Paper Door

I step through the open door
upon a blank sheet of paper.
It's a room to dream into
but, it is often cold, and so damn empty.

It's cleansed and illuminated
by the presence of a holy melancholy.
Hasten the words come, and
take the loneliness away.

The pen is a train
passing through this small paper-room.
The thoughts are tracks
it lays down.

Picking up passengers of the night
it moves ever along.
The riders so briefly talk and sing
with such sweet stories to tell.

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poem by Smoky Hoss
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Cat & I

There we sat
Just me and the cat,
Upon a bench overlooking the river Thames,
The cat turned to me
And said, I believe I see
Some approaching cranes.
To the cat with eyes
Always looking rather wise,
I smiled and replied thus,
Is the crane afloat
Aboard a wayward boat
Or arriving atop a bus?
The cat and I
Both did sigh,
For we had come to understand,
Never could we see things quite the same
Life as serious or life as game
For she is a cat and I a man.
So now on the bench she and I continue to sit
Without expressing thoughts one bit,

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poem by Smoky Hoss
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Utah Journey

I find my bearings
Through the compass of my soul.
I look for the sign of the ages
In the ancient Bristlecone pines.
I straighten my path
In the maze of the deep Canyons.
And find my cup of spiritual thirst fulfilled
At the far end of the mystical Rainbow Bridge.
The color of my sun-stained skin
Is the unending flow of Red-Rock in my veins.
I dance and sing
With the Big Mountains-Little Brother;
All along the great Escalante way.

The coming light
Gives glow to the darkest night...
As surely as eternity
Gives glow to this desert journey.

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poem by Smoky Hoss
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1969

it's late...it's 1969...
the sun's going down
as we turn west
driving a long black Caddy,
rolling along the boulevard of freedom at 30 cents a gallon
-step on the gas!
and just enjoy the ride
in this cool dark lady;
somewhere, way over 'there'
young men are dying
and they don't know why,
while back here we're feverishly trying
to spend the last of our freedom
before our innocence says goodbye,
the end of a decade
the last free age
hitch-hikers, hippies
free-thinkers, and Jesus freaks
-all original american prophets
hanging on just outside of the cage;

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poem by Smoky Hoss
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Train Man's Blues

There's a train
Runnin' through my backyard,
The low and lonesome whistle calls,
As the wheels turn long and hard.

One of these lost days
I'm gonna hop that ol' rattler,
See where it goes -
On down to Texas, Utah or old Mexico...

'Cause that's just
The kind of man I am...
I've known it from the start,
I've got a roaming soul
And a travellin' heart...

Don't care where she goes
Gonna ride 'er til the end, for
This ol' train and I understand...
As long as we're together

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poem by Smoky Hoss
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Moving Along Sacramentally

- If my house is burning
In a rain storm
And I do not call the fire station,
Am I a fool?
What if I trudged
Throughout Death Valley
In a pair of waders,
Then, am I to be considered a fool?
-at what depth is it called faith? -

Water drips onto the paper
Flowing over my poem,
The red ink runs
Across the entire page;
Blood.
Words, water...
A holy flow... moving.

- If I let go
Of meaningless stuff

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poem by Smoky Hoss
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No Time

Canyons and mesas
have no use for time-pieces;
moments are measured in blowing dust,
hours by how far of a walk it is
to the nearest water hole,
days by sun's rise flowing into sun's set,
season's by birds migration back and forth.
No calendars to pressure,
no must do list,
only survive
and fully live.
In the world
where alarm clocks rule human beings
no one ever truly wakes up;
kept in a daze of capture regrets, and
bound there by unnecessary needs,
that their hearts quietly contend
are worthless.
Man's obsession with time
is an almost unforgivable vice,

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poem by Smoky Hoss
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Chipmunks Confusion

Chipmunk
Tail held high
Sprints across the street
On the fly -
To get to the other side
His only goal
There to dive
In another hole -
But wait,
Half way across
His small attention span
Gets lost -
The aroma of an acorn
Lingers upon the center line
With just one sweet sniff
He knows what he must find -
Turning
With the street
Several cars
He does meet -

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poem by Smoky Hoss
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When The Work's All Done

We've closed the gate
The mules are done hauling frieght,
The hands have penned all the cattle...
While the train's been running just a bit late.
We watch for the setting sun
Knowing the work's all done,
It's peacful tonite...
No one's on the run.
When that grand ole train shows up
We'll burn the old stump,
Have a great big shing-ding...
Really prime the pump!
Food will never run low
Drinks freely shall ever flow,
The business ends finished...
Time to see the real show.
Put those old dirty saddles far away
'Cause we've been working so hard, for so many days,
Time's come to rest and enjoy...
All the beautiful words the poets have to say.

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poem by Smoky Hoss
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What kind of god?

What would we want with a god of no mystery
A god so simply contained
Within the limits of human history?

Why would we want
A god we could handle
What good would that be?
If we were able
We'd simply manipulate this god
To serve the greater needs of 'me'.
But, where then
- filled with an empty faith in ourselves -
Would we stand?
With only our egos
Above the clouds
And our heads in the sand.
What god
- of all we suppose -
Could possibly be,
Enough god

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poem by Smoky Hoss
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