Escape from Broomcorn :  Back From Oklahoma   August 1982

 

There is where the Gods

sleep closest during the internal night,

San Gorgonio north, San Jacinto south,

which snows sometime never leave

for months at the throw of the Gods'

arrows and clouds of quick falling water.

 

A blank valley without a real veil of water

to support it, chalk thick heat

soap white cobra glare

blindered between the two peaks----

dreary little Cabazon

held by some as a hamlet

nearly over half as hot as hell

on a medium day.

 

Hadley's and the dinosuars

the only reason for most

to linger here between Indio and San Bernardino,

but I

in the catatonic dry desert

understand why all Deities walk soft here

for the sky is funneled through

this sieve, this pass

at all times,

making here

a place of no time

just wind

and date shakes

and hollow plasticized brontosauri

the Deities aslumber

even when the air dances blue and feather-soft

way, way, way

above it all.

 

 ---------------------------------------

Yvette Ubergarten

 

The ones made by God

are the best, the apex

of course,

 

but mine will do.

 

Each one is unique

both divine

and my own too.

 

Still sharing a room

with my sisters Adele and Magda

at seven,

at least it is bigger

than the two before

and solid.

 

I then had my own

expression, individuality

floating over my bed

a part of me

my sisters

my mom

my absent dad

could not truly claim.

 

Paper snowflakes

from my paper

my scissors

my goal

my soul

dance on a mobile

turning just for me alone

in my corner

of the room.

 

True art

comes to one

too short a time, not too often

but their frost-based souls

did to me

 

and as one melted

into confetti

another

newer

uniquer one

came along

to take its place.

 

Many men have done so

in my days.

 

I could never devise, create

improved versions

of the prototypes coming beforehand

as white coat hangers

construction paper

and scissors

and me

usually allowed me

to do.

 

 -----------------------------------

The Doors of Nirvana

 

The doors of nirvana

will never shut

as long as you wrest them open

to let yourself in first

despite the dues you must have to pay

to be and to stay there just a little while.

 

Give up the cup,

give up the guile,

hold the doors open

but don't accept

being part of the rank and file

rebellion can lead one

into cool fields

solid thoughts

emotions wonderful and wild

a center of self

unmarked by man's made manure pile

lying just left

of the fountain;

cleaning the feet

of pariahs and lepers

painting the wood

in a tone and hue

all and alone one's own style.

 

The doors of nirvana

never shutter or shake

they quietly abide

and hum a song of cedar

when one enters

with nothing but one's self

willing to let passion, purity

discovery and difference

strip off the polished veneer

of pomp, pride and place

found on a planet that may need

to destroy itself to die

and pass through the portals

and phoenix-like

fly out

not the same way it came in.

 

 

© Mike Cluff