Four Desert Poems

THE DESERT

It was the Lord, our God, who brought us and our ancestors up out of the land of Egypt, out of the house of slavery.—Joshua 24:17

You depart for the desert in darkness,

The way lit by the moon.

Rocks and scrub touched by chalk,

Brush lightly dusted white…

The planet is luminously radioactive.

Mountains cut out by scissors

Press black polygons against the sky.

Gradually, gloaming

Restores pink flush to the land,

Turning the moon into a faint watermark.

Noontime unsheathes his sword,

Slaying the day.

No animals peep in this slow broil,

Not a twitch of the ear,

Not a blink from a paralytic.

Traveling inside an oven, you wear a hat,

Swig ice water frozen the day before,

Keep delirium at bay like an anxious patient.

The wind lies in a coma.

Oxygen is too weak to rise.

Twilight is adding pigments to oil,

Deepening blue,

Doing arithmetic,

Red times orange.

Tiny denizens stir as if readying for school.

Dusk makes a promise:

He says the mountains hold deep wells and caves,

Cool as beds freshly made.

He speaks not to deceive but to encourage.

Waiting is a long walk to freedom, a motionless journey.

The world is…

The world is a waterless white expanse.

Abandoned cities stand as termite mounds,

Hubs of gulley networks lined with salt.

Beetles make homes where no humans roam.

Scorpions tiptoeing track tiny dimples.

Lizards scurry about as if electrocuted.

The wind whistles through honeycomb ruins.

Tiny tornadoes raise their fists.

Hot dust puffs like gun smoke.

We walk among windswept dunes of ash.

We quarry for light and dig for springs.

We tap at stones and ask for mercy.

We water ourselves to water the world.

ELIJAH

I am struck down by the warrior sun in the desert.

I am a string attempting to stand.

I cannot move my legs—

They are stones hammered into the earth.

I cannot lift my arms—

They are branches felled by a storm.

I am a house unable to move,

A hoary salt bed cooked entirely dry.

Depletion is my abrupt affliction.

I am a well filled at bottom with sand.

I long for a jug of sweet water,

For a bundle of fresh steaming bread

To bring life to my legs, hope to my heart—

Who will bring me wherewithal for my journey?

The ocean is a desert…

The ocean is a desert:

No water to drink,

No trees to rest,

No animals to ride.

The gull that glides

Above the waves

Is the faraway condor

Surveying the sand;

They are in their element.

We find no home

In the sea any more than
We sleep in the clouds.

Desert sunset at Kings Creek Station, Northern Territory, Australia

Hermits of Bethlehem

HERMITS OF BETHLEHEM

Chester, New Jersey

Beyond the threshold is silence.

Stillness suffuses like light.

The world outside is spinning.

Summer flames at its height.

Solitude is a boon companion.

Self-knowledge climbs like a sloth.

The bed is spare, a thin beard.

The rocking chair is a moth.

Dig in a cave in darkness.

Toss out handfuls of soil.

Bake bread in your heart, an oven.

Bring steaming thirst to a boil.

Listen for the least word of power.

Pierce yourself with a sword.

Afternoon deepens day shadows.

The sun is a violent lord.

Dusk emanates blood-red rays.

All trials in an instant will pass.

Gaze upon woods colored jade.

Dream dreams of emerald grass.

Originally published in The Penmen Review (July 29, 2015)

Bethlehem Hermitage

Sweet fragrant coffee…

Sweet fragrant coffee…

Sweet fragrant coffee, you fill me with delight,

You sharpen my hearing, focus my sight,

Waken taste and smell with rich, deep notes…

You waft restful draughts, quell restive seas,

Water vineyards and groves, hoe fruit-bearing trees,

Build sturdy safe homes, tidy cities on the plain,

Turn denizens to work for prosperous gain,

Hoist snappy white sails, launch fresh-painted boats…

You uplift my heart, quicken my feeling!

Just do not invade my sleep and dreaming.

Originally published in Eastlit (August 1, 2015)

 

 

Sweet fragrant coffee...

2:00 AM

2:00 AM

No dogs bark at this hour,

Desolate, an abandoned field burnt by the sun,

Dry shaving curls on a workshop floor long unswept.

Harsher than sawing wood, a motorcycle

Rips along a distant road, popping

Explosions in small packets sputtering

Bits of shrapnel, broken teeth,

Busted rivets, chopped up brittle, pits, tracers, short-lived sparks.

Slowly silence thickens, concrete putty sealing joints and crevices

Of a room deafening to the slightest vibration,

Hardening gradually, spiral candy.

The world is asleep, I am awake.

Passing time heaves, a resting animal.

Dimly, a behemoth of swarming thoughts like fireflies drifts past.

I wait steadfastly, a metal tool seeking the warm grasp of a skillful hand.

Now is the moment to enter into stillness

Deep as cloisters enfolding underground rivers,

Delicate as a tissue by the slightest cough perforated.

Before the smallest particle of noise tears like flint into gossamer darkness,

I will take long draughts, cupping my hands descending as birds into the springs of tranquility.

Street lamp at night

Your love is a flowing river…

Your love is a flowing river…

Your love is a flowing river leading me toward isolated caverns of tranquility,

Restful as the liquid colloquy curling round and round reflective stones sitting in a mountain brook

Nestled high along the hem of a darkening leather tundra.

Fold me into your heart like linen

In cabinets freshly perfumed with cotton,

Bind me fast to yourself as a sash in celebration,

Cradle me in your hand where I will dwell in the cup,

Unwinding knots at the end of a day burnished by fire.

Originally published in The Effects of Grace, Kindle ed., edited by Alice Saunders (Tampa, Florida: TL Publishing Group LLC, December 9, 2015), Kindle eBook, page 22

Mountain river flowing through conifer forest

Atop a High Mountain

ATOP A HIGH MOUNTAIN

I have seen a mountain. It all happened very quickly. No body could bear it

were the soul there for an hour.—Mechthild of Magdeburg,

The Flowing Light of the Godhead

Atop a high mountain

I beheld a river

Not of this earth

But of the sky,

Pure, blue,

Cloudless.

Bending down

To fill a glass bottle,

I saw bubbles

Rising, escaping

The opening

At the bottle top.

I lifted the bottle

To the sun,

Empty.

I tried a second,

Third time,

No water entered.

Glancing at my hand,

Dripping,

Fresh, youthful,

Smooth,

I heard a voice say,

“This water is for healing.

All who drink it

Are refreshed.

All who bathe in it

Are made well.

No one can carry this water

Down the mountain.

All must climb the mountain

To receive this water.”

When the vision vanished,

I felt a delicate thirst,

Fine as dust

Yet all-consuming.

Originally published in The Effects of Grace, Kindle ed., edited by Alice Saunders (Tampa, Florida: TL Publishing Group LLC, December 9, 2015), Kindle eBook, page 23

View atop Mount Pulag, Northern Luzon, Philippines

Prologue

PROLOGUE

Gloaming is gradually pushing night away.

Casting a magician’s spell, day sweeps

His arm in a wide arc, left to right.

The sky submits to his behest.

Darkness retreats faster than low tide pulling back its forces,

Fading until morning is a garment washed many times.

Dawn is a gray wolf’s coat streaked with white clouds.

Blue and pink light diffuse, a river entering a delta.

Moon and stars now gleam faintly, soft as kindness.

Daylight is spilling, gentle waterfall, over the window sill.

The house begins to stir, a living animal.

I hear tinkling utensils, clattering plates, sloshing glasses.

Coffee is percolating, a gurgling snorkel.

Birds let loose warbles, sinuous wrist movements of a dancer.

Clearing throats repeatedly, roosters do not understand

Only once is necessary to remind everyone day is here.

Din rises, tittering audience before a performance.

Turning squeakily, a faucet drills water into a pail.

Commuters gun their engines. Motorcycles roar, punching holes in paper.

Chaos breaks out, a bull bounding free from a maze.

Originally published in Pine+Basil, Volume 1, Issue 1, page 20

Morning Light by Pam Holnback