• Big Pine No. 2

1.

Nuthatches earlier had unknowingly showed

me a notch in the cedar, perfect shelf:

a level place in which to set the luminaria.

In the middle of the night I arise

to extinguish the candle, and

in sleep-weariness observe

the bright-eyed mouse digging in the dust;

I speak softly to this night visitor in mantle-glow,

my incandescent guardian:

What secrets could you share with me of this place,

what do you know of me, my kind?

What can I learn from you before I head

back into the tent and out of the cold?

  Jay, he tolerate you for your favors-

crumb & crust & the struggling flies in the water bowl

  Chickadee, he genuinely like you-

he so small & desperate for your company;

• Raven, he cannot stand you- you stopped asking his advice,

And I think what I heard next was:

The sap in the cones here makes for a hot fire fast;

use more pinyon and less sagebrush,

and remember- first one awake always puts up the coffee.

and then I fell into that familiar spiral swoon,

to drown & dream beneath the rat-heartless moon.

2.

 Me & Scorpion stringing stars in the south

light up the canyon’s mouth

First light sneaks across the sage flats,

first footsteps of a brand-new day, hours old;

stiffness in the bones, stiffness to the wind..

 Me & my old man, out on the west side

watching the stars collide

Up on Corvid Crag (so named by us for the genus of bird

that inhabits the rocky heights above Deep Springs)

the ravens have discovered

the three ears of corn we have left them for breakfast,

in the cleft of the outcropping behind camp.

Me & Ol' Raven racing clouds to the north

 take the sky for all it’s worth..

We left also one monarch butterfly

who has lost his way, ending up on the wrong

side of the Sierra’s; wings torn ragged

 (wayward, flightless)

by the wind, it flops helplessly on the stonecrop

awaiting the sharpness of curious beaks.

We & Jackrabbit, jump the moon in the east

chase down a nice place to sleep-

christ, it’s only 5 a.m.

3.

I am wing & talon,

whistling jet & shrieking missile-

an avenging angel.

I am hook & beak tearing,

ripping, stripping off flesh & fur,

bone & spur-

a purifier.

I am song & scorning

mourning the nestless, the treeless

warning off the wingless-

I am restless reclaimer.

(Listen.. there are voices in the wind)..

This is where it all goes down,

out here on the hot dry brown:

this is the place, man: this is the soul of the place-

this is where your people died

this is why you shake inside-

out here you will never hide

from We the desert holy

solely desert We. 

Robt O’Sullivan Schleith

When the bluest Sky is just not Enough

I have dreamed Coyote Canyon, between Anza & Borrego,

bighorn sheep watering at the creek that runs even in summer;

I have dreamed Cedar Creek Falls, the trailhead eight dirt-rough

miles off the main road out of Julian;

I have dreamed the Carrizo badlands, the gorge & Trestles beyond. 

I have dreamed these inaccessible, off-road places-

this country, this southwestern corner screaming:

today is rockhounding in paradise under blazing desert sky;

Today is a hard-scrabble ride

past amethyst-tailings in the Jacumba mountains;

and today I dream extreme

crystal tourmaline

poetry.

Robt O’Sullivan Schleith

       the Great Whale of Anza-Borrego

Rising over a mile high above the vastness of the Anza-Borrego desert, Whale Peak

(5348 ft.) is the highest point in the Vallecito Range of San Diego County

The movie version of this poem opens with two ancient Aztlanos in jaguar

skins overlooking the remnants of a vast sea from the heights of the

In-ko-Pah’s: full-screen fade-out on blue sky & wind on water; fade-in

on golden-brown, modern-day Imperial County, California: same two

actors now in Sierra Club t-shirts & denim shorts, thirstily draining the

last of the water from their canteens.

Low desert this close to the sea is bound to yield surprises, aside from

the expected cactus flats, dry playas & sand-charg’d washes; we are

arcing our way across the Yuha plain towards the eastern horizon’s

ochre-domes, and we are kicking up oyster shells & sand dollars in

our dusty throes; our final destination this day is still some miles north

of here: the Great Whale of the southern desert.

I am wondering whether the solitary whale was, eons ago, left behind

when the ancient sea retreated south & west; at my feet, I see the wind-

bent branches of the smoke trees furrow mandalas in the impressionable

sand; we squeeze our way through the escorpion’d fossil fractures, the

verbenia-sweet ravines.

If this were a movie, it would close with evening’s phainopepla winging

ahead of us, down towards the basin road, announcing our anticipated

departure to any creature within earshot of its song; See, they take their

leave: the wildness of this place, with night coming on, does not tempt

them to overstay their welcome!

And then I think, perhaps the whale has purposely beached itself, in

an attempt to live as man lives, navigating the sands til the sea buoy it

once again at the turn of the next glacial age, and overdue reunion with

ancient Pacifica.

The camera follows the sheen of black wing up the granite lightning

ridges and beyond: the risen moon, a great chunk of milky quartz above

the scalloped sand-plains; the black silence of space echoes ceti-phonic

song from dry mesquite fathoms.

Robt O’Sullivan Schleith

Robt O'Sullivan Schleith was born in the nation's capital and grew up in the once green & wooded suburbs of northern Virginia. After a plane trip over the Colorado plateau, he left Virginia at age thirty in order to explore this wondrous land over which he had flown. He has lived the past 22 years with his soulmate Bob, in both Colorado and California.

He publishes under his mother's family name - O'Sullivan - then adds the Schleith surname to honor his stepfather. He edited the 'Drift Wood Highway'series of poetry anthologies from 1999 through 2002, and is the (retired in 2003) founder of the San Diego Poetry Slam and the Poetsperformance readings in Ocean Beach and Shelter Island. He is patiently working on completing a volume of poetry inspired by over twentry years of hiking, climbing and tenting in the great American western desert lands.

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