Metaphor for cheer
billowed rush hour's  bright mood chase
confined to limits
never as the dawn appears
it silhouettes a promise

Among hills Apache red
Where damas and vaqueros
Built up a homestead
Past the mercados
And hills with a vague past
Running aside the mission
Its white walls chaste
In the glow of the noontime sun
Past a dreamy mountain range
And several places where in brief
There was a Butterfield stage –
Runs a highway through my life
And whether bathed by the sun
Or a cloud of headlight glare
It continues to function
And remain my anchor.

When long days drag on me
  And my soul cries in the dark
Then I speak my prayer in sleight
  And He slips it into my jar.

Prithee – give it wings to fly up
  Beyond to the sapphire throne –
Leaving me amidst where I am
  Yet I do not feel alone.

Someday when time is cut sharp –
  I'll retrieve it from Whom I belong
And finding a full jar of prayers –
  Know that I was never alone.

I see the green of the desert
That overcomes the brown –
Clinging to ground and water –

And with gentle affection –
It might reveal some color
Like a yellow persuasion.

I feel the fermenting sun
Calling out the vultures
That fly with a heart of one.

I sense the black jaguar’s stare –
Eyes that have a thirst for blood
And those teeth – a gnashing lair.

Spring days like these
Were made for katie ruellia –
Who is royalty among flowers –
Robed delicately in purple.
She's arrived at the festivities –
The trumpeters blow a sennet.
Her crown is the leaves;
The butterflies – her subjects.

A milky-eyed mourning dove
Sat upon a tombstone - tacit -
Inside the grounds of St. Francis
To admire a cache betroved.

A sentinel's duty - it bears -
Not broken by a morning beam -
Even the shuffle of the wind
Could not disturb the atmosphere.

The dove - it eyed me peacefully -
Let out a feathered sigh.
I felt it - walking on by -
That blessed serenity.

As empty as the future
So is a soaked page
Whose ink has run off.
I hope to be the author;
A new and boundless decade
Awaits my pen's touch.

Like the Sphinx
Igor lies regally
With eyes closed off
To the world.
He finds his zen
And feels the breeze
But knows not how much
He is revered.

Along the way
Birds whistle a tune
As if to set a mood
But I know not what to say.

The figure slowly thickens
In the distance;
My heart beats fast –
My gait quickens.

From a dry rut
He approaches
And opens the conversation
One eye shut.

A swirl of amaretto
Revolves in my coffee -
Like a galaxy -
Shimmering and slow.

Dawn is utterly quiet;
Moon beams - thin and long -
Cleave to the flooring
Each protracted moment.