The Feel of the Path – A Desert Pilgrimage

Palo Verde

The Feel of the Path – A Desert Pilgrimage

I walk
Through thorn scrub and desert foothills
follow a winding arroyo into high canyon country.

I memorize my foot fall, draw a map, illusion of being in control,
glimpse lizards skittering into rocky crevices,
hold silent conversations with the crone saguaro.

Canyon boulders balance with precision,
boulders shoulder boulders, a giant’s cairn guiding my way.

 

Road to Nowhere

Tree skeletons loom above the grasses choked dry. Scant rainfall.
Agave, flowers spent, seed heads brittle brown
they remain standing tall, rooted in the ruts of an abandoned mine road.
Dust swirls. Land obscured. It does not require eyesight
to know one’s place. Vision will do.

A rattlesnake coils, rises from the earth,
iridescent eyes level with my belt.
A warning flicker, rattle dry like bamboo chimes,
then he disappears in the thick grasses of the arroyo.

I stand on the edge, breathless. Desert encounters.
Precipices. Edges. Stay in the moment.

 

image

This is a rough land, it fits my temperament.

Her wilderness is comfort,
her unexpected lushness is gift,
her relentless demands insist on awareness,
her solitude is rare blessing,
her sun-bleached land a tonic,
her dark night skies a reminder to rest.
It is in darkness that the light returns.

How ancient the land upon which I walk,
volcanic rock cold upon the hot desert earth.
Fossils of trilobites and shark teeth hint at
its story, once upon a time an ocean.

I commit to memory all that surrounds me,
Reminders of being home.

Even when I leave I stay.

~~~~~~~

Terry Tempest Williams writes,  “If the desert is holy, it is because it is a forgotten place that allows us to remember the sacred. Perhaps that is why every pilgrimage to the desert is a pilgrimage to the self.” Yes, desert pilgrimage is sinking into the depths of self — getting lost, getting found, sometimes staying in the middle space between lost and found.

 

 

 

 

Holy – A Poem

Saguaro Spines ©2016 Bo Mackison

Saguaro Spines ©2016 Bo Mackison

Holy.

No cavernous urban building required.
No echoes of voices preaching or admonishing.

Holy is sunlight sprinkling luminous colors throughout the land
and voices raised in song, joyful or penitent,
in praise or petition. Mix with rushing wind
through canyon slots, desert grasses. Add thunder. Holy.

Have you ever heard the wind whistle through cactus spines? Holy.
Inhaled the rain scent of desert dust and creosote shrubs? Holy.
Watched rock turn to glowing orange as sun sets over desert lands? Holy.
Praised the stars, ever-present and infinite in their number? Holy.

Holy is vermilion rock, gray-green plants,
black varnished cliffs, the soaring of a red-tailed hawk,
the skittering of a wood rat, the trill of a cactus wren.

Holy is the search for one’s inner calling, listening to a voice
nearly silenced. Holy is breathing fierce with full-on living.

Holy is exuberance. Holy is gratitude.
Holy is despondency. Holy is hanging on.

Holy is emotion.
Holy anger. Holy outrage.

Holy is not held within godly boundaries;
holy is the full embrace of one’s humanity.

Holy is the extra-ordinary in the ordinary of the everyday.

This moment. Yes
this very moment.
Holy.

~~~~~~~~

Annie Dillard writes, “In any instant the sacred may wipe you with its finger.” I find the sacred in the swipe of nature’s finger…in the desert, in the writing of poetry.

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.