BIRDS OF DARKNESS

by Dick Altman

The Perseid meteor shower at Eleven Mile State Park in Colo. in 2024. Eleven Mile is among several state parks in Colorado working on becoming certified with DarkSky International. (Eric Schuette | Colorado Parks and Wildlife via Colorado Public Radio, September 1, 2025

Carefully crafted and robust public policy is crucial to fulfilling DarkSky’s mission to restore the nightime environment and protect communities from the harmful effects of light pollution. We are involved in various efforts to influence the decisions of various lawmaking and oversight bodies worldwide to  formulate, adopt, implement, evaluate, or change public policies on outdoor lighting. We partner with various government entities to support policy priorities that reduce light pollution and promote quality outdoor lighting. —DarkSky

Northern New Mexico

My first night

living in Indian Country,

on the seemingly

boundless

high desert plains,

begins as I step

from my pickup,

to peer

into the blackest sky

of my life,

and not a light

anywhere near,

when out

of the far eastern

horizon,

you,

a shooting star,

burst,

to journey

one-hundred-

eighty degrees,

traversing

the entire

visible heavens,

to what,

to my eyes,

appears to be

the other side

of the universe.

I’m too spellbound,

to count how long

you take to make

this unimpeded,

rarest

of nocturnal

crossings.

 

Did Indigenous

spirits want

somehow

to further

approach me,

when at twilight,

a few nights later,

I walk up

a hilly road,

alone,

I thought,

as a Great

Horned Owl,

wings open,

glides

from the top

of a juniper,

straight for me?

I know your call,

and just as you’re

about to pass

overhead,

Hoo! Hoo! Hooo!

I chorus.

As if you abruptly

hit the brakes

in mid flight,

you circle twice,

above me,

no more than

two arms’ lengths

away,

before

your feathered bulk,

dissolves

into the fading light.

 

Instead of treating me

as an

outlier,

you spirits,

so it feels,

continue

to reach out to me.

I walk up

the owl hill,

only this time

a streak

of astral flame

races across

my view

at eye level,

just before dark.

I can’t tell

the distance

between us,

but I swear

I hear

an orchestra

of super-heated

gases billowing,

fluttering

like gale-driven

sails,

soaring

across night.

 

 

Dick Altman writes in the thin, magical air of Old West’s high desert plains, where, at 7,000 feet, reality and imagination often blur. He is published in the American Journal of Poetry, Santa Fe Literary Review, Fredericksburg Literary Review, Foliate Oak, Landing Zone, Cathexis Northwest Press, Humana Obscura, and others here and abroad. His work also appears in the first edition of The New Mexico Anthology of Poetry, published by the New Mexico Museum Press. Pushcart Prize nominee and poetry winner of Santa Fe New Mexican’s annual literary competition, he has authored over 250 poems, published on four continents.

LOST IN GRAND CANYON’S WOUNDS

by Dick Altman

 

Molas Pass, Southern Colorado

I’m hiking 

where eagles soar,

eleven thousand

two hundred feet

above sea level.

Summer,

and I seek 

to escape 

the heat,

climbing 

legend’s

Colorado Trail,

amid peaks,

of the Rocky

Mountains,

veiled. 

 

The forecast,

a brilliant sunny day.

The reality,

smoke,

past summits

rivering,

thicker than 

I’ve ever seen,

rendering

cloud high’s

vistas,

now grey

and shadowed,

nearly invisible.

Breathing

a struggle.

 

The source,

I discover,

Grand Canyon,

turned into

an inferno

of wildfire—

after a paucity

of man/

money/machine,

so it seems,

lets it burn,

for weeks

unyielding.

 

I recall how calm

was my visit 

to the canyon’s

North Rim,

to edifices

historic,

and surrounding

forest,

the blaze 

destroys.

And here I am,

atop a mountain,

lost 

in their scorched

essence.

 

The dense smoke

drowns my spirit

in ghostly grief.

Vultures circle

overhead.

Marmots dive

for their holes

in bands of

 rock.

A meadow

of yellow daisies,

out of nowhere,

unfurls like magic.

I push upward.

 

 

Dick Altman writes in the thin, magical air of Old West’s high desert plains, where, at 7,000 feet, reality and imagination often blur. He is published in the American Journal of Poetry, Santa Fe Literary Review, Fredericksburg Literary Review, Foliate Oak, Landing Zone, Cathexis Northwest Press, Humana Obscura, Haunted Waters Press, Split Rock Review, The Ravens Perch, Beyond Words, New Verse News, Wingless Dreamer, Blueline, Sky Island Journal, and others here and abroad.  His work also appears in the first edition of The New Mexico Anthology of Poetry, published by the New Mexico Museum Press.  Pushcart Prize nominee and poetry winner of Santa Fe New Mexican’s annual literary competition, he has authored over 250 poems, published on four continents.

IN THE PROMISED LAND OF BROKEN DREAMS ANOTHER RESTLESS NIGHT

by Dick Altman

I imagine
my grandparents,
who traded
the Old Country
for America,
asking me today,
Should we come?
Should we come,
given the chance?
 
I try clearing
the knotted throat
of my mind,
to find an answer.
Would I
want to start
life over,
tattered
and patched,
I ask myself,
in a land,
that didn’t
want me?
 
I reel from today’s
headlines,
sleepless,
as I wander
the streets
of my American
Dream,
comforting,
familiar,
welcoming
no longer.
 
But where to go,
begin anew?
America,
you’ve shaken
the globe
off its footings.
Turned yourself,
in many minds,
into a nightmare
of economic
submission.
Turned your back
on those
yearning,
deserving,
to be free.
 
I feel estranged,
increasingly
out of touch.
The periodic table
of my life—
all the elements
that spark mind/
body/spirit—
my American
Dream’s
essence,
runs riot.
 
Have I reached
the terminus,
where it’s
no longer
if you,
my country,
want me?
I plumb the dark
for harmony,
once heart
of the American
Dream.
The day’s unfurling,
a rampage
of dissonance,
ravages my sleep.

Dick Altman writes in the high, thin, magical air of Santa Fe, NM, where, at 7,000 feet, reality and imagination often blur. He is published in Santa Fe Literary Review, American Journal of Poetry, Fredericksburg Literary Review, Foliate Oak, Landing Zone, Cathexis Northwest Press, Humana Obscura, Haunted Waters Press, Split Rock Review, The Ravens Perch, aming others. His work also appears in the first edition of The New Mexico Anthology of Poetry, published by the New Mexico Museum Press. Pushcart Prize nominee and poetry winner of Santa Fe New Mexican’s annual literary competition, he has authored some 250 poems published on four continents.

MARRIED TO A FIBER ARTIST MARRIED TO JOANN’S

by Dick Altman

A farewell to a beloved emporium that ralllied the
artistic spirits of generations

Your quilting ideas
all begin humble
enough—with a visit
to the base of Joann’s
multi-hued tree,
whose fruit feeds
your artistic passions,
blooming eventually,
perhaps months later,
into fabric canvases,
selected for eyes
of a dozen countries
or more.
 
You don’t create
for the prize.
Your true love,
a love since
childhood,
is breathing life
into your imaginings,
using a paint brush
of needle and thread,
and blossoms
of fabric culled
from Joann’s
garden
of visual delights,
almost beyond
number.
 
Nothing,
it seems,
lies beyond
your reach.
A portrait
of a distant cousin,
wounded
in America’s
Civil War.
Raised arms
whose fingers
transmute
into a ululation
of flames,
recalling conflict
in the Middle East.
A storm at sea,
whose
three dimensional
sea gulls,
appear to rise
off the canvas,
as they
weave themselves
amid waves
seeking to touch
the clouds.
 
I often stand
in wonder—
I who struggle
to turn a patchwork
of words
into a caress of lines—
as you sketch
your ideas into being,
with a sureness,
I could never wring
from a first draft.
You call Joann’s
your bazaar
of inspiration.
I call it
a spinning wheel
of miracles.

Storm at Sea—Dance of the Gulls by Holly Altman

 
Dick Altman writes in the high, thin, magical air of Santa Fe, NM, where, at 7,000 feet, reality and imagination often blur. He is published in Santa Fe Literary Review, American Journal of Poetry, Fredericksburg Literary Review, Foliate Oak, Landing Zone, Cathexis Northwest Press, Humana Obscura, Haunted Waters Press, Split Rock Review, The Ravens Perch, Beyond Words, The New Verse News, Wingless Dreamer, Blueline, Sky Island Journal, and others here and abroad.  His work also appears in the first edition of The New Mexico Anthology of Poetry published by the New Mexico Museum Press.  Pushcart Prize nominee and poetry winner of Santa Fe New Mexican’s annual literary competition, he has authored some 250 poems, published on four continents.

THE BIRTHRIGHT OF HOME

by Dick Altman

Attorneys general from 22 states sued President Trump in two federal district courts on Tuesday to block an executive order that refuses to recognize the U.S.-born children of unauthorized immigrants as citizens, the opening salvo in what promises to be a long legal battle over the Trump administration’s immigration policies. —The New York Times, January 21, 2025

Reports of Navajo people being detained in immigration sweeps sparks concern from tribal leaders: The DOJ argued in court that Indigenous people don’t have birthright citizenship under the 14th Amendment, so neither should children of noncitizens born in the US. —Arizona Mirror, January 24, 2025

I marvel,

over six months,

as crews,

of master

craftsmen,

mostly

undocumented,

give birth 

to my house,

overlooking

Rio Grande’s

valley.

 

I watch as raw hunks

of sandstone

bewitch

into new life

as Anasazi-style

walls.

Slabs

of the same rock

sculpted

into geometric

mosaics

of outdoor

walkways

and portals.

 

Amaze

as a Rumsford

fireplace,

known

for its high heat,

transforms

out of nothing

more than

firebrick,

cinder block,

and plaster,

into a work

of art,

reminding

of Spain’s

Middle Ages.

And so

the entire house

evolves

in that spirit.

 

I begin to wonder,

as the birthright

of countless

newborns,

of alien parents,

is in effect,

stripped

from the Constitution,

could

the government

call into question

the legality

of my house,

conceived

by undocumented

foreign labor,

to exist

on American soil?

 

I imagine

coming home

one day

to an empty lot,

not even a trace

of the concrete

underpinnings.

Posted on one

of many Aspen

I planted

over the years,

a document

claiming to be

an executive

order.

 

It reads:

“Your home,

propagated

by illegal

foreign labor,

has lost

its birthright

to shelter you.

The government

has no recourse

but to remove it

from your

property.

You’re welcome

to rebuild

with trades

of authentic

American

descent.”

 

What can I say,

as I look down

at Pueblos,

diminished

by untold eras, 

so they must

have seemed,

of America’s

dispossession?

What    can   I   say?

Dick Altman writes in the high, thin, magical air of Santa Fe, NM, where, at 7,000 feet, reality and imagination often blur. He is published in Santa Fe Literary Review, American Journal of Poetry, Fredericksburg Literary Review, Foliate Oak, Landing Zone, Cathexis Northwest Press, Humana Obscura, Haunted Waters Press, Split Rock Review, The Ravens Perch, Beyond Words, The New Verse News, Wingless Dreamer, Blueline, Sky Island Journal, and others here and abroad.  His work also appears in the first edition of The New Mexico Anthology of Poetry published by the New Mexico Museum Press. Pushcart Prize nominee and poetry winner of Santa Fe New Mexican’s annual literary competition, he has authored some 250 poems, published on four continents.

RHAPSODY FOR RAFA

by Dick Altman

A lefty,

with bulging muscles

of terror,

for those unfortunate

enough to be playing

on the other side

of the net.

So strong,

it is said,

his top spin was

clocked at three

thousand revolutions

a minute.

No one else

in the pro game

came close.

 

I once ranked high

in the amateurs.

With his speed of ball,

playing him

would have been

less play,

than chasing

after a sphere

expelled

from a tornado.

 

So fast did the ball

come at you,

you hardly had time

to swing.

So fast,

you spent

most of the time

running deep

into corners,

that left you

breathless

after each point.

And he hardly

taking a breath.

 

Against Federer’s

eternal calm,

his face

was a study

in rictus,

every point,

so it seemed,

a matter of life

and tennis death—

a lost point

he should never

have lost.

 

Only late

in his career

did a smile grace

his face.

Was he letting up

a little,

I wanted to ask.

He had reached,

as I saw it,

another plain

of happiness,

where few

tennis angels

perched.

 

Rafa,

I might have

hated to play you,

but damned

if I didn’t love

your game.

Dick Altman writes in the high, thin, magical air of Santa Fe, NM, where, at 7,000 feet, reality and imagination often blur. He is published in Santa Fe Literary Review, American Journal of Poetry, Fredericksburg Literary Review, Foliate Oak, Landing Zone, Cathexis Northwest Press, Humana Obscura, Haunted Waters Press, Split Rock Review, The Ravens Perch, Beyond Words, The New Verse News, Wingless Dreamer, Blueline, Sky Island Journal, and others here and abroad.  His work also appears in the first edition of The New Mexico Anthology of Poetry published by the New Mexico Museum Press. Pushcart Prize nominee and poetry winner of Santa Fe New Mexican’s annual literary competition, he has authored some 250 poems, published on four continents.