WHEN THE FORECAST CALLS FOR MORE PAIN

by Dick Altman
in Northern New Mexico

 

Wind and dry weather will again pose a critical fire risk this week for the Land of Enchantment. —Santa Fe New Mexican, April 21, 2026

Another day,
another day,
you,
weather,
and I,
face off over
the extreme
risk of fire.
How I wish
it were merely,
between us,
a matter of words.
Instead,
your high desert’s
majestic cloud
cover
has transmuted
into six months
of winter’s
unyielding
emptiness.
 
My hand-grown
conifer glade,
years in the making,
can only stand
and wait,
as chances
intensify
for a sudden burst
of dry lightning.
Fierce gusting
winds,
like a giant,
out of control
bellows,
can turn
a single spark,
so it seems,
into a winged
flame
capable
 
of destroying
everything,
near and far
in its path.
 
I wish
these words
were simply
a meditation
on a barren
winter.
But the pain
is real,
and when
risk explodes
into reality,
as I have seen,
the destruction
can go
unmitigated
for months.
Not two
or three valleys
over,
but as if
on the tindered
bluffs here
I call home.
 
Come summer,
it may not be
a blaze
that swallows
our forests
and farm lands,
but dry throats
dying of thirst.
And untillable soils,
desert hard
as long dead bone.


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, Cathexis Northwest Press, Humana Obscura, Haunted Waters Press, Split Rock Review, The Ravens Perch, Beyond Words, and others here and abroad.  .  Pushcart Prize nominee and poetry winner of Santa Fe New Mexican’s annual literary competition, he has authored over 300 poems, published on four continents.

THE MOUNTAIN LION OUTSIDE MY BEDROOM WINDOW

by Dick Altman

Utah’s new study aims to kill ‘as many cougars as possible’ —High Country News, March 24, 2026

Reclusive Monty,

as I like,

in kinship,

to call you,

visits in deepest night,

not to hunt,

as one might expect,

our abundant deer,

but to slack your thirst

at the water-filled grotto

lying just beyond

where I rest my head.

 

We each,

in our way,

share

the same story,

breathing life

here at seven thousand feet.

where our ridge overlooks

the Rio Grande Valley.

ancestral home to Puebloans,

who worship you

as “the beast god”,

revered beyond

any other animal,

including the bear,

for your lithe beauty

and stealth.

 

I see you

as a high desert

panther,

royalty of solitude.

Your prints

in the snow,

broad as my hand

wide,

leave me breathless,

in their suggestion

of power unbridled,

eager

to pounce.

 

Recent sightings

in the neighborhood,

remind how closely

our lives touch.

Though an Anglo

living in Indian Country,

it would crush me

to see your mythical

presence eradicated.

 

Another gift

of your species,

the smaller,

but far less shy,

Bobby the bobcat, loves

to roll around

on the welcome mat,

outside our glass-paneled

front door.

as he taunts ravens,

into a squall

of angry screams

and fly-bys.

 

I find it impossible

not to feel

an intense connection

with you creatures

of the wild,

 

Hunters,

yes,

you will

always be,

but much more,

as even Puebloans’

ageless reverence

for Bobby shows.

 

Which begs

the question:

should rampant

cravings

for hooved

trophies,

outweigh

sustenance

for one’s

innermost

bearings,

linking us

to nature?

 

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, and others here and abroad.  Pushcart Prize nominee and poetry winner of Santa Fe New Mexican’s annual literary competition, he has authored some 300 poems, published on four continents.

OLD AND FAMILIAR

by Dick Altman

A preliminary review by U.S. Customs and Border Protection’s internal watchdog office found that Alex Pretti was shot by two federal officers after resisting arrest, but did not indicate that he brandished a weapon during the encounter, according to an email sent to Congress and reviewed by The New York Times [January 27, 2026].

We were both

ten years old,

and best friends,

the colonel’s

daughter

across the street

and I,

when he said

I think

you’re old enough

to see these

army newsreels,

from my days 

back

in World War II.

 

Down into 

the basement

we went.

Before he turned

out the lights,

we watched

as he took out

a giant reel

of sixteen millimeter

black and white film,

he fitted

to his old army

projector.

 

The two of us

watched in terror,

as people were

dragged from shops

and apartment

buildings,

thrown

to the ground,

and beaten.

With the same

fright in our voices,

we asked

what they

did wrong.

 

The colonel

stopped the film

and turned

on the lights.

What did they

do wrong,

he repeated.

Hitler—

a name

we knew barely

at a distance—

hated Jews,

he said.

The people

pictured here

were Jews.

In that quiet

fatherly tone,

I knew so well,

he looked at me

and said,

you’re Jewish,

aren’t you.

 

The next images,

forever fixed

in my mind,

showed mounds

of dead bodies 

being bulldozed

into trenches,

at what he called

“the camps”.

A vile end,

I later thought,

for a people

doing nothing 

wrong,

but approaching

their god,

in the Fuhrer’s eyes,

from the wrong

testament.

***

I can’t pick up a paper,

or see a newscast,

that doesn’t remind me—

as ICE grabs individuals

off the street,

or wades into crowds

with smoke bombs,

to break up protests—

of those images

the colonel

shared with us,

that day long ago.

 

We were still

too young

to understand

when he told,

how Hitler came

to control the truth

proclaimed 

by print

and radio.

As truth today

seems to reincarnate

with each sunrise,

the colonel’s films

begin to feel

eerily familiar.

Have America’s

once welcome

immigrants,

incarcerated now

at every turn,

I ask myself,

become

yesterday’s

vilified Jews,

our government

more Hitlerian

by the hour?

And more

terrifying?

 

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, 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 290 poems, published on four continents.

THE BOMB FACTORY DOWN THE BLOCK

by Dick Altman

Photo by Dick Altman.

The aging Los Alamos lab at the center of America’s nuclear overhaul: Contamination incidents, work outages and declining infrastructure have plagued the site, but the lab remains the linchpin in an effort to modernize the nation’s nuclear weapons. —High Country News, October 28, 2025

Northern New Mexico

When I settle here,

overlooking

Rio Grande’s

historic valley,

the Jemez 

mountains,

ranging

across

the entire

western skyline,

hold me

spellbound.

 

Daybreak 

brings them

brilliantly

alive,

to be worshipped

by Puebloans,

beyond memory.

Nightfall                         

turns them

into a stage,

where

piercingly

magenta skies,

unllike any 

I‘ve ever seen,

welcome 

high desert’s

glowing

obsidian

dark.

 

I can only

imagine

how

Puebloans

revere yet

what they

call

their sacred

peaks.

I’m tempted 

to call it

sacrilege,  

when I realize,

high on 

a promontory

looms

Los Alamos,

cradle

of the nuclear

age.

 

For me,

the site

is anything

but an artifact.

Friends

work there.

I’ve passed

through it

many times.

Hiked the hills

embracing it.

My ridge aligns

with Mount

Redondo,

a few minutes

south of the lab.

It overlooks
Valles Caldera

said to be

remants
of one

the largest
explosions
ever to rock
the planet.

I often wonder

if Oppenheimer

chose Los Alamos,

for its intimate

proximity

to the caldera.

I can almost

hear him

spurring on

his atom-splitting

cohorts: 

“We may never

match that

volcanic

cataclysm.

But I believe

we have

the minds 

to create

a weapon

of such power,

unlike any 

in human history,

to stop in its tracks,

the war.”

 

For those

like myself,

who call

this majestic

geoscape home,

his era,

to my disbelief,

is far from over.

Just weeks ago,

containers

leaking

nuclear

waste,

of the Cold War, 

were allowed 

to vent

into the air.

The winds,

I dread to say,

prevail from

the west—

towards

my ridge.

 

But what

of the Pueblos,

under which

a lethal chemical

flare in the soil,

originating

at the lab,

slowly worms

its way toward

tribal

ground water?

 

So far,

no amount

of science

or money 

can stop it.

No,

to me,

Los Alamos

lives neither

as just another

spot

on the map.

Nor anything

resembling

history’s 

tomb.

.

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, 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 280 poems, published on four continents.

CHACO CANYON / SCULPTURE OF SILENCE

by Dick Altman

More than 300,000 acres surrounding Chaco Canyon that are currently off-limits to drilling could be opened up. Environment New Mexico received a letter from the Bureau of Land Management confirming that the Public Lands Order protecting the area is “under review.” Nearly 90% of the surrounding area is already open to drilling. Chaco Canyon should be protected. —Environment New Mexico, September 25, 2025

Northern New Mexico

The name 

Chaco Canyon

may mean nothing

to you.

It means nothing

to me,

until I escape

New York’s

clamor and scream,

to live

in the calmer 

precincts 

of Old West’s

Indian Country.

 

We’re taught

to think

ancients

of Indigenous

culture

were mainly

hunters

and gatherers.

Chaco proves

they were

builders,

sculptors,

on a monumental

scale—

imagine

so-called “great

houses”

with eight-

hundred rooms—

unparalleled,

before,

and long after,

Columbus.

 

I’ve explored,

many Indian

remnants.

The walls 

mostly adobe,

or coarse

stone block.

Chaco’s edifices, 

stories high,

overwhelm me.

Many erected

with slivers

of sandstone,

some thin

as knife blades,

I see in them,

not architecture,

as such,

but fine weaving

or embroidery,

of the most

commanding,

exquisite

artistry.

 

I lose myself

in Chaco’s

deep valley

of silence,

its serenity,

so void of sound,

wandering

its remains,

transmutes

into moments

of transcendence,

unlike few

I’ve ever

known.

 

Every now

and then,

an oil derrick,

its mechanistic,

prayer,

endless,

to venality,

as I see it,

shatters

Chaco’s

centuries

of unyielding

spirituality.

 

The stench,

toxicity 

to soil

and water,

signals

an irreverence

for a Native

American site,

that deserves

the rare awe 

and esteem

we reserve,

in my heart,

at least,

for Egypt’s

Pyramids,

reflecting

the grandeur

of human

dream,

and reach.

 

 

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, 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 280 poems, published on four continents.