The Moon in June

She peeked between the fingers of clouds
and scattered gold dust through the shadows;
whispered words to the warm wind and
wrapped her shawl around her shoulders.
Morning glories climbing the garden fence
trailed love letters in heart shaped leaves.
They never speak to her or sing their song
but trumpet their colors to the dawn believing
she’s still there but her light has gone.
The veiled brides of June are soon to wed;
trellised arches of flowers for their vows;
pillows of lover’s lace upon their beds
and wreaths of expectation on their brows.
They shed their innocence like moonlight;
soft as whispered promises of love.
When the morning comes, will they be wise?
The moon will not be shining from above.

Flowers

Among the stones on windswept rim
A fragile flower grew
Painted like dainty butterfly wing
Drinking the morning dew

Gossamer tendrils stretch from birth
Beneath the arid ground
Seeking sustenance from the earth
Moving without a sound

Through the gray-green filaments
Blood of ages pass
Dazzling colors and nutrients
That spill in bloom at last

We are become much like the plant
Among the sand and stone
Who by survival must supplant
Infertile flesh and bone

And let the spirit’s winding roots
Sink deep into the soil
Producing green and vibrant shoots
That stretch through time and toil

Then our soul’s true colors seen
Among the brittle clay
Might be a fit bright offering
In heaven’s rich bouquet

Footsteps

In a deserted empty house
The middle of the night
Footsteps in an adjacent room
As I turn on the light
No one there, I lay awake
All night listening
For creaking floorboards
Bumping furniture
The footsteps come no more

Walking home on darkened streets
A foggy mist of rain
Footsteps soft on forest leaves
Breaking twigs inside my brain
I spin around in misty halos
Bats flit by the streetlamp
Nothing there, I walk again
Listening in the damp

Again, again, the hairs on end
All along my spine
And down both arms, a shiver runs
Footsteps keeping time
Across the roof under the moon
The dog whines on his chain
The click of patent leather shoes
Impossible to explain

What sort of creature silently
Walks rooftops late at night
But disappears in mockery
When I turn on the lights
Outside my bedroom window
Just before the dawn
I wake to sounds of breathing
I know I’m not alone

Footsteps pause behind the curtain
A dragging, shuffling fright
Madness messengers, I am certain
Footsteps come for me tonight

Del Rio 1915

I miss the creak of leather under me
I miss the saguaro on the Sonoran
I miss that goddamned half-breed quarter horse
Son of a bitch was more mustang than anything
Now my Winchester just sits in the corner gathering dust

I miss old Talking Crow
First by God blue-eyed Apache I ever seen
Claimed he was full blooded Chiricahua
But I always thought there was some white blood
He was mean on his whiskey so I never pressed the matter

I miss pulling off my boot and thinking
That the rest of my leg was going to come with it
My hind end never did bother me much
But by God my thighs ached enough to make up for it
I miss drinking coffee that still had grounds in it

I miss sleeping out in the open under the stars
I miss damn near freezing when it got nippish out
I miss having a saddle for a pillow
And borrowing Choctaw’s blanket to go over mine
He didn’t need it without his saddle no way

I miss eating beans and beefsteak for breakfast
And the fried tortillas Jose’ used to make
I miss spending the spring out on the great divide
Getting the herd all fattened up for market
And I miss the feel of my Colt strapped to my hip

I miss spending a month’s pay getting drunk and laid
Half the time ending up in a fight or a poker game
I look at the scars in the mirror and I have to smile
Damn them sure was some fine times
But it’s all gone now, like me pretty soon I reckon

They got a newfangled thing called a “horseless carriage”
Damn stinking, noisy, rattling, bone shaking contraption
One drove through a puddle and splashed mud on my boots
If I’d have had my pistol I’d have shot it
Hell, so much is gone that ain’t ever coming back

Granddaddy used to talk about the buffalo like that
He remembered they was all day crossing the prairie
A man could sit in one spot and never see the same bull twice
The government starved out, killed or civilized all the Indians
I reckon they ain’t that much worth living for anymore

Me and Charlie Mendez going into town tonight
And get us a bottle of tequila and get drunk
They make us hitch our horses off of Main Street
Proper modern folks don’t want to step in horse shit
Some kid said, “Hey, mister, where’s your horse?

I said, he got old and died but I’ve got a mount
It ain’t Mister Ford’s model T but it’ll do
“Say”, he says, “Are you a REAL cowboy?”
No sir, no sir I ain’t but my daddy was
And I gave him a dollar to water Charlie’s ponies