We the Bad Poets, We Are an Army

So long ago
The west was won.
It took cowboys in chaps
Blazing their guns, shading their eyes
From the restless desert sun.
Sweat dripping
Tears falling
It took ditches
And those who can conquer mountains.

I lost the west.
Now in the south, never won,
I stay,
We here are still giving
And trying to cushion the land.

The south, unlike the west,
Never put up a fight.
She just smiled demurly
And let us come and come.

A Rooftop Not Too High Above the Wind

My window slides easily open.
No lock, just a stick to keep it shut.
I slip out, through the screen torn and old
Catch my balance,
And gently thud onto the shingles.
Here I am the daughter of trees
And leaves, lying wet and lonely all around.
The smells of molding life is strong
And dying life, still stronger.
The dirt of plantations and indians
Still piled all around.
And the wind.
My friend now.
We talk of ancient things.

The Face of God

I saw the face of God in a leaf
And bent to pick it up. The face of God
Has been lying in my back yard since it fell
From the trees last fall, unraked, untouched,
Except for now, by me. I look into the vein eyes
of the face of God and I can see the green of spring
And summer and the beginning of fall.
I trace the nose of the face of God and I feel
The crack and crinkle of boots on the face of God.
The nose of the face of God is off center,
Broken, repaired, broken again.
I hold the mouth of the face of God to my ear
Hoping to hear what the face of God has to say.
I almost the catch the whisper of children's voices
And the burble of the creek
Until the face of God is taken
By the wind, arm of God.

To Me, The Wind, My Mother

It seems the wind,
Ferocious beating and gentle breezing,
Is often in my poetry.
When you are born in the praire
Where the wind gives and takes at will,
You come to love, to need.
To suckle on the wind.

There is nothing better
Then Mother Wind
Pushing me along.