Where the trail ends

Where the trail ends, the sky takes over

Where the land drops from under my feet

I have a renewed faith in flying.

I stretch my arms as far as I can

Then I turn slowly, around and around

Deep canyons, round hills, rivers with dry beds

All move with me, faster and faster

Until they blend into one blurry swirl of colors

At the end of the trail my hidden place

No signs to lead the way there

Only the desert wind that softly moans

Repeating ancient stories of glory and gore

Were t desert nomads on their lonely way

Fugitives from battles doomed before they launched

Marching armies that filled the air with the clatter of arms

Shiny swords, sparkling amour, flags and clouds of dust

Hermits looking for salvation, hunkering in remote caves

Writers who left scrolls, that lost their lines in the sand

In the blurry swirl of colors I see their quivering images

In the echoes that roll down the sheer rock walls

I can hear their voices faint and haunting

The desert always takes over, always outlasts

In time covers all the foot prints of the past

Six black cows, dotting

A wide yellow field,

Under low,

Stroking the ground,

Vast and endless,

Gray sky.

A lonely piece, of rusty

Fence,

Leaning back,

Twisted,

Left to guard,

Barely holding its own.

Rolling, blue hills,

Their silhouettes just

A faint possibility,

Jagged the sky, as

A hazy backdrop,

To an arising scene.

Suddenly a thunder,

Waves of booming thuds,

Pounding the earth,

Like a beating

Of a giant heart,

Deepening the quiet.

 Flat yellows,

Swirling grays,

Deep blues,

And in their midst; dot…dot…dot,

Six black cows,

Now lying on the ground, waiting for the rain.

 

Only a cat

Only a cat, not very nice,

Kind of a loner, afraid of mice,

Difficult to love and ill- tempered.

But she was in my life for over a decade,

And I got used to her sullen, negative, presence.

Just a cat, with an inclination to scratch,

Bite the hand that feeds her, and shrug,

Not affectionate, not giving back,

But she was in my home for as long as I recall,

The good times, the bad ones, and all.

A street cat, someone left in my yard,

Starved, unwanted and unloved.

We grew older together, as one,

And as she became irritable, and short tempered,

Over the years, so did I.

Tri-colored short haired cat,

I named her Neko-Chan,

For cats just like that,

Black, and orange and white,

I read in a book, are a sign for luck, in Japan.

But she walked away, in the full moon light,

White, and orange and black,

With all that luck she did not make it back,

And took with her forever,

Our shared past.

Photo

In my blue shorts,

dancing curls around my face,

heavy, dust covered glasses, help

the world look sharper.

A horse drawn wagon,

A mountain of cut grass,

covered by a heap of kids.

My cousins and I,

 stretched all over,

freeing fluid streams,

 of overflowing  green strands.

We struggle to stay on top,

 holding to each other,

exploding with pleasure.

The warm sun

 stir up aromas,

of fragrant pasture,

horse sweat,

 and cows’ manure.

The horse moves restlessly,

raises clouds of gold specks.

A black and white old picture,

sizzling with colors,

Bursting with joy.