Saturday, November 1, 2014

James Cervantes

Song: This Is It

A yodeler in the alps
could be Mockingman,

could be bearded man
in the shade of his wagon

thumping watermelons,
offering a wedge, could be

the father in an idling car
who yells the mother's name.

Mockingman knows the calls
of summer high and low.

The sun comes up as if
it has been out all night.

Trees have had no rest
and the grass lies down

as if to plead, "Burn me."
This is it: there will be no fall

no winter, no spring. We count
nights rather than days,

sing a day song all night long.

© James Cervantes


I look into the canyon
with wolf-dog's eyes,
where the pale grasses
and spindly mesquite
try to climb walls
and the crumbling ledge
where I planted my foot.

The far vista has not changed.
Mesas are grounded clouds
and the clouds themselves
like white dogs running.
Ashes I scattered rise
like mist and swirl.

I startle hikers coming up.
They've never seen
a footless form with wings
glide downhill, the path itself alive,
nosing into a pond that drinks itself dry.

© James Cervantes


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