Denver Poems

Artfully Done

She left me
halfway to Boulder

Up and out of the Honda
to a boredom-free land

When we got to the show
I asked, “Where did you go?”

A face stared me down
it didn’t belong to my date

Her other lover was visiting,
could I not see?

Art was his name
color and light, his tertiary game

I was downright dowdy
compared to Art

Six Moons

Marking time by the moon
magically, we’ve moved
toward a life together.

“So soon?” some may say
from their church pews
and corner-office views.

But, what are six moons
passing in the night
when souls come home to light?

When old ways are honored
and sense is made,
there’s no room for a downgrade.

Is six moons so soon
when worlds can end
in one of mans’ madder moments?

Under six moons
we have shared sorrow
and voiced pain.

Under six moons
we have danced our dreams
and held one another tight.

From here we go on
waxing and waning
illuminating the paths we choose.

Hand-in-hand
heart-to-heart
it’s hard to conceive of a better start.

Wyoming Domestic

She was born a ranch gal
and a ranch gal she remains
through it all–
the city’s foul air,
work’s political posturing,
no horse to ride.

All she needs is a fresh whiff
of Big Horn oxygen and her cells come alive,
defiantly so,
her whole being rallying
for the life left behind–
the summers mending fence,
graceful solitude,
and the occasional comfort of bluegrass.

Coming down off the high
packing herself into a red Saturn
bound for Denver
she wonders how,
how is it possible to explain this rarified existence
to the unknowing–
to the East Coasters?
the cold cats?
her man?

She sees herself as a foreigner
adrift in a strange land
void of values,
especially old ones
like, “We are all connected,”
but she’s not apart–
the pieces fit,
rough edges are smoothed,
cycles continue to spin.

Even when home pride spills over
and burns the unsuspecting,
the non-callused,
the wanderer who’s never know a root,
nor the fierce bond–
of woman to clan,
of woman to place,
of woman to an identity forged.

Hiking St. Mary’s

I’m in love with a mountain
lion
impervious
to gravity’s crueler
commands

She springs from modern
transport
intent
on a ballet of her own
making

Trodden paths skirted
so too
the methodical steps of man

This wildness startles

I can only imagine
that my arms
will hold her again
when my legs
find a rhythm

Accenting the Feminine

Everywhere you look in the desert
there’s a rich flesh
inviting

More sensual than sirens’ song
the mother’s labia opens
to all

And to withdraw
is certain separation
and a desperate loneliness

For in the pinks, oranges, and reds
is a safe harbor
from the games of man

Bears Don’t Break

Bears don’t break
Down and ride like horses

You can’t corral them
A circus animal is the most you can hope for

And that’s not a bear
That’s a bear impersonating

Bears will do that–
Before they tear into shit

Leaving their cage in ruins
And their tamers cowering

Stray Drops

Carelessly
do words form, fumble, and fall…

So too
a meandering stream turns

suddenly

to a gravity of rage,

pounding

perfectly natural rhythms
on innocent skins.

Eroded
rocks go on.

But what about
those of finer density?

Do they welcome new light?

And again stretch every fiber toward the sky?

Dilute Slowly

The sky cries tears
when I’m fresh out.

I pray the stains will wash.

My anger too
can forever go
to the deeper recesses of blue.

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