Like two empty canoes
we floated through narrow canyons of lost time
oblivious of tall mountains hovering like
dark foreboding giants waiting to pounce
upon our reverie.
But cold piercing rain came
closing our solitude of memories
replaced by a barren abandoned road
wrinkled in empty time devoid of life
but for sharp lightening filled unknown skies
crashing down around us.
A fixer upper, she laughed,
driving by an old crumbling cabin
along a backroad outside
a mountain town deep in
the San Juan Mountains
Leaves were turning yellow now,
returning to the forest floor
ready for winter snow and cold.
Stopping to explore the site,
stories abounded from tired ghosts
roaming too long in
three shambling rooms
with curling wallpaper
Sears & Roebuck
when life was
What were those stories of
struggling simpler hard times
written somewhere in a long lost
Stories of small joys of
a wagon trip west,
isolation & love,
storms & heat,
cold & snow
dust & drought,
horses & cattle,
gardens & work,
living on the coast
with only faded family photos
of a wedding in Chicago,
a man and a woman,
of two children,
their stories lost forever
in unmarked graves
in a valley below
the San Juans
I prefer alone over crowds.
I prefer quiet over noise.
I prefer solitude over parties.
I prefer sun over clouds.
I prefer full moons over dark.
I prefer hippies over conservatives.
I fear loneliness when the sun sets
when all goes away into the dark of night
when meditation is alone.
I prefer your warm body.
I prefer your quiet breath.
I prefer your fragrant scent.
I prefer your unconditional love
next to me in our soft bed
sharing endless dreams.
Build what is destroyed under cloudy skies
when thoughts digress and judgement
of someone’s dearth of death
is lapped up by hungry dogs smiling all the way.
Pant and paint with red squirrel brushes
dipped in Cézzane’s oils
while the jester juggles his nine angry balls
and the fairy princessfloats in mid-air
through the flaming red hoop.
The wall is built.
The celebration begins with green fermented potions
to transforms lost souls into poets, artists, musicians,
and sad society’s misfits who bring forgotten truth
to the New York Times denied quickly by politicians
protecting their golden villas from teeming unwashed minions
in the Minotaur’s maze.
Live in giddy sorrow that can only be denied
when we wash our hands in our own warm cruor
that frees us to love as the sick destiny of ancient ageless prophecies.
Deja Vu arrived today delivered by
as always efficiently to my
Just when I thought my package was there it came
over many lifetimes when time reversed itself
running backwards away only to repeat
Skewed perceptions locked in time and space
alter alternative reality that all is at once
allowing us to choose.
But that sometimes sneaks up on the unaware that we
have all been here before.