Floating Corn

I witnessed a small phenomenon today

something floating in the sky.

It was somehow fluttering

and gracefully falling.

A huge highway lined on both sides

by a thin strip of brown. 

The chicory, mustards, the sweet clovers,

and those damned yellow composites,

brought to end by the mower blade

and left to bake in the sun.

Solidago in a bloom of yellow love

speaks of late September.

Puffy clouds dot the azure sky,

corn abounds, but not yet harvested,

singing along to Bob Seger on the radio.

The scene is set so that you may appreciate,

my glory and delight,

when I saw that strange sight,

half a cornstalk sheath,

hovering,

then slowly descending,

behind the bridge.

 

The Mojave 

The desert basin looks like a sea of sand, an alluvial fan

of brown crust, mashed into bits, with the help of miner's picks

and eroded by a few million years of upwind swifts.

The desert peaks rise abruptly, climbing out of the earth's womb

a thwarting subversion of its tomb, reaching for a freedom

and mind of its own, you can hear the occasional moan and groan for the world unknown

and the jagged crag slag surrenders to a flat, sloping plain of rock grain

like the bottom of a swimming pool, or could I be the fool, thoughts of water make me drool.

Must proceed to the deep end, just around this bend and

move into the view of a dry lake to lay and bake, just for the sake

of it, as the landscape is like a black and white photo, something of a Yoko Ono film

a trippy scene, but not a touch or shades of gray, never to my dismay,

rather an extreme contrast of brown that turns my frown, upside down.

The reds and blues and purples and greens and other colors I've never seens

before, but I'm sure Crayola has, like the shade of topaz or sassafras, oh what nonsense,

that plant does not grow around, insanity I'm bound from this jimsonweed I found

and I wear the crown and a gown that make me light as a pound.

The desert will do that to you, I call it the Jim Morrison sensation, much to my admiration

because there's something synergistic about hallucinogens and the desert scene,

that's like no place I've ever beeen, cannot remain sane in a place with no rain.

I feel drugged, in a haze, as I navigate the maze, searching for the water I craze.

You can actually see the air move, its waves soothe, but the heat is never subdued.

I am a hermit, a wanderer, could the desert be my true home?

contours are created by the sand blown, tied closely to water, all life here is sewn

similarities to home are known, to be many, but I am just a visitor without a penny.

Something about the desert captivates me, it's like a sea, of wilderness as far as I can see.

Naturally, this fills me with glee, so I take a knee, and thank the powers that be.

The indicative plant is Creosote, a bush that completely coats, the desert tune with notes.

and I quote, "The boat that floats is a vote for hope."

Lizards scurry here and there, moving with care, and hide in their lair from the predator scare.

The desert tortoise hides in its burrow, upland from the furrow, seeking to be no hero

leave that to the coyotes and ravens, human influence creates a haven, for their graven

image, as head of the food chain, so they must be slain, is their death in vain?

The thought of death brings me pain so I will ordain,

myself as a visitor in a foreign land, back to the sand, my thoughts travel, my mind expands.

Out here you can follow a road that bends, you  to a place where the pavement ends, and into the wide open desert you it sends.

A symbol of voluminosity is the far reaching sky and the wispy, gently curving cirrus clouds that I can see have been stretched thin by a fine comb, so as I roam,

I can only hope they remain and manage to sustain, the heightened consciousness I've gained

and bless me with a spectacular rufescent reflection, a sunset of contemplation

of where I've been and who I am, my beloved motto will ever be I CAN!

 

Blessed Is

Blessed is the man who goes without food, without clothes

Blessed is the man no longer young not yet old

I don't have the strength to walk that long and lonely road

Sometimes the world makes me want to crawl in a hole

But a love once lost can still be found

Gonna stiff her out like a big 'ol red tick hound

I don't mind dying, buried in the ground

Under the earth, soft and still, without sound

And it chills me to the core

And kills me to explore

But it wills me to be more

Blessed is a world without war, without pain

Blessed is a world where every loss is a gain

All is not gone, fields planted with seeds of grain

Wonder will grow, from the light, from the rain

And we will all walk the vision we see the best

Cast out of our minds we will throw the rest

Build a place for peace and not just speak in jest

Take the ones we love, hold them tightly to our chest

And the gift's not boughten, it's homemade

It's the kind of thing that does not fade

Everything I have, everything I gave