The Holy City

For F. R. Taylor




Hands shield the eyes.

Viewed from an escarpment,

Across the horizon,

Mountains are black with forest,

But hazed in light.

A granitic cloud with a corona

Keeps their summits a sacred secret.


The heart aches for Taos;

It is nowhere to be seen.


Searching the plain,

Suddenly, a canyon’s crack.

Surprise, and the thrill of vertigo.

Gazing is a parachute

That floats through a hades of shade.

In the pit, a gleaming serpent

Slithers over ore.


If you reach the city of Taos,

Enter on the seventh day.

It is a place to pray, and to sleep

At peace beneath the stars.


July 25 – July 27 2010





Mountains rise in the distance,

Regal with pine.

But this is a forest of pinyon dwarves.

After it rains, the trees smell sweet,

And a rainbow arches above them.

Hikers eat the pinyon’s seeds,

And with walking staves

Climb their way through.


The city of Flagstaff shelters in place.

It is built amidst the trees,

Which raise their spears high,

Obstructing it from view.

Dominating, the ancient peaks

Demand a fealty, a piety,

From everyone near and afar.


At dusk, where a grove greets the sky,

A dome slowly rotates and opens.

Inside, men with coordinates,

And armed with apparatus,

Calibrate the lens of a cyclopean eye.

Their sharp minds bring it in focus.

Shining forth from the fortress of God,

A searching star-light finds its target–




July 31 – August 6, 2010






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