Excerpt for Letters West by , available in its entirety at Smashwords

Letters West

Christie Moses

Copyright by

ePrintedBooks 2015

No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including recording, photocopying, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without the written permission of the publisher.

Published by ePrintedBooks

Smashwords Edition

Dedicated to my daughter Brianna

This book is a work of fiction and non-fiction.

This is a book about my journey through pain, my past and discovery. Life is a sometimes solemn affair and it is truly a labyrinth of wonder and agony. Inside these words is a place I went when I needed respite and relief from the shadows that at times would find me. I hope it touches at least one heart and moves at least one soul.

In poetry, if part of your soul doesn’t stain the page,

crumble it up and throw it away….


Desert Diary

It burns low and quiet

on nights like these in Mohave


Lost inside the untamed wild

of mustang passion and


Joshua trees and clear sky.

The boulevards of sand and

the great hungry nothing.

I stare out at skies too large

and wind carries the breath

of desert storms.

I tremble to the sounds of

emptiness that swallows my

being with such feral rise.

I become inside this world.

This diary of fired grains

and the spirit of howled canyons.

A gypsy weed,

a thousand mile journey

Desert Flower

Mohave spoken on raw red dirt.

I was spindles of gathered weeds.

Where spirit flows to the great dunes

of sand and stretched out days of


It still speaks in my naked quiet

of the loneliest plain existing.

You say you see such beauty there,

but mother,

I see its cracked earth and

unstitched wounds still gaping.

While your spirit roams alive in its

wide open miles,

I stand taller by the rune of sea.

I cannot be in the desert where

your heart flies free.


I remember us there

drunken on life,

and eyes burned alive

with laughter.

Apple cheeked and


We danced to

old time country

and dangled feet

in the creek.

I loved like a serafine.

It consumed me

like the great

pyramid of Giza.

We were all

and everything.

Country wind

and summer noon.

Every cell consumed

with breath.

Poets of Old

I hear the voice of Nabokov

incanted early morning

as my wild arches balance

on the wooden beams of hope.

Teetering between pathways, I

peer to this passionate divide.

It is lulling on mountains,

and between the sounds of

waves on wind to begin within.

I am sheer curtains swirling

on window panes,

gauzy in the billowed sand.

Whisper Kerouac and Neruda,

tracing my skin into a stained bliss.

I am, we are, it all is...

within an open kiss.

Moody girl

I will wake each morning

with no clear eye of whom I will be.

Streams of white filter

through restless window hangings,

moving to the strains of Bach,

or desolation on the map of

bitter pavement,

and crushing inside to the pummel

of 'bullets with butterfly wings.'

I am so many things, my love,

and I am still that girl

lost in the wild beat

of life.

Dance this moody dance with me,

as I spill my soul onto torn pages

that will bleed over crumpled books

barely read.


Stand with me, love

on the edge

of sapphire prisms.

Sea, you cry

like my insides weeping.

Vivaldi passions

streaming like

thin fingers

to my cheek; I tremble

in your wake.

Call me moody,

if you must,

in the mornings,

but kiss me wide awake

to the bare light

of titian dawn unveiled .

Entwined roots

sweeping lips to shore.

Alive along the sand

like children laughing...

To the fire

I feed off the dark corners that bleed

into your center

and stall in your insatiable need

for quiet.

How like fire, you are slow to simmer

and my heart rages to belong

within those flames.

I am merely creeks and sea; I, a lost

vagabond hanger-on to the

sky blue in your eyes.

Pray, love, I do not douse such a burn;

that I do not stall such a wild

blaze with my ocean hands

and my sea stained skin

that I cannot stop residing in.


I have stood on great mountaintops

and felt my immortality;

I am one being of land and sea.

There is no sound but my heart

and wind expelled from countless

souls filtered to the very breath

of illusion.

How you shift beside me; our separation is

like a devastation into

the still of unquiet and my soul

burns from such disconnection.

Tell me these messed sheets

are not much like peaks and trees,

where many souls wander

and bring the breaking to my knees...


Like Spanish dancers

on the jagged edge of sea.

Of starlight that enrapts like

drops of sienna sand held

illusory in my hand.

My muse of vibrance and shrouds

of wind and desert chasers

-it is all one-

United under strands of earth and

glimmering vibration.

Utter transience and wanderers.

We exist as golden ache

to taste the very sky we pray to.

Letters West #1

The sea is brooding passion

at raw orange dawn.

White Merlot wine.

I am spines of mellow

in the fire of coastal suns.

You are not here.

Rooted in the southern skies,

your eyes have sought Laurel lake

in languished silence,

and you find home in the still.

I am deep in the breaking hours,

as the waves shift on tides of transience.

I am bound by soul to voice this.

I am whispers on shores here;

leaving my prints to fade away.

My spirit rides like mustangs

on the crashing current.

Forever lost in the aching waves.

Molasses in the winter

I sit and watch the tragedy

of this small towns boredom.

From my window comes the slow

fog of grayish nothing

and I wince at the lack of

interest in life I see.

It is with remorse

that I stall my mind

and keep my lips locked

because they wouldn't

really get it anyway.

Let me sink to the dark night

at 2:30 a.m.

and life on the pacific coast.

I do not live inside the walls

of this lassitude on laurel lake.

Clown love

I've weathered many tragedies

in the July of his eyes.

-lost in the translation of his lips-

I chase his storms

like a foolish seeker

and await his smiles to light my sky.

A puppet of his love.


He is storms on the Cumberland.

Eyes like Mohave mornings.

I am madness on the edges;

friction in the sea.

We are the secrets in lost alleys

and beneath the dregs.

Far beyond this worlds expectancy.

There can be no boundaries for a gypsy.

Summer burn and winters sorrow

You became ensconced

in my aching skin

like noon in mid-July.

You tasted of summer,

blazing eyes and low laughter.

-you caused ache like hurt bones-

My heart burned twin flames

of desire for you.

You defined every fear I've ever held

that love could dismantle my soul

and kill its very breath away.


I miss the flight of migration

that flew with such precision

each time your hand sought mine.

The sky bleeds purple and

the doves sought a landing

beyond my retired butterflies.

Oh, how the gray sea cries.

Decembers snow

I tripped over your tragedy

on clumsy streets

and clung to your lyrics

through melody.

-I feel you in the chill of December-

So haunting and cold

as ice offending my cheeks,

gloved in the hollow

mountain peaks.

You breathe of snow

and taste of agony,

as if the spirit of your brevity

were merely me imagining.

Each frost that shawls

my memory

becomes my bitter enemy.

The price for love

Why must there be judgment

that hangs heavy as anchors

around the neck of broken souls?

Shouldn't love surpass that?

Shouldn't there be beauty

found even in dark spaces?

Love is not priced to the highest

or the most noble bidder.

Love has no cost.

Even renegades should receive it.

We are all worthy.

In amongst the ugly

I look for blind beauty in the eye

of such eminent disaster.

The world trickles over with corruption,

but such hope lay in my child's smile.

Each time her face lights up

I hold the moon.

Transience and the oak tree

I will always be the sea

You, the trees.

Where shall the two meet?

Somewhere lost

on red sunsets

stilled into waking

by the endless need?

My soul wanders

pacific coasts, sand bound,

as my body

abodes this forest

in transience,

and the sad tastes

of broken lemons

on slashed canvas.

I do not breathe well here

in this bluegrass air.

I am waves breaking

and tides calling.

Your eyes light,

knowing you belong here,

and I weep like a lost child,

for I never will.

If love spoke

You were Marlboro tragedy

quipped with ripped pockets

and tobacco stained fingers.

Drum solos and walking heart splatter.

Eyes like disaster

the shade of bourbon nights,

and if love could talk

it would’ve told me to run.

Eyes like summer

Pacific eyes like July mornings

strum the six string in my heart.

Well played like a melody riding

the streets in my skin like thievery.

You move me to madness,

but return me to solace in the asylum

of beach sand and laughter.

I stand on the precipice of plummet

like a crazy woman

in the depths of delirium,

but find my way to safety in the net

of blazing blue.

Breaking cycles

I am still that sad kid,

bruised heart, and lonely skin.

Shy eyes and backward social skills.

I hid behind my mothers dress,

though it wasn't much protection from

the war that shook the walls within.

I look at you, my angel,

and smile at your confidence,

and my heart soars at your easy laughter.

May you never know broken

and never fear the very ones

you were meant to trust.

Summed up

Gypsy cells are wild

on black winter days.

-restlessness flowers-

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(Pages 1-17 show above.)