Arizona: a poem

I.

the heat of it.
the soul of it.
the enemy of water and life of it.

depiction of drought
and
the final resting place
of things that come to die
en el sol,
turned bleach white
out in the
once flowing riverbeds
and behind the decrypt limbs
of old gnarled yucca trees.

water shallower
every year.
no rivers,
lakes,
or streams
immune.

the soul of the sun,
the valley of the sun.
the desert,
oh Lord,
the desert.
is there an end to it?
as far as the eye can see
from the vistas
to the flattop plateaus—
this brutal, beautiful landscape
dotted with noble saguaro
and humble agave.

sunsets and sunrises
and everything in between,
orange and yellow and red and purple
always beautiful sunsets
even amidst the smog.

II.

born and raised here,
born here to die here—
to become the dust
which I breathe.
born of dust,
returned to dust.
all is dust, always.
even the sky is dust.

the tough,
they survive.
oh, how they survive
this harsh landscape
that withers your skin
and reduces it to copper
and bronze—
molts you—
gives you cancer
as a reward,
and melanoma
as a gift.

but the tough live on—
through the heat strokes,
and the exhaustion,
and the dehydration.
they brave the sun, the heat, the UV light,
and all that acrid dryness.
hot but not humid
as they say.

shade and ac,
tinting and fans
can only do so much
to mitigate the damage.
to delay the decay.
all crumbles and burns and fades and melts,
and dies in the sun,
eventually.
the sun gives light, takes life,
and always wins
in the end.

here before, here after,
and always warmest on the dust.

III.

beauty in this brutal fire prone state—
much to burn,
much has burned.

where have the forests gone?
were there forests to begin with?
yes.
long ago.

much is gone but more remains—
life to see before it’s all gone.
deteriorated either by
time or man or environment.

IV.

saguaros stand proud,
like soldiers at attention.
agave prickle up through the dust
like sabers’ blades.
cholla bushes wither into tumbleweeds.
weeping willows and acacia and yucca
give shade and life—
a small reprieve against the sun
until they are no more.

Palo Verde
cry yellow flowers
like
desert cherry blossoms
filling the streets
with their tears.

gone are
the days of
orange groves
and
cotton fields
for migrant workers

V.

the Grand Canyon:
the greatest hole on land—
miles long—
the beauty is in the absence of Earth.
breathtaking lacuna of God.
layers of rock sandwiched in time:
limestone and sandstone and Vishnu.
canals at the base—
streams of life—
soon to dry up and dust over.
for now,
living waters for coyotes and mules
and the things that reside down there.

VI.

home to culture,
home to history.
of whites and blacks and Hispanics and Native Americans—
lost beautiful souls searching for hope in the old days,
but dying in them, and better off for it.
braving the landscape without modern convenience
on foot, horse, or wagon.
a deep appreciation for what came from the Earth to last the days
to outlive the elements—
not to be ordered online and brought to our doorstep.

the days of cowboys and cattle wrangling and thieves.
of railroad runners and mine workers.
of sheriffs and deputies.
of miners on their way to California to strike it rich.

the Native Americans that lived
on this land
long before—
the richness of their spirit
and their admiration for
everything under the sun
and the sun itself
and all unseen
to the naked eye.

the hard-working Mexicans
that gave up everything
to be here,
to live a life they couldn’t elsewhere—
(losing a life to gain a life)
seeking, searching, sacrificing
possessions,
relatives,
homes—
everything loved and lost—
gone
for a better tomorrow.

the African Americans that came here—
forced and by choice—
that only wanted the same opportunity
to have what everyone else had:

to make a name for themselves,
to work hard enough,
to be free men and women.
to settle down
and live the American Dream
under the light of the sun.

we mustn’t forget the cowboys:
those ironclad idols of the Wild West—
tall,
strong,
handsome,
and always
Caucasian.
Bang. Pow. Blam.
their slick steel flickers.
muzzle flashes
and gunpowder explosions
in showery display.

in the olden days,
things handled outside
on the hinge of a single bullet.
life in the balance of one swift motion.
judgment in the shape of
a Colt or Smith & Wesson.
cowboys dueled
in front of saloons
and alleyways
and thoroughfares.

remember Tombstone?
I’ll be your Huckleberry.
pistols at the hip,
the sweat on the brow,
the stillness,
the breath,
the reach.

pistols drawn.
fired.
smoke.
bullets.
blood.

the bodies carried away
and packed into pine boxes
to return to the dust,
their names
but a memory,
if even so.

VII.

sun rises, sun sets
lives taken, lives given, lives created.
life moves on
with the sun as its measure
to mark the days—
desolate and glamorous—
all the same
as tiny numbers in little boxes
to look back on
and plan the future accordingly
as if it made a difference.

yesterday, today, tomorrow,
all the same as the sun rotates the Earth
again and again and again
until the Lord says otherwise.

older than
the planets
and the moons
and the stars
and all other things within the breadth of it.

all rise from the dust,
and return to the dust,
at the preordained time of God.

###

this is a poem from my book bearing the burden of existence, available on Amazon.

Be sure to check out my blog, A Soul Redeemed.