The Desert Poet

In Memory of George and Gloria Procsal

Gloria Hope Procsal passed away almost four years to the day that she lost her husband George, our beloved father, on December 12, 2010. For Stephen, Richard, David and Nancy, this is a memorial to Mom and Dad. All poems are composed by Gloria.

We Don’t Live Here No More

by John Denver

Make believe you’re on a boat without water around
Picture yourself at a circus, without any clowns
Pretend that you’re on a highway, without any end

Then empty the ashtray, sweep up the floor
Put a lock on your door
If somebody calls in the morning
Just say we don’t live here no more

Draw me a picture of an island without any sea
Show me a map of the whole world without boundaries
Build me a home without windows or doors to go in

Then empty the ashtray, sweep up the floor
Put a lock on your door
If somebody calls in the morning
Just say we don’t live here no more

Dream of the time when the tides ebbing now, rise again
Then you will know, that to die is not really to end
Living and dying are both your most intimate friends

So empty the ashtray, sweep up the floor
Put a lock on your door
If somebody calls in the morning
Just say we don’t live here no more

Songwriters WILLIAM DANOFF Published by Lyrics © BMG RIGHTS MANAGEMENT US, LLC : John Denver – We Don’t Live Here No More Lyrics

Storm Song

The storm will
come,
you can count
on it.
And it will
test you;
spirit to sinew,
head to hand.
But hold fast,
don’t turn away.
It will pass,
and you’ll still
be here
with a song
bubbling up
from your heart.

Almost

That restless
searching summer
love was just a
sometime thing.

Now happiness spills
off my fingertips,
leaving me sliding
into a shadow
of isolation;
and now I know
almost making it
is not enough.

The Death of Kyoroku

First there is
a mirror:
It gives back
pale whiteness;
this is well.
I do not wish
to see myself
older
than the
mountain.

But now
I see a child.
It is I running,
swiftly running,
and now
the image
smiles,
all innocence.

I see a lotus
floating
in my father’s
garden pool.
But this blossom
has eyes.
This blossom
is myself
softly drifting…

Hunting Picasso

The gallery offers
its fruit to me.
I cling bedazzled
to Monet and Renoir,
slip around
the corner to
Wyeth and on to
Dali.

An unknown
artist painted
Variations on Blue,
a canvas of lines
that fade into the wall,
into the next room.

Now I follow
drifts of color
looking for
Picasso.

Outsider

He learned
to live his life
inside a book,
and the woman
became his love
and the children
became his issue
and the old folks
became the parents
he never had.

The Way She Was

That’s just the way
she was,
real conscious
of time.
She had a calendar
in every room,
always marking things
in those little squares.
She had clocks there too,
and a watch on her wrist,
one pinned to her waist,
and one dangling from her neck.
She counted off
minutes, days, months,
and pretty soon
it was time for her
to ‘hang it up’
and she said, with surprise,
what a quick life
she’d had.