THREE EXCLAMATORY POEMS

Remember Joy

And even if you weep, remember Joy

If lamentation fills the

Seeping hollows of your soul

Oozes from your pores

Pools at your feet to travel

Coldly to your neck

Submerging heart & soul & all between

In ice & damp

Remember Joy!

 For Joy lives underneath this moment

A narrow focus angling wider beam

To bathe you in a smile

Pastel as clouds on morning sky

Near as sunshine after pounding rain

Tremulous as a maiden taking hands with a new lover

For till you turn your attention to her spark

To fan it with your last despairing breath

She cannot tuck you in upon her bosom

Lay you down to rest, her steady gaze

Upon your lips, waiting out your smile

She will lift a callused, sturdy hand

To smooth your knitted brow

Or answer all your troublous winter questions

With an eyebrow quirked in query

Invitation in her eyes

A sparkling laugh to light

A fire in your belly

Remember Joy

For none of this is real as we would make it

Morning always comes; it’s non-negotiable

Spend not your heart to entrain Sorrow,

Joy’s younger sister, dressed in weeds & black

Give Joy the chance to take you in a wing’s flash

A child’s laugh or pierced shout of delight.

Her arms are always open till they close ‘round us

Resting her chin in neck-notch or atop our head

She offers all release, all dawning hope

Reclaiming scattered pieces of our soul

To knit anew in light

To set to shine as star at daybreak

Over all

 

Exhortation!

Set yourself to sea with a shout!

A push from shore

Blow into your sails to raise the wind

Of your being high above the pale water

Paddle for all you’re worth!

Recoup your claim upon this only world

Recant all sorrow, hunger, wanting

For life is not a patient yearn of waiting

For us to turn to her,

But wings toward us always

Beak full with all she’s gathered

Stuffing you to full as you scream, “More!”

 

Believe Wildly!

Set forth on quads & hamstrings, foursquare ‘pon two legs

Love with a candling heart, set afire to see by

Examine all your life

Illuminate the path ahead

Believe with your liver; trust all anger is undone

Believe with your whole soul all prayers are answered

As only you permit

Believe in love with both hands, with your skin

Believe in sorrow only as a salt to season joy

Return to sweetness in your spleen & stomach

Breathe the whole breath of life from your sinus cavities

To the lobes of your lungs

Believe! Step up & take this now upon you

A mantle of forever writ assured

On eyes & ears & brow

The runes of success dance within your aura

Don’t hesitate to claim them, brandish them

Shouting from the voice, lay claim to life

Alive & lived, not set aside in corners…

Believe your inner world as surely as the outer

Your dreams made solid, fierce, by hope.

Demand they show up, call in their presence

Surrender your will with your wrists & ankles

Submitting only to life & then to more of the same

Keep moving! Even as you stop to grasp a dream

The full moon rolls up onto your horizon

Believing only in the sun it follows forever

Believe with your wishbones!

Life is watching over you

Eternal & endless in a proud desire

To know you well, to serve you more of more

As you believe!

I have lived in many places – sometimes – if not usually – in the very same town. The stretch between being in one place and the other can make it feel like I’m living in two different universes. Already in Hillsboro, I’ve moved once again after landing late March.

Living at the Barbershop Motel was like living in an Edward Hopper painting – you know, the one where faded people sit in chairs at open-all-night bars (look up “Nighthawks”) or sitting by themselves somewhere, seeming as though waiting for life to stop by for a visit.

I have felt for a long time that life has better things to do than come by my door. A singular encounter released me from the motel. What a growth opportunity this has been! It was joyous, fun, enlarging & definitely extraordinary.

You see, I believe in alternative stuff…disinformation, “fake news”, all kinds of breathy pulsating topics which are sidereal to what’s often called mainstream. I am not sure I believe in any-much anymore except one-to-one conversational laybys with friends who have history with me. And the event which propelled me from the “Hopper Effect” was highly spiritual in nature. But, the details aren’t to be listed here & the cover story will serve.

I came to New Mexico for one reason; to help others. So long as I can live rent-free somewhere, I can afford to live. Ha! I’ll bet many of you reading this could say the same. I am free from “earning” a conventional living. I am one of those seniors now affording to live on about $1,000 each month of Social Security. The government has generously given me cost-of-living-raises of $3 per year since I took early retirement seven years back. I am exploring the altered state of not having a regular job to report to. If I curtail pretty much anything which costs me money, I can make this work. Once the credit cards are paid up, I’ll be relatively wealthy.

This is simplified since I live in a town with only antique stores, no bank, no bodega, one café where the food is mostly selections from a menu I don’t eat, one wine bar (I don’t drink) – imagine! No Starbucks, no Walgreens, no fast-food or retail outlets, no movie theatres… An outstanding all-volunteer library is up the hill. Some of the most spectacular scenery in the world is nine miles away (Gila National Wilderness), everyone in town is a Master of something. We have artists, natural food growers, writers, engineers of all description – but in the end, we’re all old farts who live in a town of 150 where the list of what we would seem not to have stretches much farther than what we do. But how much would you pay for peace of mind, knowing your neighbors, uninterrupted sunlight, cool nights & no cell service downtown?

You have attained “favor” here if you have a tree to park the car beneath & can remember what day the Pickin’ Circle meets to play outside the Black Range Vineyards Wine Bar. I have attained my own favor because I know the people on my street (which is, by the way, is the main drag among three others.)

Malcolm Gladwell, in his book, The Tipping Point, writes a chapter on how 150 is an optimum number of people to have in your circle – whether social or employment. There are 150 people in this town. Internet data will inform you we’re a “statistical entity” with a population of 120 as of 7/16. Guess we’ve had another gold rush if the numbers are up by 30 in a year!

It’s unusual to hear children unless the “grands” are visiting. In a town this size, everyone becomes a character worthy of their own sitcom. Most of the women are gray-haired, most of the men have beards or handlebar moustaches. There’s a tiny stable on the upper corner with a white horse & her two companion miniature horses. At the diagonal opposite is a road which is crossed by Percha Creek when it rains (which it seldom does.) Our town park could fit in a backyard.

I love it here.

Tonight I am headed to a concert with Randy Granger, a world-class musician who plays any number of instruments with whole-hearted soul. It’s outdoors under the white-pointed black sky. I will even have to look for a jacket to wear! I’ll see & greet neighbors, enjoy the tunes & drive the nine miles home in the altered state only live performance can create.

Cheers!

 

 

 

So the day didn’t start strangely enough at 3:30 a.m. when I woke to the smell of something burning. Like nothing I’d smelled before. I keep the windows open & the odor drifted in to draw me out of my dream. Opening the front door didn’t help, I saw no leaping flames or unusual glows. So I had a coffee, climbed back into bed long enough to pull the covers up & decide I didn’t really want to be there, might as well get up & get started.

Since I was so early, I pulled on my stretchies & a sweatshirt, grabbed a key & the handweights & headed out the door. Across the street was a small chile roaster merrily pumping smoke into the morning air. OH! Overnight brisket cookout.

Up in the hill-fields to my right, a loud moo-ing started up & sounded like a seashore foghorn. I just marched west on Highway 152, taking in the earliness of the day. The sun hadn’t even risen over the foothills east of town, so all was still in cool shade. It felt good to walk, to breathe, to feel the resistance the weights provided.

About two-tenths of a mile out of town, just across the bridge over Percha Creek (pictured above), I noticed a large black, indeterminate mass on the right side of the road. Now, I’ve seen critters around before, why, just yesterday the town’s small herd of mule deer dashed down our main street like a Baskerville Hound had just hit the tarmac behind them. But a large black clump of … something … deserves hesitation & respect & maybe even a quick 180 home. So I walked on a bit less enthusiastically. I wondered if it could be a few turkey vultures having a fast-food roadkill. But this black thing wasn’t really moving like anything I was familiar with.

I slipped closer, at which point, one entirely black mass separated from a black & white one whose lugubrious white face pinned me. It was a Momma Cow curled up roadside & her youngster (the size of a Shetland pony) standing over her. When she rocked up to her feet, I decided a 180 was in order. Turning, I re-crossed the bridge, casting a glance over my shoulder, wondering if they’d follow me back to town or – worse – chase me for some reason. I’d already sized up both sides of the road & I could have made it over the fencing, but not without damage from the bob-wire strands. But the range rovers were gone. Mirage? No, I saw them.

Another 180. Might as well continue my walk if the road’s clear. And at the five-tenths mark, I noticed a loner grazing in the yard where a friend lives. Then I saw my friend’s roommate glide onto the deck with a slingshot & launch at the cow. Which jump-stepped into a trot out of their yard. Ah, the pyrotechnics of my peaceful morning health walk. Hamburger on the hoof, fire to roast it in & no way I was touching either one, even with one of my 3-pound weights.

Now, I wasn’t raised around farm animals. I don’t say anything but good morning to critters I see. Walking east is peaceful, involving only a nod at a yellow-white mule; another time I sighted a gray fox dashing across the street, brush low.

Walking west from town is always an adventure; once there was a yellow dog, head down, hackles raised, growling from the shoulder of the road. I didn’t even share a good morning with that one, its rumbling found me already turning from a good bit away & I was back into town in a jiffy. Another time walking west, I found a raven hopping along the side of the road, looking for all the world like it was searching for a housekey – which it might have been, had the key been shiny.

I guess it was a Mother’s Day sighting. Today the town dusts itself off, trots out the gizmos & doodads for a half-mile yard sale. The annual Mom’s Day weekend tradition seems to be putting out goods only your Mom might remember from the days before GE & Westinghouse infiltrated kitchens.

But I’m kind of glad the bonded pair did not follow me back to town & I had no more sightings except for the birds impatiently waiting for me to exit the picnic table after an al fresco granola breakfast. They’re eager to scarf up the birdseed I put out. Now, that’s about my comfort zone of critter today!

Whew!