The death of a moon cowboy

I am a somewhat-youth with ideas and thoughts and too many dreams that sometimes overflow as these little dribblings from my fingertips. I guess you can try to collect and capture them.

Thursday, July 10, 2008

The ballroom

They climb rockbent ladders,
legs like cottonwood limbs.
Smoke rises up the ashblack rock wall
where ground grain cooks, and
the floor of the kiva is streaked wet,
rust-colored and black with
sweat and charcoal.

Behind the defensive wall,
beneath the jutting sandstone overhang,
their bare feet make weak footprints
in the ancient dust--
some grand dance
in the cool underbelly of the cave.

Balanced precision in all things,
their wide smiles and telling eyes.
Time like a hurricane, seasons
of earth and snow and sun
all back over again,
channeled through the bodies of
people who know better.

Little dried corncobs and shattered
bits of clay bowls.
Smoothed indentations in rock just
handholds for curious fingers.
Gravity takes intricate purposeless
walls and makes skipping stones of them.
Ladder legs lie split and ravaged
among the rockshards.
All hidden and eroding in the emptiness
of the canyon cliffs.


Amy Beatty said...

I love this. For once I know exactly what you are talking about. That was such a special place. I want to go again and bring everyone we know and care about. Bring everyone home, back down to earth. I feel as though I could live there and be so happy and peaceful in my mountain side and the stream down below keeping us cool in the summer. Maybe it could be our summer home because now thinking about it, it would be too cold in the winter. I guess those rooms that were black were from fires. Do you think that would be warm enough for me? Love you sugar bear xoxo

moonshinejunkyard said...

it sounds so beautiful; it is pretty amazing to be halfway through desert solitaire and then read your poem about redrock country and the stories and life blowing around out there, streaming through the canyons and breathing in the ancient rocks. i hope to go to this spot someday.

Momma said...

I could just feel the spirits of past children laughing and running through and around the women at the firepits grinding seeds and making flatcakes. The rising up of voices and lives long past. Again, I would love to see a volume of your poems all printed up so I could hold it in my hand and thumb through it and reread my favorite, carry it in my purse everywhere.