Desert Labyrinth – Journey Poem

Desert Labyrinth

enter site Desert Labyrinth ©2013 Bo Mackison

https://bodyandskinclinic.com/skin-peels/ “A labyrinth is a symbolic journey . . . but it is a map we can really walk on, blurring the difference between map and world.” ~ Rebecca Solnit

Labyrinth, A Journey

Buy Ambien Online Without Prescription I walk in circles, around and back, around and forth.

see There is a beginning, a middle, an end.

Buy Tramadol Without Prescription Release, receive, return.

Purchase Klonopin Online Guided by lines of crooked rocks
and an invisible hand on my shoulder,
subtle pressure encouraging me forward.

Order Valium Online Step after step
turn after turn
towards center.

source url And there I stand immobile, my breath fragmented.
The labyrinth’s center is marked with a large pock-marked rock
the bearer of mementos and memento mori –
small stones, rings and bracelets, army dog tags, holy cards.

Center – the farthest distance from beginning or end.
I move on
no longer walking a meditative pace.

Startled by a sudden flare of sunlight, heart pounding,
I seek to cast aside these memories that haunt.

And still
I do not disregard the worn path, the boundary of rock,
the unspoken rule of the labyrinth.

I stumble to its exit, blinded, my feet guided by the rocky lines,
the labyrinth expels me from its sacred interior
into this other world.

A ghost keeps vigil, its eyes the eyes of the cactus wren
perched on the thorny spire of a tree cholla.
Its whisper, low and moaning, travels in the arroyo
and disappears in the swirling winds.

Release, receive, return.
All is well.

~~~~~~~~~

Posting a desert-related poem each day in April, National Poetry Month. Updated poems from my blog archives, new poems written as sacred practice, and selected, favorite poems from other poets. Today’s poem inspired by a labyrinth walk at the edge of the desert, and yes, the desire to flee past ghosts. And the decision not to.

Morning Has Broken – A Desert Poem

Ribbon Sunrise

Stop everything and be still. Let the fire of stillness burn everything and reveal that which is Openness. ~ Adyashanti

darkness
there is an emptiness in the black
until I allow time enough to adjust
midnight dark is not cave black
look to the skies
luminescence
star shimmer
and against a back drop of starlight
Jupiter is the headliner in the western sky,
hovers above the outline of the terraced copper mine
and Venus hangs low on the eastern horizon,
and gradually this awareness: pink haze seeps through the indigo blue
illuminates the mountain’s silhouette
details come into focus
canyons within mountains
bajada crevices are the foothill’s showy skirts
rose-pink, dove grey, orange on the horizon
cotton candy in the pale blue sky

morning has broken

~~~~~~~~

Posting a desert-related poem each day in April, National Poetry Month. Updated poems from my blog archives, new poems written as sacred practice, and selected, favorite poems from other poets. Spending much awake time in early morning — which gives me opportunity to wait…wait…then watch the sun rise.

Trees As Sanctuary – A Poem

Looking at the Past

Tree Sanctuary © 2014 Bo Mackison

Trees are sanctuaries. Whoever knows how to speak to them, whoever knows how to listen to them, can learn the truth. They do not preach learning and precepts, they preach undeterred by particulars, the ancient law of life. ~ Herman Hesse

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1806, The People Build the Church

They press brick, kiln lime, raise walls, lay roofing,
paint murals, sculpt sacred ornamentation, build niches for the statues of the Saints.
They clear land, build fences, plant corn and wheat,
and from the priests’ cache of pods and seeds, they plant and then they tend
fruit orchards, nut trees, olive groves.
They learn the missionaries’ way.
They marry, raise children, care for their sick, weep for their dying, bury their dead.

1827, Weary, Ill, and Wary of Raiding Enemies

Many of the People wrap statuary in leathery strips of yucca,
bundled saints now cradled like newborn babes
protected from summer’s heat, shifting winds, monsoon storms,
from damage to their wooden limbs or painted robes or eyes of porcelain marbles.
The People walk north, leave the Tumacácori Mountains,
settle in a valley to the North, build another mission, settle in.

1848, Tumacácori Mission, Deserted in the Desert

No missionary priest leads his people crucifix in hand,
his carved cross held high, his silhouette a contrast to this blue bowl of sky.
No one gives signal to the last few of the Desert People
who abandon their homes, possessions, crops;
abandon their church, its stacks of brick adobe
with the limestone wash, white like angels’ wings;
now the church is pale apparition towering midst desert grasses, agave, mesquite
standing in the foreground of the mountains.

2016, A View through the Window

Open to the cool desert nights,
no roof for protection, no doors.
Only ruins remain and ruins they shall remain.
Window remnants frame the cottonwoods, green and tall,
that line the Santa Cruz River.

Spellbound, I walk to the water,
leafy branches arch a roof above my head,
provide spongy leaf-carpet for my weary feet.
Wisps of white cotton fluff, seeds of the future drift on a southwest breeze.

Trees as sanctuary.

~~~~~~~~

Posting a desert-related poem each day in April, National Poetry Month. Updated poems from my blog archives, new poems written as sacred practice, and selected, favorite poems from other poets.

Catching Moonlight – A Poem

Baskets                          Catching Moonlight © 2013 Bo Mackison

At night, I open the window and ask the moon to come press its face against mine. Breathe into me. ~ Rumi

Midnight.
This part of the world is asleep or rumbling in their night games of
warm milk, floor pacing,  siren listening.
I seek the brightness of the moon.

Its beams slip through my fingers, dusty cool light,
my breath swallows pure light,
polishes the hard edges smooth.

Swirling energy in my heart
carves caverns of doubt.
Wild animal energy and sharp claws.

Moon, dress me with your blue light,
your calm, your wisdom, guide me.

You who do not believe in hope, you may not steal mine.

I breathe in the cool light, step away from the
whispers of doubt, breathe in freedom.

Held in the soft glow, awash in light,
slow dance in the light of the moon.

~~~~~~~

Posting a poem a day for the month of April, National Poetry Month. This poem was inspired by late night reading, pacing, and the light of the moon.

 

Journal Notes

Sonoran Desert
West, beyond the terraced land of copper mines the earth coughs up mesquite and creosote,
layered gravels holding tight the bushes’ roots, thorn scrub this land is called,
or desert scrub, a swaying land, dizzying,
blinding to my eyes unaccustomed to the torrential whites
of desert light, swaying, undulating, until the scrub becomes desert, the cacti appear.

Look and see the mountains rising from sea-level-deserts to miles-high-tundra, scan the landscape, the topography,
fifty miles in the distance there are observatories on Kitt Peak.
I see white domes. 50 or more, astronomers from across the globe
gaze at the heavens from here.

Pale earth, such a pale terra cotta, a deeper red ocher,
burnt sienna, burnt umber – a Renaissance painter’s palette,
the minerals – Sonoran desert colors.

Sky paint? Sapphire blue,
not mineral but precious gem, deepest blue,
Pure blue, it carries my eye into infinity.

Distant Mountain

Distant mountains watch from their blue-grayed peaks,
peaks moored by centuries-old anchors, the desert sands,
lands rolling ridge over ridge, cracked by water-carved-arroyos.
There is hard to find but never forgotten beauty in these lands.

Mountains interrupt the repetitions of waves,
a woven landscape of constancy,
the earth remains the same until close inspection shows unsuspected diversity.
My mouth opens, my eyes widen, my senses awaken.

Rough edges burnished with desert varnish,
polished in black patina, countless layers of microscopic colonies,
millennial crusts cover mountain faces.

Ever present guardians play their roles, here
in the desert – silent cacti, arid plants,
grasses growing amidst the scattered sounds – calls, yips, whistles,
whispers, and yearnings, all carried far on the winds.
I stand in silence, the desert quiets.
I hear nothing, feel nothing

I breathe — slow inhales,
I breathe for the desert earth.

 

Posting a poem each day for the month of April in Honor of National Poetry Month.