(an autobiographical tale)
Quenching wanderlust, ousting fear;
Where end of human road
Meets trail of rabbit and deer;
.
Re-bonded with what is real --
Human and Earth-life held dear;
.
Wilderness-cleansed, one maverick,
Receding to the City-herd's Lifeway--
Conflict, desecrate and disjoint--
Pulled off Black Canyon Highway
For twilight time at Sunset Point.
.
The local place of roadway lore
Held one young couple resting there;
As night was falling and foreboding in '64.
.
Strings of verbal beads, an exchanging,
And through conversation, a rearranging
Of what is, in the "what's happening?" of yore.
.
Hallowed babe asleep, safe and sound,
Back in the homemade wooden shell,
On old pickup bed: images on the edge of Modern hell.
Parents, out of luck, Phoenix bound.
.
Beads and shells, ways of Lifeway happenings
In one Time and Being , of debated yore.
Voiced softly, yet deeply pondered, aimed at ripenings.
And sent into a gathering, cultural dusk, one night in '64.
.
Potato chips, a 29 cent bag,
Freely shared with one maverick;
Mostly just air, reflecting a family's plight.
Yet, tomorrows breakfast shared, defies any night.
.
One old truck, one old car, three youths,
A white-man powwow, a ceremony of cloudy sensing,
In three (and all subconscious Youth), in the year of '64:
Sensing personal and cultural storms commencing.
.
Nothing else expected, a mark of human sanity:
Requesting nothing but the sharing of humanity.
.
The maverick makes a silent move; as the flow of words
Attains to soul-embraces, dying human light, itself, slips--
Below both Bradshaw Mountains and all human herds;
By slight of hand, a ten spot meets the last few chips.
.
Rolling up chips and air, with "goodbye and good luck!",
Back into a '53 Pontiac; but, Youth itself had struck
A Detoured Road from Life; yet, cleansed, might restore.
All steered a driven self, into the gathering storms of "64.
.
Aye, such gathering storms destroy and estrange.
Storms striking human norms, Youth, mavericks--
High pressure cold fronts of cultural 'climate change'.
All now, begging one question: a human storm forevermore.
.
.
Copyright 2010 L. S. Heatherly
