Posted: October 28, 2011 in Uncategorized



The desert has its weakness.


Hears moans of the remains

the dead stretch out their

voices between dry winds.


Months tumble forward ~

leave bleached mirages in

drought-stricken echoes.


Somewhere along a sea

of cactus-bed, the land dips

cautiously as though to pause


upon the vast emptiness

it finds itself a circle of:


teaming soil of sprouted thorn

reaches a sky the landscape merely

touches from a brief horizon.


Once long ago, an Indian Warrior

lost his battle here but won the War

for his people to save this land.


His cry is heard still, a choking chant

across thistle edge and tumbleweed blood,

ruptured songs across prickly air,

faintly lost between blades of

forgotten prairie grass.


The land dips forlornly here ~ ~

time has learned to stand still,

refusing to move on until all

listening is wept out in

Seminole rain.


One moves here like a poignant vapor

caught between time-warp

and cactus-ember solstice.


Modern man has not yet

learned this fragile Mourning.

His boots and engines drown out

remains that beat sad drums

from ages past.


Only nature hears its Mother weep.


What did I tell you?The desert has its weakness.





~ ~ ~

© Copyright 2011 ♥Susan Joyner-Stumpf


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