Watching the horizon, bright sun rising above
baking the desert this lonely morning
I came here for mystical union, total silence
but the mighty sun cares not this morning
What of the Desert Fathers, who searched for love
retreated to their cells in the morning?
Did they unlock secrets, away from violence
find perfect solitude in quiet mornings?
I’ve read their books, listened to their tales,
but the words escape me this morning
I want my eyes to be removed of scales,
like St. Paul seeing Jesus in the morning
Desert travelers slog in hot sand.
dear jesus, help me create
a life that’s noble,
not absorbed in the
hurry of moderns –
not clamoring for my
next fix – let my fix
be you, the real you
desert-tan & calloused feet
from walking miles &
healing wretches like me
(Photo by Robert Thiemann on Unsplash)
Desert sands of deception
flames of futility
growing in the wilderness
under an orange sky
baking us at record temps –
Our Planet is dying
and she’s angry.
(Photo from Insider.com)
Note: This poem was a meditation on the wildfires happening in California right now. I haven’t read much about them, but I do know that much of it is being caused by the increasing damage of man-made climate change.
You humiliated the Netherworld Poet + now you must pay – the only way to avoid his curse is to sacrifice your first-born son. The Poet cackles like a hyena on arid plains of this sun-soaked frontier – you dared question his knowledge of tribe + kingdom that’s your birthright to lead.