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Prairie Dogging

Monday, 26. September 2011 18:30

the enso

Image of the West side of the Valles Caldera in New Mexico

"In Valles Caldera" by marlowe

the poem

The soft rise
on the NW side
of the gravel
road is pitted
with your dens. You
pop in and out
as we slowly rumble
by our reverberations
setting the tone. Are you
scared of the Jeep
or dismayed
by its anti-climatic
arrival — oh humans
again when will
the elk return?
You escaped
the fire nestled
in the Caldera the irony
escaping everyone
including the park
rangers who sold us
cokes and gourmet candy.
It is surreal to sit
on iron patio chairs
in the middle of a dimple
formed by fire
and force and feel
the peace left behind
the golden meadows
you roamed while
the rim was scarred
by a new fire
a force entirely
man-made its impact
unknown. Perhaps the wind
spoke in your alert ear
one sunny afternoon
as you emerged?
Did the eagle’s
squawk give away
the ending? Or did you
not know at all mistaking
us for elk mistaking
the risk as you scuttled
away from our exhaust?

Category:Animal, Human, Plant | Comments Off | Autor:

On Vacation

Monday, 19. September 2011 18:45

the enso

Black iron tables and chairs, shaded with umbrellas, line Burro Alley in Santa Fe

"Leisure Time" by marlowe

the poem

The umbrellas spring
up like mushrooms
in exotic colors yet to be
cataloged and assessed,
spring from the stained cement
floor, from the patio
(an ancillary claim like any other
Western territory), from the cobblestones
originally laid by Conquistadores
who had other worries
besides a pleasant breakfast. These
umbrellas shelter us
from the blossoming heat of the sun, keep
us unaware of the reality
manifesting around us as we cut
into our French toast, dabble
in the decadence of maple syrup. No,
these perfectly cubed watermelon squares
do not reveal what is
yet to come, only
what is now, the round porcelain world
under our noses. We ignore
the commemorative bronze burro standing
guard, the festive murals retelling
which transfers of power were required
to get us here. In a while, we will
move on, the passage of time complete,
the sun unexpectedly bright,
our previous conquests forgotten,
our worries muffled by the thick adobe
walls that line these alleyways. We
will conveniently forget the muddle
of history, the consequences
lost in the patterns,
the pueblo pottery and the turquoise
squash blossom necklace. No, none of this matters
now as you stride across the street, the tolling
bells of St. Francis Cathedral Basilica
segmenting your leisure into predictable
increments, and step
into the next shop, where
your future awaits.

Category:Ephemeral, Human | Comments Off | Autor: