Desert Labyrinth – Journey Poem

Desert Labyrinth

https://aaerj.org.br/2024/05/13/7sfz08d27q Desert Labyrinth ©2013 Bo Mackison

enter “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

https://www.jacobysaustin.com/2024/05/xljgkelz I walk in circles, around and back, around and forth.

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and an invisible hand on my shoulder,
subtle pressure encouraging me forward.

https://templedavid.org/symons/rrt3o03vf8 Step after step
turn after turn
towards center.

https://grannysglasses.com/?p=fn1trc9 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.

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

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I seek to cast aside these memories that haunt.

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

go here 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.

https://domainebregeon.com/n79ztd4nu 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.

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All is well.

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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

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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.

Conversation with a Saguaro

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I will be waiting here
for your silence to break
for your soul to shake
for your love to wake.
~ Rumi

A Conversation with a Saguaro

Hello Bo, you’ve been talking to me now for several years.

Not sure how you chose me to be your confidante when you set up your make-shift office in the ramada near Brown Mountain, but I’ve watched you working in the shelter, taking breaks from writing or sketching. Wandering over to me, standing in my shadow now for — what? — maybe 4 years? Or 5? Doesn’t matter.

I am here for you. I welcome your visits, whether you come by for a daily chat or a weekly sermons or an annual sojourn for a long conversation. All are good, Bo.

We’ve had some heart to heart conversations, haven’t we?

You surely did not hear words echo from my spines, nor did my prickly arms sweep you from the gravelly ground and hold you in a compassionate embrace. But you may as well have heard such, felt such, for the same is true.

I do hear you and I do speak to you. I do hold you in a caring embrace. When you are happy, I celebrate your joys. When you are pensive, I listen to your thoughts. When you are sad, I offer you companionship.

I am a good companion, Bo. I will not be going anywhere soon, unless the fates intervene. Unlikely though. Saguaros in this part of the Sonoran Desert live a good 150-200 years. I’ve got years left to stand here on this blessed earth.

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I see you, Bo. You are troubled. I see your tears. I watch as you stand in the desert valley, still and somber.  Go ahead, if you wish. Wail in your loneliness and fear and, yes, even in anger. Yes. You have permission. Cry out as loudly as you need to, as long as you desire.  Shout in frustration and anger.

I see you holding everything inside, bearing excruciating pain deep within, convincing yourself you are not too hurt nor too unhappy. I hear as you attempt to dismiss your feelings. No need, Bo. No need. You have permission to express your feelings. ALL of your feelings.

Stand in my shadow. Let the healing light of the desert sun stream all about you, warm you, but stand in my shadow. I will protect you from the harshest of glare.

I hear the conversation you speak within. You hold on to the deepest of disappointments, believing you have not carried your weight, you have not shown up fully in life. You have experienced vast betrayal, yet you inscribe your shortcomings deep within. You hold onto that litany of failures like a sacred mantle; you take on the burden of shame.

What if I tell you this? “You are not to blame, Bo. You are worthy of nurturing. You are worthy of love. You are worthy of kindness. You are worthy of respect. You are worthy, Bo. Period.”

I know of your concerns and worries, Bo. I feel your grief.

I, too, have felt grief, standing in this very spot for over a century. Let’s think about that, Bo.

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I am a miracle, as are you.

Imagine a time so many years ago.

Not far from here, a tall saguaro blooms in the middle of a hot May. Pure white blossoms the size of saucers adorn her head. She is an elder saguaro and has been witness to much; her lower-half is pock-marked with holes and her lower flesh is wrinkled, worn, discolored from once desert green to a mottled brown-black.

And still, she blossoms on a hot night in late spring.

The white-winged dove, the Mexican long-nosed bat, and hundreds of species of bees and butterflies sip her nectar by the light of the full moon and pollinate her flowers. Each white blossom lasts only a day, then shrivels and falls to the desert earth. And in the flower’s place a large fruit grows, queenly and regal, bejeweled, the deepest of deep reds. The fruit is sweet and juice-filled, beloved, sustenance for coyote, javelina, the curve billed thrasher, cactus wren, birds of great variety.

Perhaps a bird sits on a branch of a potential nurse tree and drops a single seed into the receptive earth. The seed finds adequate protection and is blessed with enough rain to germinate and enough sun to help it grow and just enough luck to escape detection by birds and pack rats and desert mice who would gladly eat it for a tasty meal. A miracle indeed. I begin as a tiny seed and I grow into a cactus fifty feet tall.

I am a miracle, as are you.

A cactus produces 40 million seeds over a lifetime, and if lucky, one or two will germinate, grow, and survive long enough to become a saguaro capable of flowering and fruiting and continuing the legacy.

I am the one in 40 million, come alive from a single fallen seed from a long dead saguaro. As you, too, have been birthed from one in millions.

Blessed are we, yes? Truly. We are chosen.

Chosen. Blessed. Grateful.

And still, we both know sadness and longing and desire; we both know grief and fear and anger.

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Let’s talk about grief.

We both know much of grief, yes?

I grieve when humans attack me and damage me for no reason other than a mark of their power and proof of their superior ability to destroy. I’ve been spray painted by gang members who chose to prove their blind ability to follow orders. I’ve had initials carved into my flesh by lovers who thought nothing of desecrating my flesh in order to misguidedly honor their love. I’ve had bullets shot through me and a more than a few bullets remain lodged in my flesh, bullets shot by humans who once again used violence and power to maim me as an odd proof of their bravery.

And still, I stand.

Regal. Beloved. Worthy. As are you.

No matter if others have scarred you for life, have left their marks in your flesh and trampled your spirit; have attempted repeatedly to destroy you, to mark you as less-than. No matter.

You, Bo, are still worthy of love. You deserve all manner of kindness and respect. You matter. You, Bo, are whole, are holy. Yes, Bo. You.

Come stand next to me and rest. Take respite from the sun’s strong midday heat. Come rest in my shadow. I will listen. I will embrace you in kindness and love.

I offer you myriad blessings of the desert.

All shall be well.

Owl, Coyote, Desert

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“hoot hoo hooo-ah” calls the spotted owl
haunting the cottonwoods that edge the Santa Cruz
holy crossroads through the desert

a shadow. prowls. leaps.
pins me to the dry earth strewn with needle thorns
coyote’s tongue slips in and out, in and out
like grandmother’s needle piercing rough cloth to mend
the thin places.

my breath mingles with his earthy breath
coyote uninhibited
unrestrained he carries no shame; so alive he is
in his shagginess
with no regard for pointed looks, creased brows,
sharp words.
without seeing he sees
the bruising, my spirit broken and trampled,
he sees the footprints of resentment, authority defied.

my heavy-hearted words are considered, a remedy is offered.
the flickering tongue again
laugh girl, laugh with me
the desert offers no judgement
split open wide
spill yourself upon the desert rock and you will see.

be wild, the desert offers wild sanctuary.

do what you must do
be not afraid
I keep watch over you, desert one
my eyes pierce darkness as I watch hidden deep in the cottonwood canopy
there exists no night so black it denies my vision. nor you.

walk away from the river. this river runs dry, layers of
dust settled like bone ash pulverized sand and broken shards

there is no drink for offer here; there is no room at this inn

walk away, the desert calls beyond this place
there is drink in sacred vessels carved in slickrock,
search deep within the canyon shadow
for a place to rest. seek solace there.

I see your restlessness. go.
no longer will your desires be denied
take that first step
your longing unbinds your feet.

what is it you seek?

do not say “yes” until you have considered no.