THE PRIEST RIVER SEQUENCE ~ IDAHO, Late NOVEMBER, 2025
poetry
NEW RELEASE: GILA WILDERNESS POETRY ANTHOLOGY
In honor of the 100th anniversary of the Gila Wilderness, regional writers have
collected poetry, prose and photographs, to express their love of the Gila’s wild
natural beauty. The finished book, Looking to the Mountain: Sacred Lands, Healing
Cultures – A Gila Anthology of Words and Pictures is now available for you to read and/or download for free.
The Gila Wilderness in southwest New Mexico is the world’s first designated
Wilderness. Established June 3, 1924, it is the remotest section of New Mexico’s
Gila National Forest, which comprises 3.3 million acres of wild, natural beauty.
U.S. Wilderness Areas are defined as “an area where the earth and community of
life are untrammeled by man, where man himself is a visitor who does not
remain.” Camping, hunting and fishing are allowed, but no roads, buildings,
logging, mining, or mechanized vehicles are permitted.
The idea of “wilderness” had long been a dream of conservationist Aldo Leopold
who, as a young man in the early 1900s, was one of the first U.S. Forest Service
rangers in the region. Lessons he learned during his tenure in New Mexico and
Arizona convinced him that some of America’s vast landscape needed to be
preserved from human commodification. Lobbying Congress with elegant essays
and insights, Leopold’s dream was realized with the preservation of the Gila
Wilderness area — a mountainous region of tall trees, majestic canyons and wild
rivers, once home to tribes of Chihene (Apache) people.
In fact, the name Gila comes from the Athabaskan word Xila (pronounced Chee-
lah), meaning ‘Red Clay Hands,’ the name some Chihene gave to their homeland.
Spanish speakers later rendered it as Gila, a homophone that carried the sound
but obscured the origin.
On Sept 13, 2025, several of the Gila Anthology contributors got together at the Black Range Lodge in Kingston, New Mexico, to share their work and celebrate their love of the Gila Wilderness. I was the MC of the event and had such an amazing day.
Here I am at the event with folk poet JOHNNY HUERTA (on right) and Santa Fe poet Josh Robbins (on left)
Thanks to UNM’s Dr. Michelle Kells and her team for making this Gila Anthology come together!
The whole GILA anthology is free to read online and/or download HERE.
3 top 10 poems
in high school, my drama teacher told me that I “march to the beat of a different drummer and that drummer is on a hill several towns away.”
this last year I’ve pushed through my typical self-pitting, sardonic, whiny and short-tempered poetic tendencies to find joy, light, laughter and silliness.
i’m so thankful to have found Jokes Review who continue to appreciate what I’m up to, read for yourself, three new joke poems.
RADIO INTERVIEW AND DISCUSSION WITH POET STALEY
Think Again: Tim Staley on Poetry
Recorded live in KTAL Studios on 3/17/2025 : In this program, poet and English teacher Tim Staley treats us to some perspectives on poetry, language, images, and how they shape our ideas of reality. The conversation opens with Tim reading Rumi, the Persian Sufi, mystic poet and Muslim scholar. Tim expands into how poetry can bring us into the moment, the very centers of our own lives. He guides us through an exploration of how our minds and emotions are influenced by word choices. Tim shares his thoughts about how AI may come to influence our writing, even of poetry. In addition to Rumi, he reads writings from several poets, including his own and those of Las Cruces, NM resident and internationally recognized poet Joseph Somoza.
USA 2024 ELECTION SEQUENCE
USA Election Poem ~ October 30, 2024
Served with a ramekin of zesty ranch,
a human arm. This is the city
of big butts and bigger gyatts.
Of the sunrise over Gyatt Mountain
I taste baby powder, sulfur, regret.
“How long did it take to get here?”
“How long has the clock been stuck
at 3:07 PM?”
Pew says “about two-thirds (66%)
of the voting-eligible population
turned out for the 2020 presidential
election.” Yet somehow we’re divided
perfectly in half like a clay spaghetti
tennis court?!
From space your broken toe looks
terrible, and your heartache worse,
and your piñata full of lukewarm
bile, bluegray Kisses and ill-
conceived haiku is exploding
errant syllables everywhere and a moral ~
a moral is an egg
on a green enchilada flopped
over easy.
PS: “Only a creative mind can make use of hope” – Jericho Brown
~~~
USA Election Poem 2 ~ November 3, 2024
Out in the desert I found a TRUMP sign
beside Pat Garrett’s death site.
Immediately came the metaphor making:
TRUMP’s the lawman that killed Billy the Kid.
Which makes Billy the Kid the Kamala.
Which makes me the one
on the high ground,
top of the hill, who killed Sheriff Pat Garrett.
Suzanne said the man
who put the TRUMP sign there
wasn’t making a metaphor, but if he was,
TRUMP would be Billy the Kid haunting his killer, dancing on the cross
carved into concrete, singing lawmen die,
outlaws never do.
In a stroke of switcheroo,
I pulled the TRUMP sign
from Pat Garrett’s death site
and placed it on the nearest abandoned car:
a modern sport coup in sparkly blue,
blown out from the inside,
a cartel job or something worse,
the windshield glittering like a magic carpet
across the dash, the frontend chopped
completely off.
Maybe the man who put the TRUMP sign
beside Pat Garrett’s death site
is the island of trees, some up to 30 feet,
standing out in a circuitry of arroyos
and offroads
and powerline service roads,
and maybe these 2 roadrunners
scrambling across the trail are you and me,
and maybe the creosote
rattled by the breeze
remains undecided.
~~~
USA Election Poem 3 ~ November 4, 2024
I’m just writing this poem instead of eating highlighters, chewing gum foil, raisins, or Sylvia’s halloween candy.
This afternoon I wrote “environment”, “change”, and “open border” on a piece of scratch paper in a column labeled BIG. I wrote in pen so it’s permanent.
Most Americans vote for their team, despite this season’s roster. Team captains come and go, mascots are always silly, it’s the score that counts.
Ronald Reagan played right guard for the O AND the D. Yes, he played for Eureka from 1929 to 1931 but none of the plays were of his design.
How could my poem ride a bike up a steep hill and benefit your heart? We don’t need to argue anymore about whether the songbird is pleased with its singing. Sylvia says ants have more brain cells than any other insect.
My student said “coach said if you don’t cheat, are you really trying to win?” A plastic drinking straw, a missing screwdriver with a long silver shaft, boxes of dead batteries and blown bulbs atop the fridges overflowing.
PS: Coach said he doesn’t like Hail Mary.
~~~
USA Election Poem 4 “the donkaphant” ~ approximately 9 PM, November 5, 2024
The donkaphant’s middle finger is so tall it comes all the way around
to make a circle
of middle-finger-fellowship.
I tried getting away from the donkaphant, as soon as I started crossing ~ the bright upright
red hand of halt!!
write enough poems
economics stop
driving your vote.
I saw a man leaving Albertsons today, staring at a single red rose, utterly dumbfounded ~ he had the telltale gait and demeanor of the donkaphant.
I let the donkaphant rumble with dust bunnies, let it tussle with sourdough crumbs, then I let it out with the dogs and mopped the kitchen with vinegar, lukewarm tap and cobalt qualms.
you can let the donkaphant kiss you good night, but no tongue!
~~~
USA Election Poem 5 “I always forget that u in fabulous” ~ November 8,2024
What’s supply and demand have to do with the dead Mediterranean gecko on the key card reader to get into my school?
The little baby froze to death with his eyes wide open last night, the mountains are dusted with snow, how cute.
You want me to care about all the dead people everywhere else when somehow, this little Mediterranean gecko is stiff with his black onyx eyes wide-open, dull enough to reflect my silhouette. I touched its tail. It did not move.
I walked to the library, but it was closed. I wanted coffee, not books, not words, just the liquid oubliette of drug.
What’s supply and demand got to do with all this dying? Why do I feel like crying, when it’s just a dumb old Mediterranean gecko ~ you can tell by his name he doesn’t belong here.
I voted. I got a little sticker for voting. I put the sticker in my car’s cup holder. When my team lost, I put the sticker on my dumpster ~ supply and demand ~ how poetic.
~~~
poet’s note ~ 1 PM, November 11, 2024 : I’ve been wondering what it was about this 2024 presidential election that inspired so many poems from me and also, what inspired me to so feverishly share them on social media? I write everyday but rarely post my poems. Perhaps it was that many people had the election on their minds, and I wanted to capitalize on that possible interested audience? Did I finally have a built-in audience like a Grateful Dead cover band? Perhaps the thought of another 4 years of Trump scared me, and then when it was made clear that most of our country voted Republican, I went from scared to empty. 2 of my poetry heroes, James Tate and Anne Waldman, both say that writing while exhausted can bring about sometimes great but typically surprising work as it bypasses ego; perhaps that’s what happened with me, perhaps my tiredness of all things Trump led to an explosion of poetry that superseded ego.
I wrote the first poem with my students throughout the day, and it came about automatically and was brimming with joy. I trusted the automatic and joyful nature of it immediately. When a poem comes fast, a poet feels it may be a gift from the poetry gods. What’s the old adage, never look a gift poem in the mouth? This poem wasn’t edited or revised for meaning or sound or any of that.
The second poem is one that has been brewing for over a year. What I mean is I have been wanting to finish a poem about the Pat Garret death site ever since I first visited it last year. It really is 2 miles directly South of my school, out in the desert. I went back to the site this year on November 3, and saw the Trump sign, and I really did remove it and place it in a destroyed vehicle. After the first draft, I returned to my journal from a year ago to see if I could cherry pick some lines about my first visit to the death site, which I did. Finally I had enough components to play with in a poem and I went for it. I made a few changes and them posted. I didn’t fiddle with it forever, like I do most my other poems, because election poems are urgent, and will rot and fester in the sun if left unattended.
The third poem was a way for me to push my idea that we only vote for our team. As an artist who feels shit, as someone who roots for the losers, how else can I rationalize the majority of my country’s electorate without separating Trump from the Republican party? Americans handle their political party the same way they handle their favorite NFL team; for example, most Americans only care about football during football season, see how easy the comparison?
The forth poem came on the evening of voting day. Results were not in yet, and I didn’t know that Trump was winning. This poem was an escape from waiting, as perhaps, all poems are. I thought the AI image of the donkaphant was funny. Instead of pulling away into hateful division, I went the other direction. Instead of using heated hyperbole (which was a common move by other social media poets), I used trippy, and hopefully humorous, juxtaposition. I didn’t want to write anything I would feel embarrassed about with my community members, coworkers and students if Trump won.
After I learned Trump won I withdrew into my non-poetic self. I got numb and tired and irritable and had zero energy for students, and even less for loved ones. I did not write one word from Wednesday morning to Friday morning, which is rare for me. I wondered at the time, why? Mary Ruefle talks about how we write poems when we are distressed but sometimes we don’t; why do we sometimes write when distressed and sometimes shut down our writing when distressed? Perhaps I was empty somehow emotionally, especially after having written 4 poems already that week. Was I too sad, too shocked, too incredulous, too mad, too disappointed to write? I walked into school Friday and saw that dead lizard by the door and became very emotional about it. I couldn’t handle that dead lizard. Then I was in my classroom before school doing my daily meditation and core strengthening and I was asked to spell “fabulous”, I kept spelling it in my head with 7 letters, forgetting that “u” in the middle. WOW. I always forget the u (u = you) in fabulous. That was the spark and then whole poem just poured out. So even though I wan’t writing on Wednesday and Thursday my subconscious never unplugged the hotplate, and once I met some requisite number of poetic ingredients (images, ideas, good lines) I just mixed it quickly and served cold.
I share these 2024 election day poems on my personal site today so we can remember what went down according to one human’s inner life. That’s what poetry is, the inner life. When it comes to someone’s inner life, you have nothing but your own to compare it to. Elections are the outer life. We, you and me, are the gray area stuck in-between but with poetry we can grease ourselves up to slip the shackle of boring old polarization.
Think Again: Poets, Joseph Somoza and Tim Staley 4.17.23
Today we’re treated to thought provoking readings of some works by two local poets. Our guests are Joseph Somoza, retired NMSU English Professor and current Organ Mountain High School English teacher, Tim Staley, reading selections of their own poetry. These writers reflect on their personal writing processes, and concepts of poetry in general, and more. The conversation touches on how language and poetry both shape and express the seen and the unseen aspects of who we are as individuals and as cultures. It’s a fun and thoughtful peek into the personal and professional realms of poetry. Their poetry books are available at some local bookstores and at online booksellers.
AFTER JACOB BLAKE
AFTER JACOB BLAKE After the medical aid After the helicopter After immediately to Milwaukee After lengthening up through the crown After gravel shaped like twilight After tailwinds through the reeds After the pelvic floor After a mother tells her daughter, never say the Lord’s name in vain After, who’s name then am I supposed to say?
THE 8 POEMS NOBODY WANTED
Word up, yo. I found these poems suffocating in a Google Doc from 2017. I’d sent them all out a million times to a million online journals with no takers (which makes sense).
It turns out I have a connection with the editors of this fine site; I traded 2 canisters of CBD-infused Flonase for them to post these 8 fairly-crappy poems today:
The Candle Throws Tantrums Against the Walls
On Christmas morning
I feel giddy with something simple
like a sunbeam flashing
off a metallic pinwheel.
We give Lois a sweater and help her
pass her arms through. The nurse
hands us a Sharpie to write
her name in the collar.
The bright rope that held her thoughts
is slack. I can’t tell if the punch
has grapefruit juice
or pomegranate sherbet.
There’s a man at the piano
with his back turned, turning
pages in a songbook, searching
for Silent Night.
~
Highs and Lows
The dementia ward plays Born to Run
from speakers embedded in the ceiling.
Lois is sad today. She can’t say why.
We walk outside to the reflecting pool.
There’s an airplane above us,
only a handful of people
even know where it’s going.
~
When the Party’s Over
I watched her walk
across the lawn
with the shower curtain
held high, fresh
from the washer,
headed for the line.
Without being asked,
like a giant pine tree,
I stood there,
worried.
~
The Plague
Like a great darkness it moves
from one leaf to the next
through the thoroughly-washed
50/50 mix. 3 different strains
of lettuce and spinach
succumb to black slime
deep in the unpopular
corner of the crisper drawer.
Armies of manganese
and potassium suffocate
inside the quiet running
of the refrigerator.
~
Married To My Country
-after Wendell Berry
My country and I
trade fake smiles
for months.
There’s no use
to try and seduce
my country.
All my country complains
because the sun won’t walk
in the shoes of the moon.
~
The Cabin Wakes Up
The eyelids of two beagles
and a golden up first with the sun.
A forty-eight-nail tap dance
on the hardwood, their tags
tambourine the water bowl.
Loud cartoons and the empty bellies
of the five and six year old flip on. I rise
because the sun in my face
and a mildew scent on my pillow.
Grandpa starts the coffee quietly.
Grandma against the measuring glass
spazzes eggs with a fork
and the four teenagers begrudge every sound.
Their empty beer bottles, wine bottles
and bottle of rum
stuck to the table on the porch.
Their ping pong balls cornered
and they’re awake but not up
as the adults commit glass-on-glass
atrocities in the trash.
Their worried words
white-hot ping pong balls
from the paddles of their mouths,
and I’ve been that teenager
hearing just enough to know what’s coming
and knowing just enough to stay down.
~
Sweeping Alabama
The dogs–more afraid of stick than bristle–
run and hide as the 5 year old sweeps the walkway
to the cabin and sways to jazz on the radio.
I sweep out the studio that faces the lake
with giant bay windows. Several dead scorpions
cramp the threads of my broom, each in its own
sarcophagus of dog hair, dust and pencil shavings.
The prayer of their tiny claws open and unanswered.
A great drag out the window: wake boarders, skiers
and inner tubers. I wait to see someone swept
from their rope, their bodies skipped like stones
across the waves.
~
Urgent and Damned on the Rio Grande Under the I10 bridge
In a Bronco with tinted windows two teenagers
are locked in an awkward, equal-opportunity
sexual stickiness. There’s also 4 swastikas
spray-painted red on the turquoise supports.
One can smell a dead duck upwind in the reeds
and overhead one can hear the jagged ripping
of motorcycles, the steady forge of 18-wheelers
and the constant crackling of the desert sun.
The scent of fertilizer runoff from the fields
lifts off the river and one can feel the moment
urgent and damned, like a fly with amputated wings.
MC FLASHCARD SPITS FIRE AGAIN!!!
Have you ever done time in a New Mexico public school? if so, these bars are for you. Hear MC FLASHCARD preach over a beat made by Dr. SWA, one of his finest students. Flashcard delves into the New Mexico Public Education system from both sides of the dais.
LYRICS:
New Mexico C
(verse 1 MC FLASHCARD)
Crusty, musty our budget’s real low
Trust me, in the LC that’s how it goes
Grease up the grades like a mechanic
cars broke down, I feel kinda manic
All through high school the microscope’s on you
The adults round here got no follow through
And what exactly are you graduating to
Suicide hotline’s got a waiting room
(chorus)
Skiree skiree
Which one of ya’ll ever thinks about me?
I think I’ll grade ya’ll a New Mexico C
deserrrrrrrve it
(verse 2 MC FLASHCARD)
I sling the hammock up between your ears
Focus on your breath, now, never fear
All the trash card haters writin’ a diss track
I best ghost write it so it’s worth a crap
Now listen to me once, never to me twice
I’m not gonna ride you like a little tighty white
Now I never meant to do ya’ll a disservice
Half the time I feel my lessons are worthless
(chorus)
Skiree skiree
Which one of ya’ll ever thinks about me?
I think I’ll grade ya’ll New Mexico C
deserrrrrrrve it
(verse 3 MC FLASHCARD)
Some say I should shave, get a haircut
Buzz cut my B-Ballz, that won’t shut me up
Caramelized onions and chile relleno
Sure my life’s all wrapped up like a burrito
Don’t quit your cell phone cause i tell you to
My clothes get faded grading you
If only I was casually observing you
If only I was casually observing you
songwriters: MC FLASHCARD, DR. SWA
Tim Staley, poet 