new mexico poetry

1

nizhoni days

the voices low are calling.

nizhoni days are here-for

the children, for the bright

lights of april, citroen-green,

rosy red, soft and mellow fruits

display bitter lemons, spilling

fresh dew cooling spirits of

water dripping cactus, a

translation to views never

seen, nor heard of beguiling

waves ripple sand like crab-tracks.

listen to this throb of dancing

feet shuffle into spring

into verdant fields the sedulous

fingers fling themselves skywards.

january cranes

bosque del apache, the road

to wilderness, the cranes and the

open spaces, not lacking a reason

for being free and non-affiliated

to the system, in spite of budgets,

considerations, or lack of the same,

a game of chance and waiting

long enough to let things settle

down, to get that paper-work

taken care of--to crease the

faces of the magistrates and

the happy-go-lucky travelers of

the mother road--a lode of magnetic

attraction for the voyeurs of

history, on the journey to timbuktu

new mexico, january first 1996

2

returning home

returning to new mexico is always

a treat, because the warmness of the

people is hard to beat, and the true

sense of place is so strong--a

right, not a wrong, sense or feeling,

appropriate or proper, is quite

a lotta' talk, about where to belong

and yet, the jet-setting traveler is glad

to return to the shores of the oasis,

of friends and peace of mind.

it's the place of waiting, which

is good for the soul, wholeness, not

narrow passages of thwarted ambition,

control not addiction, resolution not

pain, or vain directions of . . . lethargy.

11/4/96 new mexico

reflections

sitting, thinking on what has past,

what has gone before, the meaning of

life, the open door to salvation, the

blessed way, for all the evils of this

primal existence, this pre-emptive score,

a sore-spot for the caring majority

of citizens, caught in the plot, a

lot of sorting-out to do, for the one's

who aim high, or aim low, stowaway's

in the system, a whole army of "nere-do-

wells," spells of non-existence, invisible no

less than us, the truckers and travelers of

high roads and low roads, more appealing

vistas, and horizons of clear mobility--don't

stop now, the muse is thrilling, killing

time, and making no bones about

indispensability, we are not going to

let the side down, nor the other side up,

despite the rising antagony of impatience,

the long row to hoe, the quiet submission

to destiny--the holy war of being, here

and now, a holy cow of appeasement to

the common man, the one who ran away

from home, to roam the shores of lake

titikaka, the wet, more tranquil abode,

of ancient organs, creeping from the slime,

existing in a black morass of seeping.

new mexico 5/15/95

3

exit-exist

to live my life again, to fluff a

note of bliss, giving time to that library

card that makes my world worthwhile,

in cool spring, water-cooled, corroborate

my line of drugged smoothness, piston-

folly to toot my horn, to tote the baggage

of extremes, beyond oxford spires, outward

bound to icy north sea summers, warm

warnings blow from south-wind sailing acts

of scandinavian elegies, eddas of crystal-

gazing graduation baring a sullen midriff

of driftwood, wreckage of a timber-built

schooner, the ghost ship, cast-away

from dun-colored lands, in search of

identity more than any experimented gyration,

mostly giddy flows, turbulent, torpid, tumultuous,

in vortex-breaking black holes, winding down

or up, to stormy greetings by morbid cave-

dwelling men, bend to the task you must,

like aspirations fill appetites of craving for

underworlds of nothing, but some ugly tune

will bite into the core, the petty brutal longing

for wisps of hair, blemished by soft music.

11.15 am-3.7/96

ecstasy

ecstasy is like flying a kite,

or religious emphatic feelings of joy

but why do we look so far when the

joy is within . . . this epileptic vision, this

orgiastic smile--this truthful acknowledgment

of fire, beauty, fondness, is all for you.

is the truth of hidden gladness, the more

likely reason to be alive and walking, talking

the path of a paradise garden, not eden,

for this is not the beginning nor the end

of the world--this is the middle-ground.

unimportant but real, like bloody tears,

like fears that are wasted away by silence,

by the look of you, the beauty, the real thing

called ecstatic bliss, hiss and spit the

honey dew, not a venal venomous brew of that

other emotion, the queue for agonizing

goo. this pew, at the altar of your shrine,

the delphic oracle, the welsh coracle, straddling

across the miles that separate us, epistemology

cannot describe a distance so broad, yet narrow

as the straits of this oasis of feeling, this pew

of eclectic desire, this collection of metaphors

to soften the often forgotten--but never you.

10.15 am 3/7/96

4

gypsy rosalie

happy mornings in the sun, the

gift to fly--to take a chance,

to be alive and sing the blessings

of new mexico, a dreaming place,

a waiting, not angry, but full

of promise, full of tears, the

holy grail of experience--in being

here and getting by, the why's

and wherefore’s await a hitch,

but might be thought as just

a bitch, a bit of old blarney,

or a thorn in the side, a wide

grin of appreciation of doing

it well, one hell of a prospect

for sitting in bel air and

hanging out, pouting like a

small boy, coy or clinging to

childhood dreams of success, a

blessing in disguise, wise choices,

voices of a optimistic inclination

new mexico 6/3/95

the book ii

is it a passion so great,

so small, the tall story the

bitter face, the way of living

in a hut or acting the fool,

a pool of fresh desires, wired

for sound, for light and dark,

a probing for intelligent life, or

a feeling for the mood, the

sense of the passing moment

the extended bliss--aching

heart's rushing blood, a flood

of hope, a rope-soled slipper

sailing, aboard the rigger,

a figure of speech--a cute

metaphor, a tour de force,

doing a number on our

millennial dreams, cream of

the crop, a drop in the ocean

of our aspirations to succeed

in the spirit, in the reaching.

bent on pleasing bursts of fire

ire is when the hands are tied

bleeding ulcers come alive,

dive or thrive a bunch of five,

fingers play the aeolean harp

5

strings and wings in airy flights,

of musical fantasy arrest the

senses--mind to mind, casts a

vision to challenge a turin shroud

into a dresden amen, capture

imagination. but to live,

to end all palpitating lies.

1/26/96 7:50am new mexico

french blue shirt

theo’s friend jasmine said:

“write a poem” and so, in his

french blue shirt filled with

a scarlet red t shirt, or vest

as they say in england and the usa,

theo proceeded to authorize this

work of art by vicariously persuading

some artistic friends, neighbors and

extra-curricular community members,

(or hoi polloi) to take the task in hand

and (no pun intended) considered

the prosaic possibilities, the diagonal

daggers of disproportionate diogenese thwarted

by similarities and similes of purpose.

green and yellow, blue and white

epithets, purple prose elicit vile and

bruised plaster-cats of metaphor.

implicit irregular verbs pride themselves on

direct lines to god and perfect tenses,

fences of learning, about the dresses of a

wardrobe bathed in light. dull stresses

fall down to their knees to pray,

under no obligation.

02/02/02

mighty atom (los alamos)

s1d5, planets alive,

the humble molecule is

making a bow, a further

allowance for eccentric

circles in the air, and all

the while, a swinging in the

the firmament. to guess

the weight of a fat lady

--a mighty atom, a new

element, like 115, is the

saints alive of this era

new mexico 1995

at santa fe, the air is clear,

and passing strangers fill the air

or sidewalks, with their glare, bare

heads and bare hearts are seen,

mean looks contrast with eyes

that sparkle, a ditty in the air,

on lips of sweet intent, float

breeze-wise to the ears of light

new mexico 1995

6

to alicia

in the café of coffee

and light the color of bright

clothes spring into the eye

like waves of blue, dying of

sadness between the smoking

stacks of shelves, books and

brick walls shape the gallery

of arts and scientific odes

betray a blatant mood this

valentines day. no miracle,

no massacre, floods the bloody

romanticism we consider right.

no blighted heart stings

merely sings its song of night. 2/14-15/3

cafe cuba

the bright green sea reflecting brilliant

gulls and white inflexible surf-lines

blame the weather on watery pounding

beaches, no guilt nor shame to share

the pretty ozone inspired healthy lunatic

watching family built horizon

on anything or anyone, or else living

outside on fish and chips and onion

tasting cockles and mussels and fresh

newspaper wrapped indulgence

clean, washed and in vacations

for beaches, trends and laughing into the

weekend brief entanglements of drinking

seawater words of happy traveling,

arm-linked dreaming, strolling, passing

like ships in the proverbial night

chosen, a landscape pure with history

by the sea

halloween 11/1/9l

the wild intangible frontier

sitting to witness a passionate passing

slowly then quickly like me.

liquid crystal gazing

leaping into mind the

lost and longing years,

gone by abiding between

the dimly misted sonnets

danger lurks, along like

gangling bonny echoes

parading distant lights

a promenade a violin

playing ghostly

sweeping away confetti,

wedding dust and musty

marriage tears, belonging

believing, the purple cloak

and dagger, waiting for no one

thundering across the plains

and alienation, the heart and

splintered ice, sink love bespattered hope

turns proudly men and women.

7

storm

waiting at the frontier for

a train, like paddington in this

storm of alaskan beauty, in

damp-warm looks and shaking clothes,

stowing away in the lower deck of

a wind blown going home night,

whilst pete the manager, calls downtown

to the bus-station, with all lines

engaged, the snowy blowy gale invades

our winter evening, telling tales of

broken trucks, stranded motorists sheltering

for a while in this glamorous truck-stop

lit by wagon-wheel dim illumination, on

the trail of instant conversation, quick glimpses

at another mind, another time in england,

spotting friends and acqaintances in the

gloomy light of last looking waiting rooms

long gone, in brooding melancholy, boding a strange

nostalgia, serendipity dreams prolonging gleams

and toothpaste winning smiles and grinning.

1992, new mexico

the frontier cafe 1992

the frontier cafe is

a wonderful place in space, it isn't

a wonderful race in space,

or a filling for pie, in the

human condition, a position

for wars in the relative

vision of frontier life, a

mission, not remission in good-

time-charley business,

for lawyers and women of

virtue, conditioned to the

right specs and financial worries,

lurid images digesting diluted

coffee and sweet roll sickly

passions, politics speakers, and

lone shark lonely dwellers . . .

in tiled and orange

seat booths, for dreaming,

wagon wheels, fortune enlisted

glimpses of mountain shades

history shadows the view,

but southwest flavored cowpokes,

nose-ing a critical hunger

gorging insidious beef-steaks

and rummaging memories, for

weather-infested lurking,

shirking a climate of indulgent

temperate wishful thinking, not

looking too far, into the future,

8

only surviving the moment

and gladly making happy sounds

of mourning, grieving for other

kinds of breakfast, dinner and

supper, now looking to be

considered, consumed by foxy ladies

in fur and feathered dresses,

western-style!

desert

the zen

0f this place,

spirit, waiting,

wisdom,

is here,

in the next

poem.

is writing

the lines,

is

the yes

and the no.

writing

writing, writing, writing.

what more is there

in life,

than writing!

mighty mark (of the frontier) 12/19/06

in the garden mark is

king to the growing roses

poses a minor dilemma

when guiding a small order

of hashbrowns through the

mighty frontier, a general

or captain of the cuisine

du new mexico corps

western style catering to

the wise and sometimes

foolish late night gad

abut youth too drunk

to care, yet holding a

deep understanding of what

is what and was and

ever more shall be so

at the cafe du mond on

central the final resting

place for the tired and weary

or beery denizens, citizens

and curious bystanders

observing a ritual

slaughter.

daughters and sons

friendly chatter prove the

manner and necessary matter

of the fertile garden's erudite

natter - roses of picardy

lie here...

9

lost/ remittance man

the lost plane logic,

trying to find a way,

to say the first thing

on my mind, about the

jazz of living, telling

no lies, about the

art or even spreading

rumours precipitately

planning, prolonging the

agony of long ago legacies,

remittance man returning

found not guilty, by remote

control, and binary star

born navigation, a light

and eastern magic, propelling

tongues, and silent watching

to see which way the wind

blows slowly waiting

for solstice, the blizzard

flight, feathers fur coat

warmth, with fire's of

home, in passage among

equals, pressing his word

grenades of art and beauty

into sentient silent america.

love

afraid of love,

afraid to hurt

but not to

wonder, to

keep alert,

for wandering

from crest

to crest, of

feeling good

fit to burst

drowning down

a veil of

tears, not

falling, in

ungraceful fears.

10

sunday 3rd february 1991.

getting used to being here,

is fear

of listening,

to the years

go by

and knowing

that the will

to live is living

here inside me.

that the yearning

and the reason

to be feeling

isn't healing

by the looking

for another

to be mother for

a smother

isn't letting you

be you

and me be '1'

into the sky-blue fields

of wonder

underneath

the stars

at night.

Pilar (spain)

pilar is the name and

spanish beauty is the game

but passion reigns and reason

too, the fortune told and

telling is the book of life

black-covered for pride and

pleasure, leather-like a saddle

for riding the spanish school

of supreme art, and control,

a role to be admired, to be

seen and enjoyed, like heaven

on earth, a dearth of wonderful

feelings, not written in gold, but

sand-dune shifting loyalty and

happy memorials to galicia, the

home of distant cousins, distant

friends and happy healing, a song

and bursting pride, a ride to mountain

pastures, and green fields, a shield

of honor, stronger by a glad nostalgia

for the shores of foreign lands.

1992, new mexico.

11

at the albuquerque press club (cather’s mom)

nina two-lips is here,

at the press club and needing

no lip-stick to mark a war-paint

artistic gesture, of academic proportions,

on this side of the celtic shore,

aborting no voice filled with rhythm,

dythyrambic oils and water-color lines,

a two-tone shade and shocking fines

for filigree worlds of wisdom - painting-in

the gaps of slinking foxes, oxymoronic hue,

the quick brown brush, a rush of

feelings to overcome the few and scattered

ink-stains, aiming to write or score

the music, a scientific revolution on

fire, in hell's damnation awaking the

passions, red with hunger and blazing flesh,

a token resistance to new begotten daubings,

nina's political asylum, in galleried exhibitions

lusting empty attention, violent repose for silent

space. one word is all the action, requited,

taken down and written, like dumb furniture

to seat a mood, food for thought, no danger

of ripping cosmic canvases with heavy innuendo,

silver purses glitter, this wit to spend in

celebration, inebriate with dark humor.

1992, new mexico.

april 4/14/03

slate blue skies

rip yonder view into

double rainbow helix

mountain hue mirror in

the dull febrile light

lentern easter rush

picaresque pictures

of the west, won by

weather clouds inclement

precipitating rain

tainted-painted

desert, painted tanic

tea, twilight twists

like thunder sounds the sea 7.00pm

sky blue, tiel too

pale anemone new

breezes linger washed away

by whispering sunset dew.

7.20 pm 6/14/03

12

blue dawn

blue dawn wakes us

to bright shiny lights

of a morning noisy

thursday, in new mexico for

the television news of our

lives, playing with blue

grey skies and glassy window

worlds of entertainment, not

singing the pink and fleshly

rosemary scented blues of

a nation come to dawning

oblivion of "rush"--ing limbaugh

disasters, quickly falling into

empty promises to correct the

vision of a slightly erroneous

predeliction for rumors to

frequent a breakfast in hungry

jazz warnings of cowboy boots on

mars, now afflicting the american

way of life, explicitly eliciting bars

of millionaires’ sharing a standard

of living time zone, in swallowing

pride and happy conclusions about

space travel, a future dignity of

extra sensory perception, early warning.

a poem for two people

daria and barbara are in love,

with the petal'd difference that makes

this flower, this poem, a bouquet,

a tribute to their chemical beauty,

duty to their fair sex, the upanishad

of pure reason, in season, to play

each role, each impossible path, or

journey, to understand, to feel that

wild impulse, to be treated well, like

queens, in ancient tyre or modern

paris, to know the desert sands, of

egypt, or bestow a glow, like a sun,

to mortal combat, amazon against

mighty amazon, kiss the fallen slave,

in danger, and immortal song, caress

this strident fashion, to celebrate, a

heartfelt stolen glance, to gaze on

rich features, a pair of swans, swards

of the sod, vernal youth bewitched

by medusa's quick keen magic, obey

an instinct for preservation, articulation

of brief lives, and wonderful love, lust

is privy to a glamorous instant, then

lost, like the day is long, the night is gone

to sleep on the other side of paradise.

david wilde, new mexico, 1994

13

seeking to succeed

the wheel turns

lisa, is the name of the left-

handed lady, a wonderful voice

for this franklin mint, this hint

of rose-flavored tones, dulcet bones

at the cafe central on this soccer-mad sunday.

"unreliable," is what you

tell me, when i ask if we can meet (for coffee)

meaning that it isn't going to be easy

to get together, even for an accidental

cup of tea, or coffee, at the cafe central.

but a beauty is no less--no more-than

any other pebble on the beach, any other

prize worth winning, in this particular

instance, and yet the reason for this

sonnet is to reconcile the poetic indifference

that you are. you are one other purpose

to discover a sense of humor, an italian instinct

for the ridiculous, even the "unreliable," in a

premeditated, pre-medical way, a fashion for

gaining a step on the ladder of success.

foxy lady a celtic look for that far-away

gleam in the eye, a backward glance, a

distant thought, as if this were some

galactic realm, or ancient kingdom, a

knightly domain, for fair damsels in distress,

or chivalry, if it were not dead, but

merely sleeping in this dimension, this

cabbage-patch of biology and neurological

examination, nursing the ambition and scorn

for establishment values, crying into the night.

a lady's scream and a hero's rescuing sonnet.


placitas

black moon smith ecliptical

rendering by hammering

tongues of fire and brimstone

beaming ecclesiastic fees

this poetry is

a blanket for

love wrapping

the warp woven

weave like

warm milk-

silk worm wise

loves love like

wool and leaves

no longing wind

weft breeze

makes ease

with words

smith testing

money tease

14

giving thanks

there is a madness in the air, a

carnival of animals might be heard,

but no romantic hero, to rescue a maiden,

like a sound bite of holy water, a

silence of meaning, a space for no thing,

christmas piano fragments, fraught

with subjunctive tv, a next-room

intrusion of hyperbole, stressful in

a sea of feeding, a calm thanksgiving,

devoid of life--giving a headache cure,

the noise and happy confusion of

thanksgiving is splitting the air, in

nostalgic american minds, and kids

make surprising gestures, it will be

their turn next, to buy the sweet rolls

and hash-brown hand-me-down

happenstance of parenthood, notwithstanding

providence or the written word, on napkins,

symphonic by definition, derived by

demorgan--or maybe by dancing, the

western swing, a ding-a-ling of a

corny cornucopia, a dream-like pink

pandora's box in the children's thrown

down skipping innocence, to eat it all

up--or watching the "game"--without missing

a beat, a nomenclature of fruit-loop

rocking sea-music, tarrred and feathered

in new mexico, by association, by a

singing not yet written, but scored to

underwrite the celebration, by osmosis, eating.


humming

the deep humming sound of new

mexico is a sunny way of life: planes

zen their way laterally across blue

ethereal skies: obsidian or egyptian

by degrees and earth-damp smells

could be spring, instead of december.

warming the resting knee, the out-

stretched arms and legs of a winter-

sitting posture, to take things easy,

no rush to reach that destiny, the

future genesis, ambition by waiting

in the pretty gardens, the college crowd

lunching without rushing the penultimate

exam, a slam-bam shuffling of priorities,

kicking back, but not out at the system;

mediterranean weather, withering the resolve

to work, not play the high fandango--a

soothing touch of cool breeze beside

omnipotent greek gods of youth, the

wasted childhood dreams, now showing.


15

black tanya, 4/27/95

the black princess

black tabled into

submission, a musical

theme, white teeth

red lips, piano ears,

this triangle, passion

pierced, is love beyond

tears, three throned,

two toned, and whispered

into meanings, joy-sphere'd,

the chequered existence,

of practice, and pride, beyond

words, of consolation, conjugating

between softly folded pages of

history, now coyly told.

bright light, and not a

twinkle, in the eyes’

sweet demon, fairy danced

and gossamer printed bible-

stories, juggling, not judged

on ancient singing, carols

nor portals, of aural mortal

splendor, lending black satin,

latin books, silks, and sulking

dreams, meet sleeping.

(ii)

a purple choir, to inspire

the concerto grosso ebony mellow

yellow muse is playing, the

fire's glo-smoking stroking

god's heavenly poking.

this working, waking

moment, no motion no

more, than pleasant celestial

movement, sonata's white

score, not blinded to pleasure,

a measure to speak,

of tone and cluster,

harmony breathes, fresh

sounds plundering the senses,

rich horns, deep voices,

a melancholy longing

pounding waves of tides’

ebbing symphony stilling

emotional shadows in black

and whitely conic going,

branded mothers tell

their sons quick healing

glances hearts and minds

betray a shattered image,

feeling pain and growing,

swift reason dulls,

annuls poetic thoughts, strikes

16

lightening cold kills bold

heroic eros, the love within

strikes out and sings a

bloody beethoven bathed blue

like earrings in the night

the darkest posing, knightly prose

glaring soft-winged glories fading

like wading angelic light.


cleo-tanya

is this the princess

of greco-roman fame,

egypt-adorned and

welcome this princess

from the woods

she lightly treads

the haunted pathway,

mythic, created, ornamented

white veil, blue shadow

sappho calls you into

mind, and never lets

you sing, or smile

but we know how strong

the will, the princess bids

is molding, claying

legend into now, and

kingly received in the

gateway to heavenly abode

a friendly gesture.

the sands of egypt

have been generous,

endowing the existence's,

the now, and beautiful

with sunny mortal singing.

tautological

toledo tanya, teasing

smiling all over

please stop and talk

to me, about the woods

please give me the attention

like the small boy

that i am, at heart,

like my mother

this terse verse

is worse than

any you could think

of, but that's ok!

this table color

is princess related,

and russet not rust,

not green nor brown,

is in her eyes

is in her mind,

but speech acts don't

hide the necessary

17

truth, the voluntary

coagulation for

eco-feminism, or we

prefer decaying timbers

to limber-up the autumn

season, like any egyptian mummy,

its not hyperbole.

but separate existences, separate

lives, reincarnation of the souls,

bare chested back to living

streams of conscious spirit.

is it gayle, or is

it tanya, russian gold

or english winter, from

the woods, the dark,

forbidden brooding.

french "bon-bon," tete

a tete," discussing

bussing the russet-shaded

tabula rasa of hidden

meanings, leaning to european

culture and deco-art,

a part of something

which isn't a bible reading

and is a modern legend,

history

and too many orange

barrels exaggerated emphasis

on poetic lethargic

language and shining

material living

giving voice to thoughts

and noughts and crosses

mark the spot a lot

of money is the

honey-pot for yankee

dandy civil war's and

plot's proud face

a race of super seperate

genes, a ballad for

a most important fenian

18

past lives (a russian princess remembered)

remembering the self, there is

no time, like a princess, a life

like iana, a woman in black, in

mourning perhaps for brief innocence

in this holy place, this living, in

tandem, synchronicity for some in

pain to paint her aura, she knows

this energy, of psychic moods, an

exciting discovery to smooth this

history, a magic carpet of love, and

crystal gazing fortunes, telling no

tales, but harping music, an opera,

a switch of twitching forms, an

esoteric manner, not forgetting the

reason we are here, like drama,

pasting ancient lives, like postage

stamps in albums of pure distinction,

distinctions of eighty-nine cents worth

of accidental memory--and full of surprises.

11/24/94

adrienne i

a love poem, for

adrienne, the girl of

dreams, my lusting thoughts

and she, her blessings and

collaboration in thoughts

and fleshly deed, not knowing,

but knowing why we are friends

for future investments,

for love, or fustications, darkly

waiting to be consumed.

adrienne ii

adrienne, a seeker of fortune,

in the eyes, and sparkling smile,

a winner, and won by guilless

woman's wiles, patience rewarded

by doting, noting time and tide.

19

a daffodil

a daffodil peeping yellow

bows in homage sun-glow amber

light lifts its head to feel the warmth

above the sleeping iris, crocus creep in

shaded purple hues, gathred, sharing the

soil brown with life and watered sheen,

bright, pristine, reflcting, warm

colors errect this lowered head in

graceful pastoral settings. a

swan, dusty with the paleness of day,

stretching with delight, answering the

question, tall for the small piece it

plays, growing with deliberate, yet stealthy

hesitation, penultimate with spring.

3/3/97 2:00pm

wedding day

the first of november, is

cool with fresh winds blowing,

liam and shelly are taking

their vows, to each other, and

telling their family and friends

its forever, you know the

feeling, that is welding two folk,

at the chapel, at the posada hotel,

for richer, for poorer, in celebration

of two lives, two separate existences,

two together people in love,

to splice the strands of ancestors

being held in dignity, forebearance,

and hope for future creation, yet

blending hearts and minds, kinds

of wanting to be together, in

all weathers, birds of a feather, a

flock of a binary persuasion, the

occasion to share beliefs and

bare witness, this november day.

november 1992.

on liam and shelly's wedding day.

20

may wedding

gerard and ashton are in love,

and meeting this sunday, to agree

to continue this liaison, this tryst,

in new world surroundings, amore, amore,

for the rest of their days, not shedding

the tears for old days of yore, galore,

in situ, pour qua, the long and

distant collaboration of hearts and

minds, and perfect harmony, a single thought

becalming tranquil reason, a season for

joy, not rustling leaves, and falling anxiety

about the future, the shock, the direction,

the change of living for good fortune

flowers bloom and spread their blossom,

making pretty spring into music, a singing

carillion of bells, like bees and birds

display their happy plumage, brilliant to

say this message is for the couple who

are taking vows, to follow the path

of contentment, to share a dream.


holy matrimony

a religious destiny

in blue and

virgin green,

sweeping, like autumn,

the fallen leaves,

and grassy slopes,

steeply rising.

brown in decaying

delaying, the march

of time.

no different, a

gregarious plan, a

future sublimed,

in postured sainthood,

winning ground.

no children, but young

hearts and minds are

gathered, by the sheaf,

and gently stirred,

awakening a vision

21

flamingo.

flamingo red and flaming

feather's pink, the joy and

written scripture, in bloody rhymes,

sand-bar seeming fingers poke

intruding lines, yet speak in tongues,

a glorious melody rich for sound

and harmony throbs and mimes

quick thoughts and quietly trumpets silver

lining clouds timeless indeed

for morning nurtures injury no pain

for harmless gathering crowds, a

silent meeting, minds composing nocturnes

fleeting shadows ripple time stand still

and ill-becomes a night and dreaming

landscape escaping gravity, earth phobia.

no more the platitudes of dry

enamored lovers, now the blue

sky dome a secret moment, to kiss,

the earth stands still and magic strikes

like lightening, lighting fires, like mercury!

david wilde, 1992, new mexico.

(for john and cather... live now, pay later)

leaves of flame

when it rains the leaves fall

bestowing the earth with fire

the golden shine of sunsets, frozen

in time, the waning elegant moon,

following its bliss, stone cold sober,

on a january day of pigeon-shooting

club-foot sadness. love and pretty

seasons, hardly reasons, mainly water-

chestnuts in the fire of christmas

provocation, dreams and passive resistance

rests in peace, knocks the doors of ivy-

climbing leagues and frosty mornings.

america is on the move, it was never

still, except for the revolution, the

autumn of another passing generation

the way a land sweeps it's rivers of

rotting leaves, and drifting branches,

a clean expunging, an exorcism of

material selves, a knack for

keeping every thing tidy, like rain.

11/19/94

22

autumn trees

trees turning to brown, leaves falling

feel their empty air, the showering

curtain, spreads a velvet carpet, on

alluvial dreams.

siccorro calls a miner's tune of fortune's

told, the little chapel by the stream, and

eating well with family, friends, and neighbors,

the library-cold existence having their fill,

fall weather brings a melancholy state

of affairs, a thought-provoking energy,

a high blue mountain region, bhutan

is what we see, in looking everywhere,

in what we want to see, at

el paso, at freedom's door, for poor

south american cousins, the law

does not help this people, who are

not to be turned away, from the

riches and violent pastures of new

world pleasant welcomes and old

world elegant customs, for more

adjacent features, "across the wire,"

beyond the pale of dark complexions,

borders of desire, and purple tyrrean

robes to dress the mythic legend.

11/20/94

bitter sweet

bitter sweet, the archaic memory

of trees and leaves blown in the wind,

twisting and turning a philosophical time

or frame of mind, the imagination

seeks and finds a secret garden

a refuge for keeping quiet, a place

for thinking good thoughts albeit

any kind of eden, to escape the

turmoil, the pain and frustration

in being a stranger in a strange land

like gulliver, a traveler of destiny

or fortune smiles, whist occupying

the middle ground of intellectual bias,

a propensity to gorge on paper, but

knowing that people come first a

different way of being kind to

all axioms of fine and upright folk,

a while for wide awake citizens to

make good the promise of america, the

honor and bright future a poem.

new mexico, 11/2/93

23

narcisi silvestri

my love for you is like a daffodil,

yellow, warm and tender,

bending to winds of change and

slender means, rich in diverse and

splendid passions, particular yet

intricate in value, real as a

lasting virtue, victorious in the

ultimate selfless mission. touched

by the gold of the eternal--serene

yet base and simple in it's

yeilding to time's immortal tranquility.

narcisi nunca, uma quase perfeita,

waving golden fields flatter

the restless fences, shifting, mellow.

this obsession, this warm and exotic

feeling, shared and welcome, plays

it's own immediate transgressions, a

port in a storm of passing emotions,

to cling, to free and ride the necessary

rehearsal, turning on a dime, spinning.

flings arms wide like circling sails,

on a windmill, a daffodil watching

sentinel, keeping the tides of flowing

amber, silent, but running in rhythm,

caught by a rhyme, or a reason.

treason takes another flowery way.

to leave or stay, or pursue this

immortal season, glowing with pride.

pent up words, showering pretty, like

spores in the blown wind, scattering far

and serious, blending with the dust of

spring like april rain, dividing seeds

with acres, spitting verbs and phrases,

which mean love and passion, awaken!

the dead are the husks of the spoken,

thrown away, delivered--now is the time

to consider, contemplate, a naval

patrol of returning sailors, travel

by word of mouth and listless novel

listening, plants a noun, sprouts the

green head of connubial earthly fission,

soon to speak a familiar submissive admission.

adoro o seu corpo, a chama

o desejo, de estar com voce,

de a vivar os fogareus da paixao

para vivir e abracar a carne e quebrar

estes votos de silencio

uma promessa, um convenio de prezar

david wilde 3/15/97 10.30am

24

sister cities (Albuquerque/????)

matriarchal by definition

means the warm, primal scream,

the two of a kind mystical miracle

of birth, giving life to meaning

like tears of overwhelming joy,

to say, to be, a woman,

a venus in powerful vitality,

a spark of recognition

and glad to be alive this

time, this exciting life.

this occasion to be silly

to be wise and brave

and angel-like with a big

heart that catches fire.

that is the woman.

hidden under a crown

of hair--her sister is

the same, but not as

cute, yet definitely inspiring,

a pair of eyes to make

the difference, in blue

and green, the lovely

ravenous hair spare

beauty for unlimited timeless

reasons to giggle and cry.

8.30 pm

the sister

music hath charms to

soothe the savage heart

but bernadette is bold

like a bear in a storm,

a lion in winter, to

speak and never lie.

and hold a child by

it's tiny hand, in

love and consternation.

a bond of trust and

anticipation, affection

rules the waves of any

kind of humble way,

to pay a piper his

tune and melody, the

strictly homeopathic

remedy for heart-ache,

a boon in the spring

born in the heat of joy,

the height of early

summer when lambs

look longing across

lonely hills, and bleat

their cries of woolly

song, across this moor.

25

woman

beats the heart of steel,

the moving moment of

instant epiphany, joy

to know what makes a

woman tick, the warm,

the birth-giving light

and instant work of

love.

that moment of bliss

which takes a person

by surprise,

lasting a whole life-

time, through content-

ment in the memory

of a stolen kiss, too.

unheard of tokens of

the final blast in

weather's of stormy glow.

moving to break the

ice, and fiery shows

of flowing volcano dusty

moonlight.

her body is the holy image,

which is sacred.

bill and jen (pt 1)

passion

at mom's house

the smell of tortillas'

is the way to tell,

by association, where

the homework gets

done, with the boys,

at the eating house

on central.

it's a passionate thought

to believe that food

and the olfactory glands

can even affect the

mood, to work and play

so effectively even with

the tv on full blast

--it's a miracle.

especially because this

is the time of dark nights

and hopeful agendas

waiting for tomorrow

like owls on a mid-

night express, a

limb of exasperating

dimensions . . .

attached to a tree

by innuendo, or love

but definitely glued

26

to an idea called

positive thinking, in

nature, in the trespassing

realm of wandering thoughts,

intrusive distractions

like food, an apple

or just plain music--

filigrees of sound and

pleasant companions

such as bill and jen,

the greatest students

on earth, this side

of the rio grand.

but the subtle reason

for this tract is the

fact that we live

to learn and learn

how to live with the

ups and downs, and

ins and outs of the

food factory by the

mother road, sailing

along in concrete

armada's of symphonies.

sonata's of double

and triple movements,

statistics and math,

psychology and pharmaceutical

digressions, for a song.

when others are doodling

along. the pursuits of

a student who's effort is

deterministic, unrelenting

and never ever done.

complete, replete with

the blood, the sweat and

tears, cascading with joy.

oh boy! what a deliberate

attempt to put out

the unrelenting passions

of scholastic achievement.

pent-up words to

boil off steam and

spaghetti-like coils of

material--expressions

of definite healing,

appealing to sensitive

sisters and brothers in

traditional acts of

contrition, admission to

submissive roles in education

classes of library science

and college english

to put together a pretty

symbolic lesson in

popular fashions of era's,

categories of hyperventilation,

integration of vertices,

chemical by the mere

mention of hydrocarbon

gasses, inebriation of the

senses, knocked out by

the study and buddy-

27

system of perspiration,

team spirit and sheer

guts, shuts the gate

to freedom's blessed

sleep, a rest for

no wicked person,

pillow-soft in peace,

goodwill and happy

birthday celebrations.

calculating a point

for a grade, a raid

on the senses of justice

like old lace curtains,

drawn to keep out the

light, the third eye, the

sixth sense of beauty.

11/10/96 9.25 pm

ej's

ej's, and snow reflecting

in the high window, shouts,

the light encumbering sound,

slanting white like fleece of

christmas sleet, dry and falling,

weighted feathers in flight, on

fawning evening glow, words flow,

low humor, bright eyes gleaming

in astonished aggravation at this

tree-limbed shadow, at the square

called poets corner, on wednesday

night, at the opera of hate and

fenian articulations, even humor,

cross this landscape of language.

brief noise, rhythmic chants

set a tone, an aura of simple

folklore, spoken not whispered

in rhyme, but thought-provoking

obscurity, spreading wonder talks

a dramatic feeling, feeding the

minds of listeners dreams. godot

winning streaks of verbal strokes of

pen and peasant poetry, language

of a simple sort, not becoming sleaze.

1/6/95

28

early morning light

early morning light

of welded pen

inking out

the night

dividing dawn

from dark

lifting the new moon

to frosty eminence

shining now to earthly

glow, pale reflection,

celestial show,

begin now day, in

reverent prayer,

written concert

horizon bare,

waking.

invoking no name

supplication to the

day, by praying, in

homage, to the glory,

for this day, this

freedom, family

harmony.

baca

jimmy baca'd into existence,

speaking from prison, voices

exploding into outrageous

fortune, osmosis isn't it,

in feeling emotional

but what it is is it,

that knowing, behind bars,

of bread and music isn't

hungry for a pounding,

bloody noses, bloody blue,

and black the bruises

of resistance, brutal by

degrees, releasing pent-up

childhood slowly growing

in adulthood by manly means,

escaping within to poetic

license, rocking between a

rolling, driving passion, relentless,

whipped to silent attitude, but

not breaking-in to quick split

personalities of experience, only

agreeing slowly to consider

the last lone verb of attention-

grabbing the last long song.

29

weathermen

mark rudd is no dud

he is wild within

in tame america-

and in new mexico

where the spirit that wants me is.

no matter what the weather,

or whatever.

valentines' day is here

for love not fear

nor irreconcileable differences

the death and birth

of love within, without

and paradise is not lost

it is found - because we can.

mark rudd is no dud bud!

ode to don brennan

flowers for the man

aristotle speaks

trust for the many

shamrocks

singing.

the lyre, the harp

angelic,

music and the muses

for the poor,

the man.

30

tuesday i

boxing and bullfighting

incorporate the lust of blood

and the blood of lust.

in germany they say “lustig”

which is just as good as bluster

in the english tongue

practically a metaphor for

propagating the dead end

sreet kid glyph

in his ‘lucha’ his fight

for glory. inchoate.

blubbering like tears to fall

on the ground such

is the grief and pundenor of

bellowing passionate clauses

sentence structure to the ‘n’th

degree of silence, by weeping.

punch drunk by association with

the matador

punctilious, pugnacious and dead.

morte de arthur.

falling, falling, falling.

tuesday ii

durell and miller, a killer

apart from other fits of prose

and depression setting in

not now but later

gator, wait while we

shape the bait with fate

a hate too far for pater

pabisch of sekunden skittzen

fame, but sooner than the

tide will rise in vienna.

turning the screw, screwing

the furlongs of schmidt strasser

to tuburcular stresses

oratory obligations

saint stephens church belonging

to no other.

31

distant friends

thoughts about bridget, on

waiting for change, and friends

who come and go, and meaning

that two people can make it

on less than a lot, in new mexico,

on leaving and home, and contented

living, in the fast lane, a game

for rich folk, a pass-time with

no strings attached, in the fast-

lane, past regretting, but not too

late to learn, or burn the bridges,

the honest the good, and real people

see how little we know of visions,

of unconditional love, to pray for

who we are, our souls and happy existence.

in true and proper distinction

a promise to bare witness, for children

who seek fulfillment, in blessings and

hope, for all seasons, a hope for

all reasons, to love and obey and

to say, its time to decide and

its time to abide with our lady

our lord, the umbilical chord of

our choosing obedient spirits to

guide us, and show us the way,

distant cousins

distant cousins

in a row

play the music

'do-se-do.

we will clap

in time to them,

dont be hurried

carpe deum!

style

poetic poems in disarray,

promising nothing

to the day.

leaving unsaid

things of note,

driving home

the lines of rote.

32

tome hill

tome hill, a hill too far,

the lines of mountains ranging,

hang down the sacred sky, like

a blue rock fountain, ethereal

vaulted silence, broken by only a

whispering secret wind, a breeze

haunting crannies and crags of ages

past and future, a knoll, a triathlon

of striding prayer wheel thoughts, a

cruciform of human prescience in the

wilderness, wild and free, empty and

striking desperate feelings--a wide yet

beautiful flying, sparkling faith, brilliant

trails of dusted hope and kissing knees

folded in homage, to hark back to distant

moorish fires and scimitar-slashing

holy lands of our fathers, kneeling in awe,

in wonder--wordless images speak of passion,

futile earthly attachments, to spreading arms

and punctured limbs in sacrifice, to let go

the love of longing death, mortal bitter

sweetness and ripe wounds, seeking forgiveness,

suckling a tortured desire to pay the guilt,

on this tumuli, a bare and wondrous sight.

spring

pollen bees of experience

and spiders not about to

cave in to the secret underground

of our living loving lives, of

the incoherent myth of our

anatomies, antinomies of

webs, and photographic animosities

of union specific, secret lives,

and scorpion intertwined

threads of experience, breeding.

another mysterious chapter of

a universal language, stinging,

dipping sweet and waxing witch-

wicked guile, and guilt of seasons,

passionate passports to pimlico,

arrested, but free.

33

medical library

1/21/93

here i sit in the medical library

reading the autobiography of

william carlos williams. it is a

fine day with a fine view of the

sandia mountains covered with clouds

the girls are conscious of them-

selves, pulling their hair stroking

an itch of spring fever at the

afternoon vigil of studying fevers

of the medical sort and wondering

who will be their husbands or boy-friend.

it doesn't matter to me except to

say that we all belong together in

meaning what neil haas calls the

"enmity of the soul," enjoying a brief

visit with nature through the window

of our lives and yearning flight to

freedom, made poignant by the 'egg'

sculpture in full view of the library

art icon for spring a new beginning.


nothing

nothing in new mexico, by cold demand

is better than the warmth of human

contact, at the silent flight of crows,

the bitter pill of looming daylight,

filtering between the fighting lines of

morning sickness, for jogging away at

healthy issues, like keeping trim, and

quitting smoking--or staying awake

at midnight for the sun, the moon

and the stars, inspire a deep pool

of melodies, sung to the tune of

folk-tales, stories-old, for this way

to tell the difference between right

and wrong, not ways of eluding the

law, nor the path of self-righteousness,

but a middle way, a score of music,

a sheet of glorious audacity's, in

the face of brave adversity, and cool

ecclesiastic reasons, for staying alive,

eclectic points and justifying chorus of angels.

11/2/94

34

ode to a friend

dina's birthday is here, right now,

the one with all the grim foreboding,

loading us with joy and fun, because

she's second to none, on this day, a

while ago, the earth was blessed with

a bit of a show, the twenty-five

short annual moments, since that point

in recent docents, fill the void with many

hours, of happy memories, not counting the

gifts of chemical choices, in the matter

of rejoicing voices, celebrate with wine

and banquette, the future mood of thankful

friends, the meaning of this beautiful trend

of nature, to bestow us with such

pretty features, in our idol, the one

with curly hair and shining eye's, to

blind the world with kindness, and a

generous heart, to fill the room, to grant

a boon, to our company, we swoon, as

though the like of her will never pass this way again.

david wilde, new mexico, (1994)

(this poem is dedicated to dina--in her 25th year)

epitaph

(a poem for vince casino)

to vince, the level of brotherhood

for persistent and friendly comradeship

in peaceful recognition of god, and

holy intentions, a lost life and no

wasted opportunity, to find the best

most honorable existence, to worship life

and celebrate, a righteous cause to

end all doubt, or lingering hallucinations,

of mortal fear, on fire with hope and

salvation--we will miss him. so is

the reason for this epitaph, this record

of a man's man, and higher calling, to

meet our maker, our eternal father, and

mother, nurturer's of the soul, the gift of

sight, rewards of heavenly splendor, a

reason for living and having lived well,

for all the right reasons, right thoughts,

exactly why, exactly when, to honor all

duties on earth, with love and compassion,

forgiveness and equanimity, harmonious

relations, truth and justice in mourning

this man, this friend, this beautiful

human being. too many reasons as to

why he will be missed, or thought about

as a warm and concerned individual.

david wilde, new mexico, 12/18/93

35

there is no poetry

to believe in god, is to believe in

miracles and all the saints alive,

too true and loud exoneration

of sins, by osmosis, of talking to

the higher powers, the one above,

believing in seeing the end of all

promises to be intuitive, to be well

thought of by avenging angels, but

wills that are free from no other

hunger than spiritual harmony, no

other truth than free will, and

the need to be in grace with pure,

yet simple ideals of inclusion, of

inclination, a blessing of all the best

of terms of reference, acceptance in

the wider context, broader world, a

better way in dealing with this land

with pure ideals, a vision to feel no

enmity, only harmonic justice, a real

attitude adjustment for seeing the light.


swimming (primavera)

in the morning, clouds scatter across

mountain ridges, at the base, the white

cotton-wool of weather, a change in the

cool air of spring. vital, alive, in the

rush of living. muito bem. it is

a good feeling to be here and learning

whilst waiting for people to arrive

from home, and whilst thinking of

that distant land. los otros; the

other side. in the imagination it is

already spring. the religious festivals,

lent and easter are delightful,

dressing in the manner of the young

with bright flowers, yellow and green,

red and blue, hint at the future,

but don't leave out a sparkling wish,

for nuptials and weddings, fresh in

the mind of aged alike, remembering

yet still knowing that the cycle of

birth, giving life, creating and being,

flash like a stroke of lightening-

the ebb and flow, like winter.

brief joy, long growing bands of

tulips, white lillies flood the meadows,

streams wash ice cold like a shower

swimming home to the sea, born free.

2/19/976.30am

36

johnson field

the igloo on johnson

field leave nothing to

imagination, cognitive

dissonance may say some

other truth than trevor's

arctic song of medical

trans-siberian trans-

substantiation, the sign

of the cross from early

incarnation - crucified

by a detonating delphic

translation, migrations

from past to future

hallucination when the

big top comes to town -

the white field, the sheet

of snow plows furrowed

pretty pictures as weary

travellers throw their fate

to the wind - blowing

caution a hasty goodbye

a carnage of january

salutations to bring the

ship around back on

course new year solstice

bound

(it was the winter

of '84 when this apparition

appeared out of the eastern sky

out of the corner of its eye

the road riding high to meet

the sagacious igloos of

western myth, of a glyph of

wiff'd poetry trailing across

the horizon blazing a kerouack

journey like czerny's piano

rhythms practicing daily a

cacaphony of cactus flower

eskimo and guadaloupe mixtures

weaving elegantly trained

quietly ingrained soliloquies

a cardiac leaning arrested

development seeming hitch hikers

guide to meaning.)

37

dryness

the dryness that

bleeds, letting life

flow, a desert dream

which sucks moisture

like the leach of

sickness draining away

inspired creativity-

letting it go-moving to arid the

energies of ego

ergo sum...

4/12/03

invoking no name

supplication to the

day, by praying in

homage, to the glory

for this day, this

freedom family

harmony.

carri pence is a priceless

princess diana spenser

precisely because of

her blue eyes and

celtic skin skirmishing

against a foe like

demon from hell called 'evil'

demonstrating her eagle-

eyed will and sharp

spirited talons of straw

born to be wild born

to be free

born to be carried, like

a foam woven ship to the sea...

new mexico poetry

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