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Poem Title: High Desert
The desert calls to me and I
Can turn to memories that lie
Well stored forever in my mind.
Within the hallways there I find
A window opening to show
High desert country that I know.
A place of beauty in the spring,
When rain brings life to everything
That clings and grows amidst the sand,
The rocks and sage, that make this land.
The canyon walls all show a trace
Of flooding waters on their face.
A scoured line above my head,
Where cloudbursts filled each dry creek bed.
Old wagon ruts sometimes appear.
A remnant of the pioneer,
Who crossed this country, headed west,
Meeting every rigorous test.
The wildlife here amazes me.
You'd never think that there would be
Such rich assortment, but it's true
And other wonders lie here too.
The trunks of trees, now turned to stone,
Where opalescent hues are shown.
The pearlite beds where tears of glass
Are trapped within the crumbling mass
Of aggregate and can be found
Piled in black clusters, on the ground.
Poem Additional Notes:
aggregate - a mixture of minerals that can be separated.
Poem Title: Old Memories
While driving past a farm today,
Old memories began to play
Like sliding pictures in my mind
And looking back I quickly find
The place where I spent childhood days.
The farmhouse rises through a haze
Of years departed and time past,
Until it stands revealed at last,
Just as it was when I was young,
Before the siren song was sung
That lured my family away
And sometimes in my prayers I pray,
That I will see it just once more.
Though it won't be just as before,
I hope the meadows, green and fair,
Still nurture horse and cattle there.
That someone plows and plants the fields
And watches while each acre yields
The bounty of a fruitful stead,
Where men and beast are richly fed.
Poem Additional Notes:
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Poem Title: Silent Woods
The forest is so still today.
The summer birds have gone away.
No winter birds let out a peep.
I guess the squirrels are all asleep.
I listen while the bright leaves fall,
But they don't make a sound at all.
There is no wind; how can it be
The only sound I hear is me?
My footsteps seem too loud and bold.
My breath makes vapor in the cold.
I walk awhile and pause again
And for some minutes, I remain
As silent as the woods around.
A white mist rises from the ground.
There is a lonely feeling here.
As I retrace my steps, I peer
Into the shadows of the day,
Still thinking that perhaps I may
See something moving, but the spell
Of autumn dying, works too well.
Poem Title: The Madhouse
One winter day I wandered through
The countryside with naught to do,
When in the distance I could see
A place that seemed to beckon me.
The twisted trees along the lane,
Like tortured limbs in mortal pain,
Appeared to not have ever been
Adorned with leaves and verdant green.
My footsteps in the frost turned black.
I had some thoughts of turning back,
But still I walked until I stood
Outside a barracks made of wood.
A cold light seemed to pulse and pour
Through every gaping, empty door.
I peered inside but didn't dare
To venture in for deep despair
Was emanating from inside
And caused a sudden, surging tide
Of fear that left me breathing hard
And moving backwards through the yard.
The panic in me sent me down
The road back to the nearest town
And when I stopped to have a drink
Of bitter coffee and could think,
I asked the waitress who had been
Corraled within the place I'd seen.
Her eyes just slid away from mine.
One finger drew a shaky line
Upon the counter and she tried
To mumble something but she lied!
Some awful secret festers there
To send it's odor on the air
And made me leave with anxious haste
For I no longer had a taste
To learn it's history, although,
A part of me still wants to know.
