Fall Colors

© 2007 Photos by Sue Miller

I love fall colors. I meant to put these up a while back when leaves on trees on the NMSU campus were changing colors and leaves were falling on the ground. Just had to share these (best shots).

Super Fine

My hair is a spool of thread,
fine and straight, slightly wavy
at the end. Flips in locks, knots,
tangles when wet, wraps around
my neck if it ever thickens,
grow long again, which is why
it stays short, curled on the ends,
a bob or page-boy hairdo.
Goodness, I still look like a kid
but with a Beatle cut style
except my hair is turning gray.

I hate these slender tresses
hugs my head like dainty string
follows my white balding crown
in a circular direction
like a cyclone Kathy
or a whirlpool Wanda.
My right backsides hanging flat
no matter how many times
I roll it with a dryer
I'm a lop-sided Sue with
a spool of thin strands for hair
filamentous, gossamer
silky, threadlike, as light as
cheap cheesecloth or gauze—almost.

Hot Enchiladas

My stomach is a potbellied stove,
big, fat and full, rounded out,
expansion free, not hard as steel
but soft as a balloon. If helium filled
the crannies between food and tea,
I believe I'd pop, burst into a
skinny Minnie. Instead, I wish
someone could lift me with a crane,
gently place me in a wheelbarrow,
roll me out to the car. I can't get up.
My stomach rumbles with burning
embers, flickering sparks, ravage
the sides. I grumble in misery,
pain so bad it is good, like a large
pan filled with beans, rice, lettuce,
tomato and lots of tortillas, enchilada
sauce and lots of guacamole
and hot salsa on top, guaranteed
to move me the following day.

Ripped Off

I was flabbergasted
winning fifty dollars,
and it was mine,
he made me
give him half.
After all, he paid
for the bingo cards.

Looking back, this is
the first time I
felt ripped off,
a selfish man
took from someone
with little money,
and that was all I had.
My step dad did buy the cards.

Scratch Fever

Cats live beneath my skin
irritable Pac-men
gnawing away, nibble-nibble
here, crawling itch there, driving
me crazy. I scratch with claws,
fidget, too—as if that helps—
flex and wiggle back and neck
raise the shoulders, squirmy yet
brush it 'til my hide turns raw
like inward prickles
scour with nails as srubbed by Brillo
chafe until my crust is pink,
parched and flaky. I might
as well use a cheese grater.

Carob Almond (I Scream for Rice Dream)

Only meant to eat half a pint.
Every bite tastes better than the last

shoveling spoons of an ice-cream style
dessert, cold, melting in my mouth

chomping almonds in carob despite
how much sodium it contains per cup.

I eat the whole package; my body
collects four hundred and forty

milligrams of sodium and twenty four grams
of carbohydrates to expand my waist,

to put me on the verge of disaster,
perhaps hypertension or other affliction.

But, at this moment, I don't care,
it was sinful, delicious, I will suffer

the cost and not repent one luscious
scoop, not regret that hungry walk

down the freezer aisle as I dallied along
seeing it behind that icy glass door

screaming "Buy me, buy me!"
and my taste buds said "Oh, do it!"

Thinking Out Loud

Funny how I talk to myself
moaning about something,
sometimes sarcastically,
as a psycho-syncopathic
mimicking pundits
or acting out something
in my head.

Maybe it's just frustration
about the way things are.
They say I can change it
but it never changes--
stuff of that sort.

Then I wonder why
I'm even complaining
when I realize how good
I have it, compared with
some far worse conditions.

I go around in circles
with repeating thoughts,
then I start talking again--
a vicious habit.
Well, maybe not vicious.
Maybe it's just plain crazy.
Am I crazy?
No. I'm just human.
Everybody does that.
I think.

Winter Forecast

© 2007 Photo by Sue Miller

The Jujube tree is barren already
except for a few dead leaves,
they waddle and sway with the wind
stringy as limp Irish moss.

Grey and white doves huddle
together, their fat bellies
overhang on each side
on mangled, dead branches
intermingled as cobwebs.

A cold front and overcast sky
mute activity if it weren't
for me scampering below it,
bundled in three layers
of clothing. Afternoon sprinkles,
biting cold, pierce my bones.

I'd much rather be cool
than blistering hot
as long as temps stay the same
and the rain lasts one day, I'm fine.

I dislike persisting rain
day after day, thermometer gauges
dropping down, down, down
until I wake up one morning,
find my car whiter with snow.

I can see it now when
I am late for work and drivers
here screech into nasty mishaps
because they know not how
to drive in it. I will brush off
the snow, drive slowly to work,

dodging wrecks and tow-trucks,
police cars with circular lights
and I hope to park near that
Jujube tree, resting in winter
its wicked limbs frozen, stiffer
than planks of grey steel.

Time Change

Long day.
I have no concept of the sun
descending beyond dusk.
At 5:30 p.m., I shut down
the computer--
gather my things.
As habit dictates,
like it did last week,
I attach my clip-on sunglasses
and head for the front door
expecting summer light.

I hate when time changes.
Now it is dark and I grumble.
From what I can see
the Asian Jujube tree,
with its plump
green leaves last Friday,
already turn yellow and brown
by Monday.
They shrivel and curl,
hang like dead grapes,
as dry as my skin without lotion,
droopy as an old woman's
face, pronounced
with bumps and crevices.

One minute ago
I'm tired, yet optimistic,
but now I'm slumping,
disappointed.
Summer is over.

Tonight, the knuckled limbs
become bare, arthritic.
Leaves cover the ground
more than yesterday.
Tonight, chilling.
It's November.

There is hope.
A few trees shine red,
deep plumb or yellow,
their edges, crispy
and roasted brown.
I can crumple them
into tiny pieces
with one hand crunch.
Though I loathe coming winter,
I welcome fall colors,
sunlight by 7:00 a.m.
and triple-chirping birds
who motivate me
each morning.

Stiff, Ugly and Bent

Now the lawn outside
is more cluttered
more dull with yellow leaves
than the week before.

A weakened tree stands
but wilts, mopes,
slouches and droops
its remaining leaves
on half-naked limbs,
slumping into
wicked sadness
of dreaded winter.

Long knurling limbs,
skinny knob knuckles
bent like witch's claws
screeching silently,
scraping the blackboard
of the night sky.

Stiff, ugly and bent
resembling dreadlocks
as old man winter
approaches and mutes
this tree to hibernate
down to its graveness.


(Note: This poem was originally written in 2005. Revised in 2007.)

Mind Clutter

I'm trying to read some poetry,
next door neighbor's
kids are squealing,
ambulances scream by
on Espina, their sirens
        abrupt my thinking.

A radio commercial
replays in my head.
A woman sings
        baby can't stop cryin'.
An acoustic guitar strums
in the background,
a chorus of female
voices harmonize
an unforgettable jingle.

I'm trying to concentrate,
my brain overtaken
by too many things--
        that happens a lot.

I hope I can sleep tonight,
        the music keeps
        playing over in my head
until my thoughts
are impenetrable.

Philadelphia-or was it San Francisco?

I don't know
what made me think
about a trip I took
to Philadelphia,
or was it San Francisco?
           I get confused.

It was the early 80's
since I traveled
to those places.

I remember the shock
on my way back
to my place of stay.
I made the mistake of
walking one more block
than I should have,
not knowing exactly
where I was going.

As they say,
they only come out
           at night--
scary characters
who don't even know
who they are.

I heard a man ask
one woman--
if that's what she was--
wearing a black
leather jacket,
with mohawk hair,
pierced nose, lips,
ears and belly button,
attached by chains every
which way,
           "who are you?"
           "what are you?"
She couldn't answer.

Every time
she turned her head,
her spiked Mohawk
feathered the air
like cockatiels do.

The other eccentrics
on the street
were just as frightening.

Walking fast,
I got out of there quick.
Every city has its misfits
           I suppose.

Veterans Day Parade

© 2007 Photo by Sue Miller

Kodak moment
a convertible
with four veterans
a Native American
holds a blue and yellow
Veterans flag
an American flag
drapes the trunk

a decorated old man
with patches and medals
barely seeing over
the car door
generous smile on his face
hand extended, wrist
resting on the door
there is something in his hand
for the children
excited, they flock to him
to get candy, and
pick up candy dropped
on the ground

I pulled off my glasses
to wipe a tear
my heart touched
deep inside
innocence and honor
rolled into one shot
precious

Rooster Plates

© 2007 Photo by Sue Miller

Kind gesture of a neighbor--
never thought a man would do this.
His thoughtfulness, no matter
how small the favor.

He rang my doorbell--
a gift from his trip to Arkansas.
Four ceramic plates
smaller than my hands.

Each dish a different rooster
hand-painted in country
reds, browns, blues, yellows
black rims and solid bottoms
traditional American style--
something I might find
at a Cracker Barrel store.

I will buy four small hangers
display them on my kitchen wall
admire them while I eat,
singing in falsetto,
Cock-a-Doodle Doo.

Cafe

© 2007 Photo, Sue Miller

a patient Labrador waits for his owner
in a classic red convertible
parked in front of a small white cafe
in quiet Hillsboro, New Mexico
smells of hamburgers drift in the air

the driver inside waits for his order
we can't see him, he talks to a waitress
asking directions to Las Cruces
so he can stay for a while
he wonders if James Dean ate here

a few clouds dot the sky
floating like flying saucers
the blue road curves into a one-point
perspective, leading to somewhere
perhaps to winding roads
of the Black Range mountains

the driver just drove through there
lonely, hungry, he needs gas for his car
all he has is the dog, and a suitcase
of clothes in the trunk
anxious, he hopes for renewed
caresses in the arms of an old girlfriend

March Storm

Thunder cracks the blackened sky,
dropping booms on this desert valley.
Sheets of pouring rain POUNDS
the one-peaked roof like a million
laser beams scarring thin tissue.
Run-off patters, dances off vents and gutters.

Wind howls through cracks and holes
like dragging buckets through a stormy sea.
Claps of thunder walk away momentous
blasts again southwesterly.
The tempest circles north, rides with devils
on grenades, rips through whirlwinds
and back out again, echoes through the Doña Anas.


(Note: Originally written in 2005. Revised in 2007.)

Under a Scope

A bird's eye view,
many islands surrounded
by red beans and mushrooms
in a soupy fuchsia sea.

Perhaps these islands
are tug boats hauling
red cargo. Maybe
they are millionaire's mansions
or cockroach cocoons
waiting to be hatched.
The artist says
they are ladybirds dispersing.

Squinting, I see
white blood cells
with red corpuscles
floating in blood
under a microscope.

I suppose this is more appealing
to a biologist.


(Note: This was an Ekphrastic writing exercise where postcards were passed around. I wrote about the image on the postcard handed to me. First, the image looked like a map, and then it looked like something under a microscope.)

Red Hand

The wind brought
a gift today.
Outside my door,
a small hand greeted me--
lying in the dirt
scribbled with red Crayola,
excess paper cut around every finger,
a happy high-fiver
waiting to be found--
I set it on my kitchen table,
wishing me a good day.

I remember drawing hands
in my youth, turning
them into turkeys or plants,
decorating them with glitter,
painting them in rainbow colors,
one for every mood.

I imagine the child
who created this.
Did the wind snatch it away from her?

I will display it for her
on my refrigerator.

Peggy

I used to work
with a shop 'til you drop
kind of woman;
she went crazy at Christmas,
spent hundreds of dollars
just on her mom,
and her kids
must have everything.

The whole year through
she floated around
from office to office
singing carols
like a jolly Mrs. Santa
eyes glistening
as if she'd just bought something
and hid it away
for Christmas.

Restless

fine hair tossed with the blue-cased pillow
       crazy scenes twisted my dreams
sweat drenched my neck
       designer sheets crumpled every angle

my body turned, a rocking barrel
       alarm clock labored through the night
phone rings too early this morning
       tired eyes peep at dawn