November 17, 2009

4 Corners

(photo courtesy of Photobucket)
This is another piece in the series I am writing about Native Americans. The title refers to the area of the US where 4 states come together and where resides the largest reservation in America.

Under a convex roof
of azurite blue,
drifts of lace cirrus
race through mazes of currents
blown by mirages.

Vultures wheel slowly,
spiraling downward,
raptor eyes keen on the
rust covered earth, flecked with
sorry sad sheep, deflated and dusty.

The rough crackle ground
of impossible colors like
spilled paint box shades
splotched and meandering.
Cadmium, ochre, alizarin crimson.

Chaparral, sagebrush and
damned Russian thistle,
their stubborn roots grabbing-
an attempt to gain purchase of
the dry, dusty valley.

A rusted old single-wide
squats dumbly on cinderblocks
replacing the tumbledown hogan,
beside a Satellite dish
and new Chevy pickup.


  1. Hi Cynthia,

    Well, I learned a lot reading this! I have been working 'Google' overtime. I think you ought to use an appendix for all the words your non-American cousins might find unfamiliar, plus the others they just plain don't know!! Great poem!

  2. I *love* this. Great language and the shiny twist at the end.

  3. That damned Russian thistle is so invasive...trying to take over everything!

  4. I've been to the four corners, and your poem sets the scene perfectly. I especially like the third stanza with its "spilled paint box shades".