On a Park Bench

Bold was he the hungry beggar—
expressive perched soul. Too close,
I feared the worst. Remember
the horror film, The Birds?

Sleek was he in shiny dark
blue-black, slick as oil,
breezes flickered his long tail
like a smoker taps a cigarette.
Patient, gregarious grackle's
beady black eyes spoke volumes
without words between us.

How has God provided for him?
Maybe picnickers left no food,
or seeds too hard to find—
and the voice above did ask of me.

I pinched my sandwich, breaking
bread, as at the Lord's Supper
and raised it to his eye level,
he hip, hopped, danced a bop
fluttered and flapped, flipped and flew
fetching thrown food on the grass.
I did my deed for the day.

Old Mesilla

I remember bicycle rides through an old neighborhood.
A kind of rural feel in the 4-Points Cotton Gin area,
where rain puddles sit stagnant for days, harboring
mosquitoes. Illegal immigrants hiding in darkness behind
the gin. They bothered no one. The dense smoky air
during cotton processing, hovering like a bomb cloud,
bothered my asthma so I could not breathe.

On the edge of Old Mesilla, Mesilla Park, a quick
jaunt down the road, not knowing where division
lines begin or end. Remembering tall grasses, flowers
and fences, dirt and gravel with weeds along roadsides,
old, cracked adobe homes, makeshift-repaired
by unskilled hands. In a rental house with those obnoxious
barking wiener dogs running back and forth wildly
inside a chain link fence, destroying the yard until
it becomes a plant less, sinking desert sandbox.

Painted old mailboxes on unsteady posts,
ditches flowing of murky water, mirroring clouds
on good days. Humongous trees dedicated
to Audubon Society bird watchers, and the phone
bird, I used to call it, who tricked me every time
into running into the house to pick up the receiver.
Sunflowers taller than me guarding a vegetable
and herb garden, their heads drooping
from heavy weight, giving seeds to birds.

I miss the Richman's, grandma and grandpa types,
taking their walks up and down Union Avenue,
gossiping over the fence, telling tales
about building famous bridges and lousy neighbors
with junky cars taking up space in front of their yard.
And that Catholic preacher next door trying to tell me
my soul is not saved until I'm baptized,
and telling me stories about renovating a desecrated
old church in Hill, and starting a new congregation there.

I miss walks along McDowell road, Conway and Highway 28,
ghosts on a ditch road, the ghost dog and the phantom sports car
as I pulled out. I don't miss that retarded guy, Jesse,
with his tunnel vision and near accidents on his bicycle,
who came over to show me his battery-operated fan
the size of his hand that didn't work and I couldn't fix it.

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.)

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.)

Daybreak

The wind whistled at the moon
      raked every star like leaves
the rain poured a million tears
      stretched a river in flowing veins
thunder cut the clouds in two
      black night closed a torn sky
the sun spoke daybreak
      trees catch the afternoon

Rain in August

I raise my window
God's musicians
play in the cooling rain
I listen

hearing
a steady waterfall
tinkle a running creek

raindrops rap in a bucket next door
as percussionists tap
timbales and tom-toms

combining different thump beats
booming base drums
hands ripple one finger at a time

I want to dance as I am--in the rain
like dancing on noisy cellophane
to crinkle at least for the night

the pail has its fill
drum taps take intermission
the sky keeps raining

rumbles echo from the southern sky
God's kettledrums
roar and fade as lions on hilltops
a timpani in God's symphony

POM-POM-POM-POM-POMMMMMM

Good sleeping weather
Goodnight

Exchange

the wind is a dialogue
between whirling thoughts
that follow my ambiance--
from places of veneration
to days of awareness,
from moments of merit
to times at fault

my thoughts drift through cracks
like a silent draft
floating on high
or spiralling low

the wind sighs
sweet sounds of life
as a sailing vessel
on a smooth course
gliding through water
exchanging ideas
between then and now

a conversation circles
back from gusts to whispers
speaking from various directions
what only I can hear
and keep confidential

(2007)