End of the Summer Trip to the Reef

Novus Ordo Incendium

I dream a dream-

It has been said.

The dog alongside wakes suddenly at this very moment,

and the next, springs forth to search out her mate-

she has forgotten her master altogether.

The midnight sun catches in our throats

like so much desert dust.

Yellowed paper and tattered plastic ware from the glove box will do,

So hungry so hungered so very hungry;

Nous sommes Americanes-

And despite or because of this,

A thirsty lot we have become; overturning all that is rooted,

a search for seeing goes on.

A remembrance:

Traces of the dream expand forever, as only small, overturned things can grow,

reusing their own past

insomuch that the dream takes a new body, having grown a new soul,

fed upon the desert soil, a sated lot we become,

because of or despite all of this.

And as each wanders purposefully toward reconciliation,

the past tense of the subjunctive hanging

on every word,

our searching walk daily reveals memory

passing orange groves and nutmeg trees

with their fruits and seeds orange, creamy white ,and scarlet-

the pattering music of patio breakfasts drifting like cirrus over cedar fences,

as only a little, dewey rain upon the grass  

remains from the night before.

Another Pome Read for a Gathering...

A quaint remembrance, or ‘In Remembrance’

It will become the damndest thing;

a seeing sending unit around each corner, tethered to

armored ships at sea, though rumored to be

steaming fast as reality

into the face of a minor objection-

Spending and spelling, buying, then selling;

we’ve a favorite habit known to all,

and each with its own foxhole reverie.

The backlit brightness of a foot soldier’s vivid memories,

caught between the thorny teeth of all the

machines, essence extracted and

left on the back doorstep with a stray cat’s shattered mice in hope

that the God within will smile and pause,

only for a patchwork-moment before going onto the day’s material hymns

and the night’s totemic, rightful dreams.

Hey- it’s not selfish, it’s what we've collected

beneath these very stars;

lidded with mists or pricked through

in Your service;

greeting the lonely or saluting the wicked

at infrequent prayer.

Regardless, in battle, the night can last forever.

Passing through at a pace familiar only to biology

in your wild places and in my heart,

each toils feebly for a national ideal,

and the impossible is inevitably, metacognitively worshipped .

Indeed, as both the brazen and weary pass from this

world in violence or in some similar peace,

It is only the rest who can keep their dreams aflame.

A splendid Pioneer Day to you

Perception of Light

I
Mantles of hollowed basins and stratified ranges soften
through light, distance, and dust
in this often torrid, light-leavened land of centralized, filial faith.
Perception fades over distance through
sometimes painfully short perspective,
all colors fade to purple and blue, and from that into shades of gray.
Alas, sight and sentiment share a root in memory;
human nature is besotted with comfort and predictable weather.
The engines of discernment aren't always so simple to prime as those creating the mirage of security.

II
Trees planted and patiently tended with wash water
and memories of birthlands still bless us
with shade and wood for fires,
a sort of progression toward the far-off forest they had hope for-
every bit as difficult to bring up in this climate as a woman or man,
especially in those days of ague and cholera,
drought and disease, burning plagues that beat down fields and families,
dreams and hopes,
though all was well.
All was well.

III
Their frequent faith, anguish, labor, and tribulation have turned to blue, then gray,
and finally to a bright-washed white
in the not-so-distant past;
the glory of our worshipped ancestors imagined in clean period clothes and unpatched prairie schooners.
As our present height builds on a show of slight will
and gout brought on by fatty foods,
a season or two brings us our slender fortune,
served on an earthen platter
and lit by the short-lived fireflies of this new millennium.

IV
Good, old Orson Pratt once said,
“If our Heavenly Father will deliver us out of the hands of the blood-thirsty Christians of these United States and not suffer any more of us to be martyred to gratify their holy piety, I for one shall be very thankful."
One might read allegorically, as well.

V
At the height of summer as the drought burns or the monsoon quenches,
as both rhythm and decay course with our thick, smooth blood,
each friend and infant might see briefly an unadorned soul-
despite or because of hopes worked for on the sagebrush breeze,
prepared for in this high-desert home,
whenever and wherever that may be built;
on the  mountain, on the bench, or in the valley below.

Silt and Shell

As the garden grows (though sometimes not-so-green),
     the air swells with arid pride and a sweltering grace,
as much for a lack of discretion as for the season's pattern.
     And, having lost touch with faith, substituting a hope in beauty for a
false god's smirk,
     storm gutters buckle with a burden of silt and a million empty clam shells
in place of water.
     Though to me sweetmeats no longer sate,
the off cast, limey husks still capture my children's dreams.
     Really, what more is there true to the universe besides that?

Corn, 2012

This year's crops are trundling along, partially happy with the heat and wincing in reaction, depending on the plant's preferences.
Not sure how long the water will hold out with enough force to keep things unwilty, though; we've been grateful for what we've had so far, though.

The near-ground froze in the lower slough of the acre this morning, not a deep-freeze, though one cold enough to stop fast the water in hoses and blanket the clover in hoar.
Yesterday, the wind blew warm from the southwest most of the day, until about six when the wind shifted from the north and the air came cool. It was a palpable change, and as the dust from the western deserts settled down over the hours before sunset, sweatshirts were donned and unplanted vegetable plants were brought inside after Diedre's birthday festivities.
Much was made different by the shift of temperature and winds; the change in moods was almost palpable in all of the children. Though we, like rocks, seem to common perception unchangeable by environment and weather, it's that common perception that is more often unmaleable to currents that it ought to respond to. Soft creatures are we, with doughy bellies and flaccid, fragile brains, and this earth of strong winds and unfathomable forces spins without much regard to our too often ignorant will.