Sedona – A Poem

(Photo by Justin W on Unsplash)

This poem – written for a friend – is about the quirkiness of Sedona, Arizona and people who live there (and my dear friend is one of the quirkiest people I know). Sedona is a unique blend of breath-taking landscapes, New Age energy, and esoteric experimentation. Although I never lived there, I went through real estate school in Sedona at the height of the housing bubble, passed the state real estate exam, and witnessed all the reasons for the housing market collapse. I spent a lot of time soaking up the atmosphere, getting to know both locals and tourists, and hiking among the Red Rocks. If you’re looking to join a cult or expand your mind, Sedona is the place to go. But, beware! Every community has its dark side, regardless of outward appearances, and Sedona is no exception.

Sedona

Tourists think the locals are all wealthy snobs

Who perform yoga contortions on the tops of ruddy mountains

And meditate in the epicenters of vortexes on the Red Rocks of Sedona.

But we know better, you and I, for we’ve known the locals,

And we’ve known the tourists, and it’s hard to say who’s more eccentric.

If they heard the colorful tales about your youthful days

When you protested at Alcatraz with the American Indian Movement

And met its leader, Dennis Banks, who jumped bail

And later went to jail and then prison,

Would they think you were real? Or just another Sedona fantasist,

Gazing into your crystal ball and scrying into a mirror?

You liked to test the boundaries of reality and the rules of society

And thumb your nose at The Establishment, whomever that happened to be.

When burglars looking for money and valuables targeted your neighborhood,

You laughed out loud — shocking the neighbors — when your son,

Dressed up in full Nazi gear, with his Glock fully exposed,

Ran around the neighborhood, after playing his part in World War II re-enactment games.

But, hey, your house was never robbed! And, that’s the joke.

And, remember that lady we used to know – the one who belonged to the UFO cult –

The psychiatrist made a special visit to her house one day, and we never saw her again.

But her son was happy: he got the house and all of her money.

Of course, you knew more than her about the greys and the lizard people,

Having met them in your childhood on your family’s farm in Pennsylvania.

You still remember Bigfoot’s stench when you fed him in the woods.

And you never quite understood why George Romero chose the neighbor’s farmhouse

Instead of yours to make his zombie masterpiece. Even befriending Jason Voorhees’ mom

(Of Friday the 13^th fame) cannot keep you down on the Red Rocks of Sedona,

For your Buddhist heart is too large, your courage too brave, and your mind too active

To bring you back to earth.

~

Dawn Pisturino

August 16, 2022; November 1, 2022

(Revised October 30, 2022)

Copyright 2022 Dawn Pisturino. All Rights Reserved.

Following the Zombies

(Scene from Shaun of the Dead)

Yesterday, I followed the zombies around in Walmart. They were silent, shuffling along more slowly than usual, their shopping carts creaking between the narrow aisles. Their faces never changed. They just poked along, crouched over their carts with bent shoulders, looking at the same old products with dead eyes. I impatiently followed behind them and finally got stuck in the pain aisle between several carts. This is always the most popular aisle in the store. The next most popular aisle is the laxative aisle. It took several minutes before I could quietly maneuver my cart around the cluster of walking dead. Once I extricated myself, I headed for the checkout stand and got the hell out of there. I survived another trip through Walmart, unscathed. Next time, I might not be so lucky.

Dawn Pisturino

January 28, 2022

Copyright 2022 Dawn Pisturino. All Rights Reserved.

NOTE: No offense intended to real zombies.

The Dentist and Other Poems

Artwork by John Federis

(Warning! If you hate going to the dentist, don’t read this poem!)

The Dentist

by Dawn Pisturino

Now I’ve got you in my chair,

You’re not going anywhere.

So open wide, let me in,

And let the painful games begin!

See that molar on the right?

It’s in the socket way too tight.

Here’s my plier. Please don’t move.

I’ll pry that sucker from its groove!

Look, there’s a cavity over there.

My drill’s all ready. Please don’t stare!

My hands are shaking, can’t you see?

I need your confidence in me.

Oops! The blood is squirting out.

I didn’t mean to make you shout!

Your bloody tongue is in my hand.

Sit down! Don’t even try to stand!

Come back! I need to suture in—-

Oh well, another toothless grin.

February 6, 2012

Published in the April 2012 issue of Underneath the Juniper Tree.

Copyright 2012-2021 Dawn Pisturino. All Rights Reserved.

Artwork by Ken Lamug
Poem by Dawn Pisturino

CHELSEA HAD A LITTLE LAMB

Chelsea had a little lamb,

Its fleece was black as soot. 

And everywhere that Chelsea went,

That lamb was underfoot.

It followed her to school until

The cooking class went wild

And served that lamb with mint and dill,

One chop for every child!

October 6, 2011

Published in the December 2011 issue of Underneath the Juniper Tree.

Copyright 2011-2021 Dawn Pisturino. All Rights Reserved.

Artwork by Jason Smith

Poem by Dawn Pisturino

DIRTY DONALD

Dirty Donald!

His hair, full of lice,

Grows down to his shoulders,

A haven for mice. 

His teeth are all rotten,

Mildewed and black,

His tongue is so long,

He could pass for a yak. 

His breath stinks of corpses

Dug fresh from their graves,

A delicate morsel

He constantly craves. 

He glares at the ravens,

Surrounding his head,

With murderous eyes,

Pronouncing them dead. 

Then yanks out their feathers

And nibbles their toes,

Lining them up

In neat little rows. 

His clothes are so tattered,

The buzzards all say,

“What a fine looking fellow!

Let’s eat him today!” 

July 3, 2011 

Published on Underneath the Juniper Tree, July 17, 2011.  

Published in the August 2011 issue of Underneath the Juniper Tree.  

Copyright 2011-2021 Dawn Pisturino. All Rights Reserved.

Illustration by Job van Gelder

Poem by Dawn Pisturino

Down in the Graveyard

Down in the graveyard by the old oak tree

Roamed an old mother zombie and her little zombies three.

“Fresh meat!” cried the mother. “Tastes sweet!” cried the three.

And they ripped out the intestines from the caretaker, Lee.

Down in the graveyard by the mausoleum door

Lived an old mother werewolf and her little wolfies four.

“Fresh fat!” howled the mother. “Tastes great!” howled the four.

And they tore into the belly of the visitor, Lenore.

Down in the graveyard by the rusty old gate

Hung an old mother vampire and her little vampies eight.

“Fresh blood!” squeaked the mother. “Tastes good!” squeaked the eight.

And they sank their greedy fangs into the gravedigger, Nate.

Published in the September 2012 issue of Underneath the Juniper Tree.

Copyright 2012-2021 Dawn Pisturino. All Rights Reserved.