Rain-soaked prairie winds born of cheeky sass
Find harbor among chainlink cactus spines,
Weary of sun-drenched dance ‘cross seas of grass
And restless chases of far-flung skylines.
© Ilija Lukić 2026
Calf roping in rodeos is a partnership between a well-trained horse and rugged wrangler. It’s not a rough stock event like bareback, saddle bronc and bull riding. It’s a race against the clock.
Before each competitive go-round the cowboy takes time to check and ready specialized tack and a 25-foot lariat. The saddle has a low, wide horn with forward-hung stirrup to help with quick dismounts. A neck rope draped loosely across the horse’s head and neck will keep the horse facing the calf once the cowboy dismounts. Bell boots protect the horse’s hooves and heels. The short piece of rope tucked securely in the roper’s belt awaits action. Once in the arena he will use this piggin’ string to tie three of the calf’s legs. A final half-hitch knot—hooey in rodeo parlance—secures the legs, which signals completion of the run and stops the clock.
Albeit overwhelmed by the din of a raucous Pioneer Days Rodeo crowd in Clovis, New Mexico, spoken and unspoken words of encouragement between said partners linger on whispers of hot afternoon winds.
© Ilija Lukić 2026
Indigenous cultures of Oregon, like the Hood River Wasco and Chinook, have long revered the Multnomah Falls gorge and cascading waters as a place of spiritual power. In oral traditions the sacred waters and mists embody the spirit of a young native woman, whose prophesied sacrificial leap from the crest of the sheer cliff on her wedding day saves friends, family and tribe from a gruesome plague. Her grief-stricken father entreats his spirit guide Yul-mah, acquired on a vision quest, to intercede with sky spirits and ask for a sign honoring her sacrifice. Mystically, daylong somber and mist-laden skies opened in the golden hour at sunset and gave us Multnomah Falls—a breathtaking refuge.
© Ilija Lukić 2026
Starlit skies invite fond tree frog chorus,
While fireflies drift on sultry night airs,
Till rolling thunder in skies above us
Quiets halcyon summer-night affairs.
© Ilija Lukić 2026
A sense of wonder is the cornerstone of wisdom.
Some years ago my daughters, wife and I hike the Trail of Ten Falls in Silver Falls State Park, Oregon. We pause in awe at each cascade, enraptured by the soul-stirring quietude of plunging water.
My younger daughter, an avid and creative photographer, captures one such moment where my imagination takes flight—an image worth a thousand words. It is a moment where my curiosity soars and mind opens with a humble desire to understand the depths of the universe and profound mysteries of Creation.
As I look back and recapture the feeling at said milestone in my life-long journey of self-discovery, I wholeheartedly reaffirm my enduring resolve never to lose my sense of wonder—the key that unlocks a sublime compass, which guides my heart and soul’s quest for meaning in life towards the heart of the universe.
© Ilija Lukić 2026
Thunder Moon reigns mid Dog Days of Summer,
Stirs dark winds of fate to push me astray,
Yet, sways me to follow my heart’s drummer,
While Dog Star in night skies shows hallowed way.
© Ilija Lukić 2026
An afternoon hike through Oregon woodlands takes me to the bouldered shoreline of a shallow lake formed by human touch near the head waters of Mud Creek, a tributary of the Salmon River. Sublime quietude fills the air. Across the distant skyline, the regal mask of Mount Hood defined by glacial ice belies the quiet giant’s fiery past.
Late afternoon sunlight, whispers of clouds and ethereal vapors across densely wooded foothills add to the poetry written by the silvered countenance of Trillium Lake. My spirit soars. My imagination takes flight on lively winds that descend from the ice-clad slopes of the sleeping fire mountain to play with lake waters. My body reacts with brief shrivers in defiance of the crisp, yet refreshing breeze.
Out on the water, a lone fisherman’s prayer enjoins the wind-driven wavelets to abet his angling exploits. In mind’s eye, I appreciate his sincere whispers of endearment—albeit clad in ulterior motives—to denizens of the silvery realm.
© Ilija Lukić 2026
Hark, sleeping fire mountain rouse my heart,
Cause contemplation, pensive heart to soar,
Till inward glimpse upsets life’s apple cart
And spills uncharted wisdom at heart’s door.
© Ilija Lukić 25
In the aftermath of an hellacious late-summer deluge, a decades-old and weatherbeaten barn once again proves worthy of praise as a sanctuary for bounties harvested with relentless toil and unyielding faith in the soil of the Llano Estacado Plateau—a fitting monument to the grit and perseverance of intrepid farmers on said tablelands north of Clovis, New Mexico.
© Ilija Lukić 2026
We’re mere jars of clay
Shaped by divine hand,
Purposely flawed,
Yet refuge for the soul,
Where our inner light
On divine command
Can heal mortal clay
At faith’s water hole.
© Ilija Lukić 2026
Lend ear, take to heart unalienable rights—
Divinely granted, irrevocable.
Let freedom of conscience take to new heights
Your personal journeys on life’s timetable.
See life’s bed of thorns not as cross to bear,
But as champion of truth that wakes pipe dreams...
Purges hearts of deceit and pride’s fanfare
To usher humility in on moonbeams.
Pride’s bitter pill lays bare profound insights,
Endowed with divine favor they sway the heart,
Align core truth with clarity of spirit,
Unveil higher truths—ignite soul’s jump start.
Cultivate inner peace, when life’s seems adrift...
Said vessel set sail as celestial gift.
© Ilija Lukić 2025
Quiet, intimate moments—a confession of love, a gentle word of encouragement, an unspoken understanding, self-reflection, a spark of inspiration triggered by beauty in the natural world or human interactions—are often the catalysts for ambitions, hopes and dreams that blossom into bright futures filled with love, positivity and life changing achievements. Said achievements rarely start with bluster or thunderous roar. Tender whispers are the seeds of great expectations.
© Ilija Lukić 2026
Dark foundling stone invites mid-summer dream,
Whispers of moonlight on wings of night air
That find respite on said stone, it would seem,
When artist spills heart with brush, green hues and flair.
© Ilija Lukić 2026
Poem was inspired by pebble art painting of luna moth by friend Edythe Hogan of Digby, Nova Scotia province on eastern coast of Canada
For a decade a pair of red-shouldered hawks (buteo lineatus) have claimed and defended our back-forty as their nesting territory. These ambush hunters are small forest raptors—about the size of a crow, with a three-foot wingspan. When in pursuit of small mammals, frogs, lizards, snakes and large insects, these graceful aerialists thread through the understory of towering woodland canopies with ease—before swooping down powerfully to surprise and snatch their prey.
Based on past concurrent sightings of the pair, I’m fairly certain this is the male. In this broad-winged hawk species, males are noticeably smaller than females. This makes size the most obvious characteristic to distinguish between the sexes, since plumage is identical.
© Ilija Lukić 2026
When listless heart suffers endless malaise,
Embrace bolder rhythms of summer days;
Then...lingering gloom will vanish, leastways,
From mood crushed by life’s tortuous maze.
© Ilija Lukić 2026
Wild burros tend to be solitary animals with legendary endurance. Their sure-footedness allows them to navigate unforgiving terrain. With evolutionary origins that trace back to the arid regions of North Africa—they survive on minimal forage and water—which makes them well-suited for environments of the American Southwest.
The working bond between humans and burros started some 5,000 years ago. The symbiotic relationship continued with Spanish explorers, conquistadors and missionaries, who introduced burros to the New World in the 16th century. The working equines played an important role as pack and draft animals during the exploration and settling of remote areas.
In time, miners and prospectors during the 19th century Gold Rush relied on descendants of these amiable beasts to carry heavy mining supplies. When mining booms ended some burros escaped, others were abandoned or released—the hardy animals survived and established wild, free-roaming herds. Along with wild horses, the wild burros are protected under statues of New Mexico law.
© Ilija Lukić 2026
The sweeping expanse of the Canadian River Plain whispers of a world before the dawn of mankind. Seemingly uncorrupted solitude, a sprawling horizon and a sea of grass under eternal blue skies disguise any footprint of humanity.
Before the arrival of Europeans and later American settlers, widely dispersed indigenous tribes dominate the pristine wilderness—known as Our People’s Land among Comanches. The horse-cultures of Comanche and Kiowa are quintessential nomadic hunter-gatherers of the Southern Great Plains. Their age-old, intimate knowledge of the plains is legendary. Their reverence for the animals and rhythms of the grasslands is spiritual. Understanding habits of gregarious herd animals like American bison and pronghorn antelope—especially on migrations to summer grazing grounds—is a cornerstone of their survival and culture.
The Canadian River watershed spans 1,000 miles across Colorado, New Mexico, Texas and Oklahoma. At an elevation of 4,000 feet, vast stretches of the timeless landscape in New Mexico remain minimally tamed by human hand.
From my vantage point on the northern precipice of the Llano Estacado Escarpment, the plain still appears unspoiled by civilization. Ten miles to the north and swallowed by the expanse is the village of San Jon—population 195—a waypoint on the historic Route 66. These days Interstate 40 parallels “The Mother Road” and links the village with the bustling town of Tucumcari, New Mexico to the west and Amarillo, Texas to the east.
© Ilija Lukić 2026
Life has ups and downs,
Which complement each other—
Wise heart finds balance
© Ilija Lukić 2026
Fear casts long shadows
Be bold, step into life’s light—
Why not seize the day?
© Ilija Lukić 2026
At 4,600 feet of elevation, the northern boundary of Llano Estacado tablelands is a rugged escarpment dotted with piñon pines and junipers. In some places caprock crowns steep cliff faces. In others alluvial fans ease into the majestic sprawl of the Canadian River basin sweeping into boundless beauty of the open horizon.
At the break-over edge of the escarpment, I pause my day trip to San Jon, New Mexico on a roadside overlook at Harguess Hollow Park—minutes north of Grady. My imagination takes flight and I purposely give mind’s eye free rein to roam the river plain during the time-shrouded days of yore.
Right away I acknowledge the history of the arid grasslands. They are dynamic, ancestral territories of Comanches, Apaches and Kiowa tribes. But, the sublime beauty and allure of faraway vistas beyond the veil of the known also fires imaginations of 17th century Spanish explorers in search of treasure. Later European settlers and explorers use the river corridor as an east-west passage to reach Santa Fe NM and California.
The inhospitable, semi-arid plain—dominated by blue grama, buffalograss, galleta, sideoats grama and little bluestem—also challenges travelers with thorny indigenous flora. Distinct personal experiences with bayonette-like yucca leaves, barbed cholla spines and horse-crippling prickly-pear cactus spikes allow me to relate to their physical torment.
On closer reflection, I find that adversity and struggles on the trail often sow seeds of contentment. Like the serenity of a high plains sunrise with the aroma of sage on the first breath of daybreak...or putting a grueling day to rest on a wisp of honey mesquite smoke gently curling through chill evening air, whispering promises of a delicious campfire meal.
© Ilija Lukić 2026
