When my time on Earth
I would not leave in the winter,
With misty grey skies overhead.
Rather in the hottest part of summer,
With arid sands to form my bed.
To submit to the elemental,
Until only ash remains.
And then spread on the burning sands,
Blending with the golden grains.
To drift under Mojave skies,
Under the burning sun so bright.
In duststorms and in whirlwinds,
Like ravens in their flight.
To rest contented for all times,
Nestled within the Desert Willow.
Lingering sometimes on the creosote,
With white quartz, for my pillow.
There I would forever be at peace,
In the washes and the hills.
The simplest things are life and death,
Mojave dust, no fancy frills.
9/8/13 Alton Texas.
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Comments about this poem (Mojave Dust by Juan Olivarez )
(12 July 1904 – 23 September 1973)
(March 26, 1874 – January 29, 1963)
(4 April 1928 - 28 May 2014)
(1 February 1902 – 22 May 1967)
Edgar Allan Poe
(19 January 1809 - 7 October 1849)
(10 December 1830 – 15 May 1886)
(30 October 1885 – 1 November 1972)
(16 August 1920 – 9 March 1994)
(27 October 1914 – 9 November 1953)
(31 May 1819 - 26 March 1892)
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