Spider Rock
The horizon is a long breath turned to stone.
It is beyond reach. It is
the Earth dreaming. It puts on
a good show when the sun
goes down and vibrates a little when stared
at too long. The land could never claim it
for its own, the sky
rests lightly upon it
until a thunderclap declares
the night is near: the night
with all its fears and mysteries, night of
grand illusions passing
overhead but not
once coming close enough to
be analysed or understood. In the time
of dancing rains all roads
soak into the ground, all journeys
cause the gods to laugh. It is on
such sparkling midnights
desire and curiosity marry
and their firstborn is the slender rock
breaking from the cliff to walk
toward creation’s edge
while its slow and futile
journey makes it
beautiful.
Trading Post
It costs a pocketful of cloud
for the brightly colored rug, a shade tree for
the mesa where the other world begins,
a cup of darkness
for a feather floating down
from the lost wind.
There’s a stream
that never gives up
and a ladder that climbs by itself
to the houses in the red walls of the sky
available to anyone
willing to trade a camera for a memory.
Try the drum, and listen to
its leather heartbeat. Recite a prayer
for rain and hear
your voice returning to you
burnt at its edges and fading
to that moment of being so foreign and alone
even thunder speaks
a language free as dreaming
when the lady working
at a frame made with tears for nails
weaves the rays
back into the sun.
Land Alive
The land isn’t empty, it’s thinking.
What will it become when
the clouds disappear and rocks take their place?
Where will the roads lead
when they reach the edge of human thought
and turn into philosophy
where the compass needle bends
and points toward itself?
How much history
can a lizard carry on its back
when it moves at the speed of a reflection
that waits for no one?
It’s as dark as dreams in the canyon
where shadows conspire
to climb the red walls
and fly, as questions do when
they outgrow any answers
that would have bound them
to the Earth.
Navajo Dusk
The clouds part just enough
for the sun to shake the ashes of another day
down onto Earth. It’s the time
that silence has wings, that houses
sparkle on their cheap foundations
and roads get lost
on their way to the next red
needle of rock
standing with the wind for company.
Out there, where lost dogs roam
and the traffic purrs
fate runs straight ahead with
a broken yellow line to guide it.
That’s where broken promises go
when it’s late, too late
to mend them and
spirits ride bareback into night.
Reservation Midnight
Fate moves incognito through the stars.
The mesas do not know
who will falter, who will pass
and seek admission to the timeless mysteries
for which there is no midnight.
Water in the streambed can’t decide
whether to evaporate
or flow. It’s a dry time in the canyon
and a lizard clings
to the moon;
moths become whispers
with wings; a discarded
snakeskin wriggles
remembering when it had a bite.
And the long miles lie
across the land, like breaths relaxing
in the back seat of a dream
that can’t find a way to go
underground.
David
Chorlton is a longtime resident of Phoenix, having previously lived in England
and Austria. While his writing has been predominantly poetry, this year saw the
publication of a nonfiction book from New Meridian Arts, "The Long White
Glove," which is an account of the wrongful conviction for murder of a
family member in 1960s Vienna. He still produces occasional watercolors and is
attentive to the local wildlife.
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