Death Valley and other Western Wonders
The Poet at a Party
He’s perched over there,
owl-like,
in the noisy room
and then later sits by his wife
for comfort, perhaps for safety.
He is open-faced,
a reverse beacon,
receiving all mood,
color, sound, and nuance.
The gathering settles
to a manageable wave
he can finally surf
with measured words.
Quick to find irony,
humor, and tragedy,
he enters conversation,
only to pull back and listen.
Everything rushes in to him naturally,
where he stores his take
for future ruminations
put to pen.
Paula Ragsdale ....'08
Being here
deep with longings,
and a short list of
Rio de Janeiro
Barcelona
Tuscany
Sri Lanka
Istanbul
Tahiti
Discovery
Fulfillment
Recognition
An embrace
in a foreign place,
a meal of non-descript food,
to witness cryptic customs
and see the familiar
smile of an unknown child,
somewhere a latrine,
a pillow on a bed,
And still
the same love of you
love of me there.
While knowing I am here,
I wish to go there
to see and feel us all
understand
just being.
Paula Ragsdale ....'08
California From The Car
California is
polka-dotted green hills,
cornucopia of foliage
on an array of alien trees,
elevations and crops galore.
Over there a cow,
a horse, then goat and sheep,
stand on steep grades of
paradise, and endlessly graze,
under blue sky uninterrupted.
California is
miles of road,
hours vacant of buildings,
until a curve in the road
presents valleys packed with sprawl and smog.
California is
Mendocino cannabis,
Napa grapes, and
it is Fresno, Sacramento, San Joaquin all
bearing our produce, our dairy.
And it is
San Francisco lush
with anything your heart,
or whims, desire,
where everything grows
and anything goes.
Paula Ragsdale ....'08
Existential Shopper
What carried me
through Wal-Mart
without a list
or reason
other then the need for paper goods?
I pushed a cart
through a Great Hall of Things,
full of long faces
not saying much,
focused on a need.
Empty people passed me
walled in by merchandise.
Once in the car,
I hardly remember
what I needed so badly.
The trunk is full
of products following me home.
Paula Ragsdale ....'08
Death Valley, Sage Brush, and other Western Wonders, 2008
Sure is brown all around.
Miles and miles of dirt and rock piles,
and weed-balls scattered,
like week-old beard growth,
across the flat desert face.
Hills here, mountains over there,
in the sky a solitary cloud,
like a speech balloon, hovers over a tall peak.
Not much to say, it is too dry.
Down here four wheels take us
through boulders and canyons,
cutting through the floor -
the bed of some bygone sea.
Us easterners are intrigued
at this endless monochromatic vista,
punctuated by a random pink
or purple cliff face.
Questions are brewing
between sight and the unreal.
Earth seems all at once
majestic and depraved.
Nothing moves, except for the breath of sand.
And finally we ask out loud,
How did this happen?
Is this west a seismic carving,
a millennium in the making,
or catastrophic impact
hurled from outerspace?
It’s thrilling to be this incredulous
at what appears before you,
so solidly there
and no where else to be found.
Through an assortment of sandstone confections
sprinkled with rock jimmies,
or doused with Navajo sugar dust,
the ride from Death Valley to Zion to Bryce in March
swings from salty to alien to comical.
Hoo-Doos look like happy accidents,
mistakes formed by an errant ingredient
in a massive earthen recipe,
rendering dirt into medieval architecture
and Brancusi sculpture.
It feels good
to just let your eyes feast,
and not know anything but
the sun, the heat, and the gravel underfoot.
Paula Ragsdale ....'08