Tumbleweed Church

We unyoke two Coopers Hawks
in the Sandia Foot Hills.

Downed doves bend flower stems
on the disassembling.

Undressed cactus skeletons
catacomb small beetles.

A burst of dandelion puffs.
A sudden gust starbursts the sky.

We are beautiful here
so far from the sting of buzzwords.

A rock blossoms with a thrasher bloom.
A tweedle-leet alerts the faithful to our presence.

This tumbleweed church. This rabbitbrush hall.
Unpolished fossil vuggs in the rising walls.


copyright © 2019 Kenneth P. Gurney

Location Sonnet

I may claim I moved off the reservation when I reached my majority, if you consider a ninety-eight percent republican Chicago suburb a reservation.

During my university semester in Germany, the locals refused to let me speak Auf Deutsch, so they might practice their English.

During that same semester, museum personnel misread my misprinted university ID card as Oxford instead of Rockford—I have dropped my R’s ever since, seeking to duplicate the benefits of misperception.

On our flight back to the U. S., a blizzard blanketed the midwest and east coast, so we were put in a holding pattern over the Atlantic. The plane got so small by the eighteenth hour, a hamster would not fit in that metallic tube.

I purchased my first cellphone when I lived outside Port Angeles, Washington. I walked to the top of the north hill overlooking the ocean to receive a signal.

When I lived in Taos, New Mexico there was no such thing as over-night delivery via Fed Ex or UPS or USPS. The family lawyers back in Chicago, despite their vast education and experience, could not fathom this.

I spent most of my one year living in Frederick, Maryland walking the Antietam battlefield. I cannot explain why I did not move to Sharpsburg, Maryland to shorten the commute.

Someday, in an effort to lose most of my sense of privilege, I think I should live in a location where I am the only white person for a hundred miles in all directions. Does such a place exist anymore?

Technically, as a white person, I am a minority in Albuquerque and in New Mexico as a whole. I never once felt minor.

Every summer day when the Albuquerque sunset paints the Sandia Mountains the watermelon color pattern that gave the mountains their Spanish name, I wonder why Nature fails to behave PC toward our African American citizens.

Albuquerque was named after Francisco Fernández de la Cueva, 10th Duke of Alburquerque. I like to believe they dropped the first R for my benefit.

Albuquerque is nicknamed the Duke City. The Duke never visited.

In Albuquerque you learn the lovesick sound of roadrunners calling for a mate. At your most lonely, you never sounded that bad off, even with six pints of beer spilling your desperation on someone sitting next to you at the bar.

Twelve years in Albuquerque with its many Indian casinos on the city outskirts and I have never visited one to place a single wager. My biggest payoff on my Albuquerque bet was meeting Dianne.


copyright © 2019 Kenneth P. Gurney

POST SCRIPT

Happy Independence Day (US) to you all. I trust you have lined up a joyous way of celebrating the 4th with plenty of friends of family no matter how much star spangled fireworks and festivities are in your day.

Sherman Alexie broadened my definition of a sonnet. I recommend reading his books whether poetry or novels.

My old (pre-Dianne) habit was to move every 1 to 4 years (usually 3 years) to a new location to explore the geography, history and culture. I am convinced the wanderlust had roots in tragedy with both searching and avoiding being part of the trauma process. Along the way I met a lot of really fantastic people, walked a lot of miles of trails, bicycled over 16,000 road miles, and learned I cannot adjust myself to fit in all cultures in the USA.

My tally is 9 states I have lived in. My favorite state is being in love with Dianne. New Mexico for all its poor ratings (48th, 49th or 50th in many government state rankings, such as education), is a beautiful place to live in with a great diversity of people. The only place I met a greater diversity was Washington D.C., especially on the National Mall with its tourists and locals and foreign & domestic politicians.

Love & Light

Kenneth

Tourists

Staring at one’s ice tea glass is as good a thing to do as another
when eavesdropping on the next table.

It seems some people do not wish to ride the cable car
up to the top of the Sandia Mountains.

And there is the self-denial of the skinny girl who refuses to finish
the remaining two-thirds of her chocolate eclair.

A debate starts up whether to hike through the midday heat
or visit a museum or begin to practice siesta.

A woman in the group complains the Rio Grande
does not have a riverwalk with shops like in San Antonio.

She does not care for the natural growth along the banks
or ducks, geese, herons and egrets.

A guy who has now checked his watch four times,
asks if it is too early for margaritas.


Copyright © 2019 Kenneth P. Gurney

POSTSCRIPT

I was about to say “Happy Memorial Day”, but then I began to wonder if I should say “Solemn Memorial Day” since we honor those men and women who serve (served) our country. Wikipedia Entry for Memorial Day.

Our Memorial Day includes a barbecue with friends late in the afternoon. Dianne and I will walk the foothills this morning to enjoy the butterfly migration that moves through Albuquerque. Millions of Painted Lady butterflies move about. A migration of butterflies is a Kaleidoscope of Butterflies, just like a flock of crows is called a Murder of Crows. Who came up with these labels? (Terms of the venery at Wikipedia.)

This year the weather seems more violent than in the past. Maybe that is my perception of the moment, since New Mexico is adjacent to Oklahoma where so many tornadoes have hit this past week and now flooding begins to burst levies on the Arkansas River. I wonder if people will become more or less violent due to the weather. Usually in times of trouble people set aside differences and help each other. I hope that holds true. My prayers go out to the people who live in the places where homes have been destroyed and lives up ended. My donation money goes to the American Red Cross.

Memorial Day is the official (unofficial?) start of tourist season across the U. S. In the American Southwest, tourists seem to arrive all year round and are not limited to the break in the school year. The other day a tourist family from France chatted away in French at the cafe I frequent. I did not understand their words, but I did eavesdrop to the melody of their voices in conversation.

Love & Light

Kenneth

Blue Thru Orange

Warm night in Albuquerque.
The neighborhood dogs bark at an approaching siren.
The Sandia Mountains do their watermelon illusion.
We sit on the porch swing and watch the magic show.

I keep staring at the spot where the Mimosa once stood.
I shift my gaze to the apricot tree which may have to come down next.
Where will the our yard’s birds nest?
Cholla is good for thrashers, but not finches, not sparrows, not doves.

Dianne talks about the rocks in the foothills.
Boulders really. She repeats the word vug and vuggy.
Vug: A cavity in the stone, from the Cornish Vooga.
Our foothills require a dentist.

The loco weed blooms white.
Thumb-sized bumble bees maneuver in and out of the blooms.
Sometimes they require a little assistance outward bound.
The prickly pear are ripe with deep red tunas.

The west does its sunset light show.
Who’s afraid of blue thru orange?
Who’s afraid of Red, Yellow and Blue Barnett Newman?
Who’s afraid of Virginia Woolf?


copyright © 2019 Kenneth P. Gurney

POSTSCRIPT

Barnett Newman painted a series “Who’s Afraid of Red, Yellow and Blue.” (Link to image IV in series.) Newman named the paintings as a reference to the play Who’s Afraid of Virginia Woolf? by Edward Albee. (Albee played on the title of the “who’s afraid of the big bad wolf” a song in a Disney cartoon.