He Said, “She came like a woman’s body, of incandescent light upon his own, it could be as the poet said”, “So death doth touch the resurrection*”.
In morning he wanders the high plains above, Boaz searching, looking for some kind of answer, maybe angelic where ever he roams. His sheep find the border, the white sand of home, sometimes under sunlight the lambs look like snow on a mountain, he once used to know. A high arid climate, a place made for the unknown, the Eden of sea sands, Boaz the Shepard, finds his dreams coming home.
A morning in summer, a darkness well known, in white sands a first quarter, of moon now not known. And Boaz he walks through the shadows and hue, and looks out there yonder for the land that he knew. His lambs they lay waiting in shelter and home, their white wool of goodness, a dream he has sown. He wanders still waiting is she with him still, Shekinah, the wisdom, the spirit that follows, her hunger, wanting its fill.
She sounds like a soft word, a whisper of blossom, a syllable, a rhyming, a rod of learning, a yearning in hips perhaps a moan. A seraph of witches, a majik, this herder finds unknown. She surrounds him glory, her face not twisted, the truth of a mistress, a wife to be known. Oh Boaz of white sands in thoughts of a herder, perhaps she is waiting to take you home. No better truth in this world has his body ever known. The wind is quiet now, perhaps a dream, the lonely shepherd groans.
She joins him like atoms, a mass of just one, and a falling omission of choice in the sun. A woman of burning, a treasure won, her legs wrapped in union of cry’s when ones done. The air of the mighty, the dawn of dark morn, when all around Boaz, the desert adorns. With wild roars of fury, and lightning behest, unleashed of her gash, lust duty beholden, at all times request. The changing of fission of all he now sees, the raining of white sand, an all moving sea.
For Boaz the shepherd, his sheep now awake, the desert before him, the ground still it shakes. His visions from red to purple in sky, man’s purpose for living, lost in the fires eye, but still she does stand there, that purest of kind. That purpose of wisdom, her smile heals his why. And heavens fall harder, in white from the sky, the bomb of destruction, the cancer of lies. For Boaz the shepherd lives in the dream, for some ark of beauty, has kept death unseen.
*(So death doth touch the resurrection) – Hymn to G_D, My G_D, in My Sickness by John Donne
Boaz Martinez, was a sheep farmer who lived south of Socorro, New Mexico. On July 16, 1945, he claims to have seen G_D rising up in the desert, in the white sand, reaching high into the firmament, dancing perversely before him, and then coming down, settling he said, “She came like a woman’s body, of incandescent light upon his own, it could be as the poet said”, “So death doth touch the resurrection*”. Changing him, rearranging his thoughts and beliefs, removing a mask, and helping him to see a different life from any he had ever known. I met Boaz at the Hatch, New Mexico Green Chili Festival in September of 1979. The above is for him. – 7.25.2015 – דָּנִיֵּאל