Letters West

By Christie Moses

"I have stood on great mountaintops and felt my immortality; I am one being of land and sea. There is no sound but my heart and wind expelled from countless souls filtered to the very breath of illusion. How you shift beside me; our separation is like a devastation into the still of unquiet and my soul burns from such disconnection. Tell me these messed sheets are not much like peaks and trees, where many souls wander and bring the breaking to my knees...”

• Language: English
• Publisher: Christie Moses
• Release date: Sep 10, 2018
• ISBN: 9780463016954

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Letters West

Christie Moses

Copyright by

ePrintedBooks 2015

No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including recording, photocopying, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without the written permission of the publisher.

Published by ePrintedBooks

Smashwords Edition

Dedicated to my daughter Brianna

This book is a work of fiction and non-fiction.

This is a book about my journey through pain, my past and discovery. Life is a sometimes solemn affair and it is truly a labyrinth of wonder and agony. Inside these words is a place I went when I needed respite and relief from the shadows that at times would find me. I hope it touches at least one heart and moves at least one soul.

In poetry, if part of your soul doesn’t stain the page,

crumble it up and throw it away….

C.Moses

Desert Diary

It burns low and quiet

on nights like these in Mohave

memories.

Lost inside the untamed wild

of mustang passion and

tumbleweeds.

Joshua trees and clear sky.

The boulevards of sand and

the great hungry nothing.

I stare out at skies too large

and wind carries the breath

of desert storms.

I tremble to the sounds of

emptiness that swallows my

being with such feral rise.

I become inside this world.

This diary of fired grains

and the spirit of howled canyons.

A gypsy weed,

a thousand mile journey

Desert Flower

Mohave spoken on raw red dirt.

I was spindles of gathered weeds.

Where spirit flows to the great dunes

of sand and stretched out days of

nothing.

It still speaks in my naked quiet

of the loneliest plain existing.

You say you see such beauty there,

but mother,

I see its cracked earth and

unstitched wounds still gaping.

While your spirit roams alive in its

wide open miles,

I stand taller by the rune of sea.

I cannot be in the desert where

your heart flies free.

Alive

I remember us there

drunken on life,

and eyes burned alive

with laughter.

Apple cheeked and

unencumbered.

We danced to

old time country

and dangled feet

in the creek.

I loved like a serafine.

It consumed me

like the great

pyramid of Giza.

We were all

and everything.

Country wind

and summer noon.

Every cell consumed

with breath.

Poets of Old

I hear the voice of Nabokov

incanted early morning

as my wild arches balance

on the wooden beams of hope.

Teetering between pathways, I

peer to this passionate divide.

It is lulling