My Work

Thursday, April 2, 2015

Life is but a Desert Love Song

April has been set aside by those that make such decisions as Poetry Month. Over the years I’ve been lucky enough to have had poetry published in many literary journals, as broadsides, pamphlets, teeny tiny booklets, and been lucky enough to have been invited to conduct poetry readings at some fine upstanding locations in Nevada and California.

This is one my offerings in honor of Poetry Month. If you would like to offer one of your best, contact me on Facebook. I won’t guarantee I will publish it here, but you can bet I will read it. Remember, by getting published on a blog, it is considered “published”, and other journals would need to know that.

Desert Love

For one barricaded by concrete and asphalt, roped, chained, held in the grip of mass humanity and architecture, denied a beauty not brought forth by man, the desert can be a forbidding and foreboding experience.

The sights are splendor with rippling waves of pulverized mountains, one on another, as at sea; glorious chasms sculpted by millennia of vast storms, water cascading, sea upon sea; creatures scurrying and bounding, dithering and fluttering, schools upon schools, as at recess.

And the sound, my God, the magnificent sound. One’s ears stretched thin by strains of wind passing through those waves of sand, heaving and pitching through those seas of rain, desperately trying to pick out the movements of living animals and birds, recessing at life.

When one’s olfactory equivalent of bliss is diesel, a mid-summer rain in the desert is rejuvenation. Pungency from Sage and Rabbit brush; soft and sensuous scents of Cedar and Pine; harsh sunlight softened on Lichen covered rocks glistening in the mist offer a scent never found in a city cell. Even the sand dust, wetted thoroughly, seems to offer its own contributing piece of peace.

No steel, no concrete. There are no diesel brutes shoving their way around. Asphalt is an unknown item here. Peace. Calm. The only rage is from a storm of nature, not a storm of hate. Listen quietly, closely, and you’ll hear those oceans of sand speak and sing to you late in the evening, serenading even the lush choral offering of a coyote clan, or the sprightly ballet of a near by thunder fed stream.

Foreboding, indeed.

Until next time, read good books and stay regular.

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  1. Johnny, this takes the reader places where there is nothing but peace. Nothing but calm. Oh, how the busy, overworked mind needs some calm. Love it.

    1. Thank you. Peace was the desire as I wrote this. All the best to you. Johnny