In Wilderness Years

the abject sparseness
abounds
astounds
the graying years

beset with the drying
of the waters
of the mind
the withering
of ideals and hopes
dreams and goals

to become
a desert
scrub brush
and forest
dwarfed
to dust and ashes
the aspirations of youth
lost
to these wilderness years

life culminates
in a different place
from the one
seen in childhood’s
sumptuous plate
the feast
of wild ambition

now to salvage a tree
a flower
the bloom of spring
from the burning ravages
of this desert wind! how
ambition then would ring!
like frost on a morning
in the spring!

but what shall I salvage?
a year?
perhaps the remnants
of a life’s illusion?

by what means? irrigation?
a stream to water
the constant thirst
of old age’s sad unrelent
that withers the soul
as there it went
to topple like trees
watered
by a scorching stream?

what garden
has ever
blossomed so
or don’t you know
that drought
is still possible
in a land
watered
from
down below?

my spirit
has wasted
away
just so
I gladly give it back
from whence it came
for in the dirt
it will wind its way
back
to a time before
these wilderness years

Metamorphosis

what wondrous things he sees
(as he begins to flee) from reality
(year to follow year)
one day after another

following close behind the dreams that fall
(like the molting scales of a butterfly’s cocoon)
the shell of a young man’s dreams does pale
(at every turn)

to reveal in turn a new skin
a new flesh
the body of a new man that does emerge
(in metamorphosis)

(From the FALL OF THE AGE OF REASON –
An Existential Journey of Fantasy and Discovery by V.Alarcón-Córdoba)

A Dustbowl Poetrical

To be read in the Talking Blues style of Woodie Guthrie…

I don’t know
what I see anymore
when I look at you
your dark fragrant airs
defeat my imagination

when the poets of the past
talked about a rolling land
I didn’t know they thought
you’d be rolling
in your own pollution

rolling those wheels of progress
across the USA
rolling those trucks and boats and trains
across the prairie lands

but they’ve rolled so much
put so much smoke into the air
they’ve obliterated the view

(gasoline smoke that is)
but then who burns wood these days
unless its a cross?
and the federal buildings
are all made of concrete and steel
(they bomb those)

ah, yes ladies and gentlemen
come with me
take a deep breath
tell me how do you feel
do you see the rivers and lakes?
that’s our water

I’m surprised tho’ it don’t all turn green
what with all the money it’s seen
using our rivers for industrial commodes
making a buck

it seems
the proverbial horse
‘stead of pulling the plow
has got right behind it
pushing it right for us
hell-bent on destruction
gone berserk and out of control

ah, america
you were once a beautiful land
with your rolling rivers
your mountains and streams
and your prairies so grand

but your ingenuity
and raw
get-it-done-guts
is turning you
to a ball of dust

1973 – During the US Post Office pipe bomb home-grown terrorist era.

A Dove Flew Past …


Walking down deserted streets
of empty harbored cities,
looking for an answer; where is there one to find?

A sound reaches through the walls
of vacant stained-glass windows–
a sound that shatters the echoes of my mind:

“Hello,”–a voice so soft and gentle.
“Hello, what are you doing here?”

Oh I have searched through books and printed page
to find an answer;
tho’ I found nothing there.

While words fell like rain from printed page in candlelight,
a soft spoken hello came to guide me through the night.

And I have tried to catch the rainbow;
in hopes to find
a pot of riches–knowledge more than gold.

A barren dream is what I found–
a cauldron full of wishes–
a worthless treasure chest of vague desire.

(A dove flew past my window in the morning.
It cooed a song, a certain sad farewell.

And tho’ I felt the sun that warmed the boughs of yellow roses,
in the distance thunder rolled across the land.

The dove became a hawk as the thunder tolled
(and answers haven’t found me yet);
a searing wind that burned the leaves
off every living thing,
but captured only what was lost.

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