Santa Fe

We had a delightful trip to Santa Fe, NM last week end where we took in two operas at the Santa Fe Opera and visited the Botanical Gardens. We did a stop at Georgia O’ Keeffe’s Ghost Ranch on the way home.

Las Palomas (The Doves), always our favorite place to stay.
Some of the artwork on the hotel site.
More artwork.
Outside art.
Artwork inside the hotel.
Inside art.
The Opera the night we saw Carmen. We saw Falstaff two nights before. Yes, it is open air.
The stage.
The iconic Pedernale from Ghost Ranch, the subject of several O’ Keeffe paintings.
Huge old Cottonwood trees at the ranch.

We usually got to Santa Fe twice a year, but with Covid it has been about three years. Santa Fe is truly a magical place as is most all of New Mexico. The Hispanic and native Pueblan cultures, not to mention the landscape, take you to another place. And the food is wonderful.


A dark angel strove to conciliate
the morning dew’s short life
evaporating into the light
under a bright July sun.

Somewhere a dog barked.
Somewhere a cat snarled.
Somewhere a child cried.
Somewhere a woman screamed.

An angry ancient truck
ground wearily up the old south road 
to a place where the moon never shines,
where dark stars go to die.

The sky turned orange yesterday
when the blue lady left her cave
flying on gossamer wings
into the Mojave Desert.

Somewhere a phone chirped.
Somewhere a crowd cheered.
Somewhere a soldier died.
Somewhere people still laughed.

Barley Corn Moon

Cole lived with his wildcat lover
in a hidden canyon of red rocks 
and dark starry nights
where his music and song
was performed for Ravens
and buzzards and lizards
and all the sisters and brothers.

The Wildcat disappeared 
when the Barely Corn Moon
rose above eastern parapets
not to be seen again
until summer sage
bloomed in a purple
haze of scent.

A blue sky glowed golden
where Ravens soared free
from purple darkness
when vampires flew,
when banshees howled
where there was the sorrow.

First Sweet Kiss

High mountain peaks
where we longed to be
above narrow valleys
that sheltered our minds
during the dark December
before holiday luminarias
when only writing our poetry
and reading Virginia Wolf
gave us hope for tomorrow’s 
eager new light to erase
the quiet solitude of 
dark cafes with frosted windows
which kept us alive when snow fell 
softly on extended tongues
tasting of fresh coolness
like from a first sweet kiss.

Painted Hand Ruins

We went over to SE Utah yesterday in search of the Painted Hand Ancient Pueblan ruins. After we missed the turn once, we turned around and found the rough rocky road. After about a half mile we found the parking lot and the 1/4 mile trail through sage, piñon and juniper and down some precarious places over the canyon rim we disccovered a tower and a few remaining walls. The ruins were certainly not as lage and magnificent as Mesa Verde, but never-the-less we were visiting a place where folks lived a thousad or so years ago and it always demands a sort of reverence. Here are a few pics of the adventure. As you see, I didn’t make it to the bottom as the trail became too precarious and I wasn’t fully prepared, not expecting the difficuty. So, be safe rather than sorry. I didn’t want to have to call Search and Rescue to haul me out with a broken leg. Already did that once and that was enough.

The beginning of the trail to the ruins.
Looks like a wall under the flat rock. How did anyone get there? And why?
Another partial wall.
This appears to be a collapsed round tower.
A collapsed tower.
A fairly intact tower.
Another view of the intact tower.
This looking west. The vastness of the Great Sage Plain that once stretched from NW New Mexico up into Utah , west and beyond. A lot of the Colorado area is now dryland farming.