Nevada

I first visited Nevada nearly 50 years ago and became immediately enchanted with the state—the vast expanses of sagebrush and rabbit brush, corrugated mountain ranges, broad playas devoid of vegetation, wild horses, and empty roads connecting lonely towns an hour apart. Countering the beauty, though, is a dark legacy—huge mines, nuclear testing, bombing ranges, gambling, prostitution, and sprawling cities and suburbs sucking scant water from beneath the rest of that dry state. I have visited it many times, and with the exception of cities like Las Vegas, Reno, and Sparks, Nevada is one of my favorite places in the country.

Here is a poem I wrote about the state. It is in blank verse, unrhymed iambic pentameter.

NEVADA

I – An Elegy
Forlorn of love and rain, and pimped to greed,
a land so rich in what men seek – and take,
so poor in spirit, on her back, legs spread,
with sores left from the pox of the quick buck.

Tall verdant mountains block both rain and snow,
and withered streams disappear into dry sand,
while springs seep water too hot or bitter to drink,
and virga veils taunt but hardly reach the ground.

Abandoned mines, ghost towns, and tailing piles
are faded needle tracks of miners drugged
by greed, false hopes, and grub stakes gone awry.
At last, nothing remains but those old scars.

Mines now have become yawning open pits
where ravenous machines swallow the earth
and leave a legacy of wounds so deep
that no amount of time can hide or heal.

Small towns of doublewides and mobile homes
lie hunkered on the unforgiving land
along with churches, thrift stores, and tough bars
where Johnny Walker wisdom fills the air.

Las Vegas oozes the cheap and tawdry
through every one of its neon pores,
seducing gullible tourists who seek
distraction from their disappointing lives.

Neglected, windblown cemeteries hold
bleak graves whose tombstones and terse epitaphs
tell cut-and-run stories from a desperate past,
to keep memories from blowing away.

Top secret sites, nuclear explosions,
and downwind cancer clusters remind us
of sacrifices made without our say
in the madness of the Atomic Age.

Out on the Black Rock Desert, Burning Man
promotes an orgy of irrelevance
for aging hippies and high tech execs.
that sullies the forgiving playa floor.

The powerful continue to exploit
as solar farms and geothermal plants
metastasize, consuming desert lands
for their profit but not the greater good.

Along the Interstate, travelers stop
to pee, get gas, and grab a bite to eat
before they hurry onward to escape
what seems to them just barren nothingness.

II – A Coda of Hope
Despite the wounds and scars, beauty abides
amid cheap slots, dyed hair, and neon glare.
The noble land holds fast and resilient,
against the onslaught of power and greed.

Deep canyons guard trout streams and beaver ponds,
while rabbitbrush bajadas host sage hens,
and herds of wild horses and antelope,
all denizens of a land wild and free.

Eagles and red tail hawks soar high above
broad groves of piñon pine and juniper.
Below, raucous jays, magpies, and blackbirds
gather and feed on their berries and nuts.

In autumn as the sun glides toward winter,
yellow aspens festoon far mountainsides.
Erotic scents of sagebrush fill the air,
and crisp mornings welcome the warming day.

Soft green and yellow hues of desert scrub
complement the bright cerulean sky
to create a pointillist masterpiece
that overawes the foolish works of man.