphalt
and spatters the windshield, slows
our snake along I-15 north and fills
the truck with banging of riotous cymbals.

Caliginous light blurs spring grass
a dusky jade silk as we round a corner
and clouds brush back to watercolor
refracted rays across pine valleys.

where wild cranberries grow

Through a veiled grove
of golden leaves quaking
on an autumn whisper,

there is a valley where clear
springs spill over a rim
of granite into a pooled

reflection of shivering
moon, where wild blueberry
and fireweed flame a scarlet

edge for evergreens, and night
lights weave the tarp of stars
with jade and rose auroras.

Here, the step of Mother Earth
is a pliant tumble of tundra.

Sunday Inspirations

It’s 5 a.m. and I’m awake
listening to your breath come
in deep-dream swells, the wind
singing in the chimes outside,

and the muffled rumble of metal wheels
pulled along iron tracks punctuated
by the caution-cry of crossing.

I shift and you stir enough to curl
your fingers over the curve of my shoulder
and my thoughts drift to an image

of your hands curled around ski poles,
the smooth shift and glide of your legs
propelling thin skis, the solid silhouette
of your body against the stark snow,

and the way you smile just before we kiss.
How you stopped to listen to birds
chattering in willows along Pebble Creek
and said you prefer comfortable quiet, too.

Today we'll ski in a cathedral of cottonwoods
you'll show me where hawks swooped down
with outstretched wings and left
feathered angels in the snow.

to define missing

You fill the idle minutes
and margins of calendar days
crowded with city traffic,
meetings, and company clatter.

Images of the tracks we left
in melting snow and juniper
pressed against mountain
mahogany fill the space
between lines of marketing copy
and attachments waiting for production.

No matter the direction my day spins,
you are north in the compass of drifting
thoughts, the trembling exhalation
of breath I pull deeply into me
when the air of your absence
condenses into a pressing mist.

McGown Peak

At midday she smolders
terra cotta, a red saw blade
rising from Stanley Lake,
a ragged granite boundary.

Even in August
when meadows bloom
purple Penstemon
and ginger Castilleja,

snow clings
to the deep gullies
and the Finger of Fate
is solid, enduring
and cold.

Capella Street, Star

My next house will be in the country,
not against some crowded suburb
sidewalk where all the roads are named
for what shines in our galaxy.

I hear angry voices down dark streets
and I want to shut more doors, more
windows, more ears. On heated nights
when the past comes muffled
through my pane,

I ache for the flutter
of air in aspen green.

Dreams in Half-Light

In the space between twilight
and deep sleep, leaves flutter
against the ripstop roof
and sweet wild rose slips
in the zippered door;
draws us out to the night.

A silver scar traces the face
of the dusky mountain;
slices through a beard
of sage and juniper
littered with cockle burrs
that tangle in our laces
and cling to our hem
as we clutch for a foothold
in the sliding shale.

We summit on a silhouette
of limestone lip haloed
in chalk moon and watch
owls traverse the tattered ridge.

dragonfly totems

a needle pierces apple seeds,
threads a segmented body
on red string; highlights
painted on vellum
faux iridescent wings,
mocks the nymph that climbs
colored sand and spreads wet
wings over a beached nautilus,
waits for the transformation
that gives her the strength to fly.
Geometric eyes search the periphery
of this second birth to land
filled with strange quarks
as spermatozoid waves
below the concentric shudder
of meniscus tapped by a Meadowhawk
tying a never ending knot.

**************************************
Challenge poem:
with these components write a mandala poem

apple seeds
colored sand
quarks
string
never ending knot

and as well,
adding in to the poem
all of the following words:

concentric
transformation
spermatozoid
geometric
nautilus
periphery
highlights