The Journey Between Two Homes – A Poem

Book Making in the Sonoran Desert - Flying Across the Sky

Dichotomy

Flying. I request a next-to-the-window seat. Always.
So I can stare into the sky, lose myself in thick cloud cover, or watch the country far below,
farmland platted in tiny squares, river snakes,
mountains erupting from plains, sunlight slides across the face of the earth, disappears.

I watch cities and towns morph into bullets of lights.

Each time I board a plane, I haul my soul into the heavens
breathe with calm intention until I reconnect with land, my return,
my soul again searches for desert red. And settles.

Book Making in the Sonoran Desert - Flying Across the Sky

There are no guarantees.
I came to the desert Southwest for its sunshine years ago,
sunlight that promised to flip a switch in my brain, drench it in
neurotransmitters, make smiling easier than weeping.

I come still.

For that sunlight boost, yes, but just as much
I come for the tree cholla with golden auras
gleaming in the waning sun, beyond breathtaking.
Reflection of sunlight burrows deep into my being.

Saguaro with a freakish coat of snow are as mystical.
Desert mountains – green riparian corridors,
yellow in a blaze of autumn sycamore leaves,
or black in the desert night –  all are my magical potion.

Book Making in the Sonoran Desert - Flying Across the Sky

I talk to trees. Tree connection is energy.
I rest my hands upon their bark, lay my cheek against their rough grain.

I have leaned the art of calming under the influence of this land –
sky islands stretch – from Sonoran Desert habitat, saguaros and mesquite,
to near alpine conditions, bald rock above the treeline of firs.
Like traveling from northern Mexico to southern Canada.

But always. Always.
I yearn to return to the desert floor, to the spaciousness
and solitude that warm my spirit.

Book Making in the Sonoran Desert - Flying Across the Sky

Moments measure time; maps measure travel.
As desert spring blasts its way into desert summer,
comes my time to leave the desert.
Each moment becomes more precious as I cross off the remaining days.

I spread maps upon my desk and ponder routes,
choose the blue roads, the dotted roads,
roads with mountain passes that may or may not be snow-packed.

I’ll take that risk. I travel the small towns and villages,
stay in court motels, feast at diners where conversation never stops.

This is the way of easing into my return.

Book Making in the Sonoran Desert - Flying Across the Sky

The journey. I anticipate it even as I mourn my leaving.
Anticipation and loss held simultaneously.
I’ll hold the days of travel in my memory,
scribble in my journal as I cross the country.

Place notes. A town and its motto, the population,
a story-telling hand painted poster in a shop window

The washes and dry river beds I cross.
Dead Wash. Red Wash. Car Wash. Dirty Laundry River.
Humor found in geographical monikers.

Washes disappear, meandering creeks appear,
then singing streams, raging flood-stage rivers.

As I travel, mapping the earth,
there is joyful, bittersweet.
Palpable. My heart pounds with unexpected sights.

I am exultant and saddened, hesitant and expectant.
I want to slow and speed time concurrently.
There is much to practice, this being in the moment of traveling.

Journey between two homes.

~~~~~~

Flying Across the Sky

Flying Across the Sky © 2014 Bo Mackison

There was an afternoon when the desert floor was still and heat rose like fire. I went to a nearby sky island to write and create…and to explore my desire to be in two places at once – to be in the desert where I feel a deep, soul connection and be with my loved ones in Wisconsin.

A book and poem were born.

Desert Blessing

HS8A9868

Desert Hymns ©2016 Bo Mackison

cactus wrens hide their nests in spiky cholla
blessed be the cactus wrens preparing for new life

thrashers sing copycat trills from the highest branches
blessed be the thrashers chipping their stolen hymns

cottonwoods sprout miniature leaves, tiny bits of foliage
blessed be the cottonwoods that ribbon the desert green

the grasses greening the mesquite dotted foothills
blessed be the winter rains that soaked life into the seedlings

crested blackbirds swarm the palo verde
blessed be the desert mistletoe whose berries feed the birds

wrens and cholla
thrashers and cottonwoods
blackbirds and berries

bounty in the desert
blessings in the desert

bounty and blessings

i prepare for life uncertain
singing stolen hymns to lift my spirits
a ribbon of hope threads through the dry and harsh lands
spring rains, i ask
quench my thirst, quench my thirst

warmth to hold me
rains to bless me
sunlight to nourish me

desert blessing
desert healing

Alphabet in the Desert

Alphabet of the Desert in the Month of April

Ants carrying loads
three times their size,
ambitious ants.

HS8A1637

Just Born – Bighorn Mama and Baby © 2016 Bo Mackison

Birth of a bighorn sheep,
mother and baby boy.
Life abounds in the desert.

Coyote paces on the edge of the wash,
watching its kit sip
rainwater from a puddle.

Ribbon Sunrise

Ribbon Sunrise © 2016 Bo Mackison

Dawn breaks into pastel colors,
silhouetting the mountains.
Affirmation of a new day.

Evening primroses in bloom,
as I walk the edges in the evening,
so many edges.

Flocks of finches.
Feathers flutter.
Friendly and fine.

Gila monster sunning
on a slab of granite,
ancient sun worship.

Broad-billed Hummingbird

Broad-billed Hummingbird © 2016 Bo Mackison

Hummingbird hovers, a constant
in the desert, whirr of wings,
then fly away with a zing-zing.

Insects crawl and scoot, burrow and bore.
Desert is alive with insects
where ever one looks, if only one sees.

jack-rabbit jumping
through the back wash, zig zag.
You can’t catch me!

HS8A2451

Ketzel Perched on Saguaro Buds © 2016 Bo Mackison

Kestrel chatters klee-klee-klee,
smallest falcon, mighty hunter. His sharp vision
tracks all movement on the desert ground below.

Lizards, hidden much of the winter,
now search for the warm earth, scuttling here and there as
lightning streaks through the stormy skies.

HS8A1807

Full Moon over the Mountains © 2016 Bo Mackison

Moonlight, moonlight,
midnight moon.
Moon glow washes over the mountains.

Nectar draws the pollinators
to the cactus flowers –
prickly pears, cholla, saguaro all a bloom in April.

Owls hoo hoo
their night songs.
Night watch.

A Profusion of Palo Verde Yellow © 2016 Bo Mackison

A Profusion of Palo Verde Yellow © 2016 Bo Mackison

Palo verde trees
drop their yellow flowers.
Desert snow. Golden glow.

Quail are quiet: the mamas mind their nests,
each one filled with a dozen or more eggs.
Soon the babies will hatch.

Rattlesnake sheds its skin;
the snake-shed graces my desert altar.
Sacred ritual.

Saguaro in Bloom ©2016 Bo Mackison

Saguaro in Bloom ©2016 Bo Mackison

Saguaros in bloom, a blossom lasts a day.
White and heavy with fragrance, atop the tall column,
it beckons to pollinating bats and bees.

Thunderstorms come early this year.
Theatrical, with torrential downpours.
The desert smells like rain.

IMG_0053

Uplift © 2016 Bo Mackison

Uplift. The mountains I see from my window.
Land uplifted. Spirits uplifted.

Varnish on the desert rocks, dark layers of minerals,
petroglyphs scratched into the surface by the ancients.
Vultures swoop above the rocks, on the lookout for their next meal.

Wind is the whisper of the desert,
sometimes the whisper turns into a howl
and the dust swirls.

Xeric. What the desert is.
A habitat containing little moisture;
landscape of yucca, cactus, palo verde.

Yucca in bloom © 2016 Bo Mackison

Yucca in bloom © 2016 Bo Mackison

Yucca in bloom,
a white flame above a candle,
illuminating the desertscape.

Zebra butterfly, black and white,
long-winged and graceful.
admired midst the desert flowers.

~~~~~~~

An alphabet poem – the desert in April – for April, National Poetry Month.

The Poet Watches

Prickly Pear Blossom ©2016 Bo Mackison

Prickly Pear Blossom ©2016 Bo Mackison

the poet watches

the branches shake the yellowed leaves
i watch the leaves scatter,
some rustle along the path
others snag in a ragged patch of grass.
i watch.

in this season of cold and death
the first snowfall, cutting winds, frozen landscape
exposed, sharp branch silhouettes.
frost-killed stalks sag under the weight of
dead flowers, a shroud in ice crusted snow.
i watch, and silence breaks open
so much change. alive.

writing from the center
in the center of the temple, a labyrinth
in the center of the labyrinth, the desert
in the desert, sun ablaze, high noon,
shallow breaths and arid breeze.
where is the safe space? “nearby, come closer”.

tangled cacti protect the perimeter
in shadow, tangles and textures
bloom with fuchsia-orange roses
hummingbirds dart amidst bees,
alone, my heartbeat a hammer, erratic,
in the gloaming I find protection.

ancient voices offer a cocoon within the darkness.
if i do not speak, I cannot be heard, cannot be hurt
by words. looks. judgment.
i cannot be denied. i cannot be touched.
i claim no feelings.

it is when i am not seen, when i am not heard,
then pain spreads like kerosene-soaked wood touched by torch
touched by sun

the place of safety lies within,
words to protect.
knowledge to save.
awareness to live.
salvation.

step into the world,
ablaze. speak. be. visible.

fire burns away old perceptions
flames explode, i step from the ashes,
from charred remains

i step into the dawn, carrying the empty urn
ablaze with beginnings
resurrection

~~~~~~

Daily poetry for the month of April, National Poetry Month.

Desert Dreams – A Desert Song Poem

IMG_6593-Edit

Saguaro © 2014 Bo Mackison

Wisdom begins with wonder. ~ Socrates

Desert dreams are not tidy,
though they are tidier than one might imagine.

The desert practices its tidy habits, no tropical jungle overgrown tangled,
creeping dripping with life-giving nutrients.

The desert is precious gift of space,
space enough to find one’s own place;
space enough for one to gather the desert rains.
It only asks for patience and perseverance.

It is enough.

The desert breeze blows strong, dust swirling.
The desert plays the bass line, like a bassoon and
bass clarinet intermingling, deep and sensuous.

Heat rises from the baked red earth, heat waves
pulsate desert breath. Steady rhythm.
I stand upon the land, alone, embraced by desert song
and supported by my ocotillo walking stick.

It is here I hold onto my world.