The hunger ignites slowly
like a lazy wildfire
As I saunter forth
My heart’s pounding a prelude
As I approach the swarth

I prowl and scan the watering hole
Surveying the new, the sickened, the old
Marking out my quarry
Before I initiate the purgatory

I paw at watermelons
Tug and tear at the flesh of grapes and cherries
I do not compromise with my adversaries

I lust for a pineapple
The juice running down my chin
Eating me from the outside in

I pounce on a pepper
Capable of an indomitable conflagration

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As fog blown streets meet beaming sun,
catch the urban zest so neatly spun

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.