Way of the Mountain #178

Besides the dazzling performance of Sandra Cisneros, the highlight for me at San Miguel de Allende’s Sixth Annual International Writers Conferenced this past February was the Carnitas Fest at Simple Choice Farm on the road to Jalpa and the Talking Gourds Fire Circle, co-led with poet/teacher Judyth Hill of “Wage Peace” fame — shadows of cacti and bougainvillea tinkling like wind chimes in the full moonlight.

I was surprised and deeply honored to be named Poet Laureate for Colorado’s Western Slope at the first (very successful) Karen Chamberlain Poetry Festival in Carbondale this past March. Karen was the former editor of MG’s poetry page and a fine writer and poet with many posthumous works still to surface. The Norwood Post published the best account of that event in their March 30 issue.
Art Goodtimes

Delivery to Lakota (an excerpt)

…There’s a right way
to put fire
and water together.

The lava rocks …
They bring the men back
to their senses
back to the table.

I was a delivery boy from Colorado.
We’ve got volcanoes
we don’t even know how to use.
— Stewart Warren, Albuquerque

Winter Cracked Open

Winter cracked open;
there lay spring,
soft colored thing.
Take me, she said,
swallow me whole.

And summer did.

Summer burst open,
there was autumn,
audacious thing.
Watch me, she said.
Just watch me fall.

And winter did.
— Wendy Videlock, Poetry mag regular, Grand Junction, CO

Walking Like Water

At the high end of the arroyo
you abandon your feet to gravity
you avoid straight lines
you are drawn to the outside of the curve
you inspect all cutbank holes
you waltz below boulders humming softly
your feet etch lines in the sand but
you never look back

in town others will talk as
you follow the grade into traffic
your curves confuse other pedestrians
you look for burrows where there are none
you walk in circles below trash cans
and even when you drag your feet
the ground will not receive
your passing
— Peter Anderson, MG Poetry Editor Emeritus, Crestone, CO

Lone Swimmer, Lake Powell

And what should I make
of you, your light

cast on the world just outside
of the world, the island

just around the corner.
Your breaths pull tides, your eyes

half open. White cap, black suit,
body pushing through night,

I would give over completely
to understand

the flooded world
settling below your wake.
— Cameron Scott, Poetry Editor of “Rise Forms”, Basalt, CO

According to the Yuma

It is the deer
who draw the light
into their bodies
each day.

What is left
men call
— Steve Sanfield, “The Rain Begins Below” (Larkspur Press, Kentucky, 2005)