From a 1978 trip from Montana to El Salvador and back, driving a 1949 Buick Super dyna-flow.

There is a volcano in El Salvador that was active for quite some time, known as the Lighthouse of the Pacific, but in Nahuat the name is Izalco, which means place of black sand. Next to Izalco is a dormant volcanic mountain called Cerro Verde. A developer decided it would be great to build a hotel and restaurant on Cerro Verde to sell the 'view' of Izalco and its flame as an attraction. The road was cut into the mountain and the buildings and parking lot built on top, but not many people go there. Izalco stopped erupting, so there's not much point to the steep drive up Cerro Verde. I went to the top in the '49 Buick and took photos for paintings and wrote this poem:

Volcano's Revenge

Izalco,
The place of black sand,
Burned like a torch,
Like a beacon
Seen miles out to sea.

Izalco's flame
Was famous,
More than a natural wonder
Or a landmark,
It was a fiery breath
From a spirit
Of the Earth.

But those who see
In terms of tourist attractions
And the chance to make a dollar
Thought they were wise
To build a hotel
On the summit overlooking
Izalco.

The local people understood
This insult to the spirit,
And knowingly they shook their heads,
When at the hotel's birth,
The flame of Izalco
Died.

---

Driving through Guatemala to Tikal

Adios! Adios!
Both little hands fly up and down
As they run to the jungle road
Where gringo's driving by their Mayan huts.
The country boy on the balsam coast
Wanted to know,
Do they have Coca Cola in the United States?
Precious Coke and Pepsi must be
Trucked into the jungle
For those who are 'deprived'.

---

Belize City

"Hey, mon, pull ober"
Big Black
Street full
Wooden houses close up,
Narrow crowded idle poor.
The Queen is on the currency.

---

Sihuapilapa, El Salvdor
(the place on the coast where I lived)

She said as she touched
Her slender golden arm,
"We have married with
The Nahuat,
And so comes the pretty color."
And it was true,
As her home was called
Sihuapilapa -
The Place of Beautiful Women.

---

My heart is folded in
upon itself like a fan,
Like my red concertina,
(snapped shut, tight)
no song playing
no deep organ sound,
Folded in
like the closed bellows
of a camera
(click shut, dark)
no image of a loved one,
Folded in
like the quiet feathers
of a wing,
(folded in upon itself),
Resting for the next flight.