San Blas

Ride the bus over
The twisty, tropical curves
To a place where the inscrutable
Becomes nothing but a piece
Of plastic on the beach.
It becomes a swallow cutting
Through the open air
Of the simple and elegant church,
While hundreds of his cousins
Make the town square
A chattering din. Here
Skirtchasers confess their soulfulness
And the children have nothing to sell
Except maybe a song or
A smile.
The fishing boats patiently
Excite the gulls while
Tiny shrimp swim in
Garlic and butter.
Babies ride naked
On the clattering motorcycle’s tank.

In this mellow Mexican town
You might learn more
Than just ordering beer and
Counting cards in
Another language. Relax
And sleep while the cocks
Echo the daily confusion.
A chicken cackles while
The quesadillas lay steaming
On the table and
The sun rises slowly
Over the morning hills.
This could be your destiny
Or maybe it’s yours
To stay on
The sweltering bus.

by Tim Van Schmidt

Emmaline

The water pure foamed
Over rocks slanted just
For such a cold, clear run.
Emmaline lay at the top,
A stunning, windswept source, quiet,
A haunt for marmot,
A bowl for the raptor’s swift dive,
Squirming fish for lunch. Up there
You could feel the snowfields melt
Under your feet, greet
The tiny tundra flowers, behold
The one magnificent columbine
Standing by itself in the blow.
Crisp, air thin, knobs
Picketed by a million trees below,
Huge white cornices hanging
Above the chill, gnarly treeline.
Emmaline splits into a gush
That pools, but must
Push down against the stone.
All you have to do is look up
And have Emmaline’s cold grace,
Her wild, loud hair,
Wash it all away.

by Tim Van Schmidt

In Memory of Betty Shearer

The highway stretching from
Bone to bone in the skull
is really two oily ribbons; one
named East, one, West.
Dry, desert grass crouches
on either edge and odd yucca bushes
prick the flat yawn of the horizon.
Dust storms sling atomic buck shot
Across the pavement while
The coyote dumbly trots by
A sign with no animal value.

I look, trained to read
And the woman’s name becomes the landscape.
“Betty” painted on stiff, cold metal,
bolted to a pole that shudders as
rushing cells streak past.
Wooden crosses plead for
Anonymous sorrow, skid marks echo
The screeching tire and
One mile is marked by a simple message:
Betty Shearer, missed.
The bugs never know what hit them,
Road kill provides the carrion feast.
But “Betty” greets the streaming bumpers;
A blink, quick ghost;
Memory swept up
By mighty wind, blasting cars.

by Tim Van Schmidt