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.

Jessie

My name is not Yolanda,
UNDERSTAND!
and Jessie doesn't live here.
What part of wrong number
don't you get?
Stop calling
to schedule appointments
for Jessie.
I do not know her.
Who is Yolanda--Jessie's mother?

Who is Jessie?
Is she caught in unexpected conditions,
a troubled teen?
Is she treatable?
Maybe she is dodging psychosis,
hiding from intrusive forces
to require Tresco's social services.
Pitiful young woman,
I feel frightened for her.

Magnetic Poetry Kits

I was word challenged,
mind bare.
Help, a kit away,
I thought.

A fridge door with magnets,
words lined up in alpha rows
to find a word,
to help spark ideas,
but expressions stuck there--
pleading.

Just grab any ol' word
and slide them around
see what I get--
something...

I needed words--
they were missing.
No matter how I slid them
nothing worked.

Rebecca

I will never forget Rebecca from grade school,
the one with a bony right arm, shoulder bones
protruding out of her tank top's arm hole,
she seemed not to be overly conscious of it.
I looked at it often. Why her left side
normal and right side skin and bones?

I wanted to ask her about it, but I remained
silent. Later, I heard she had polio.
I wondered if she was in pain. She never showed it.
She was courageous, strong. Her words gentle and wise.

We often met on the school yard during recess,
bouncing a big, red rubber ball
on the blacktop—throwing it, catching it.

She glowed like sunshine, fair skin,
blond, shoulder-length hair and glistening
eyes like faceted aquamarine jewels. Her smile
of innocence, her presence an inspiration.

A big sister to me—my playground buddy,
making the best of a friendship.
She became my beacon of truth and light.
Maybe she was thankful to have me
as a friend who treated her like a normal person.

Young Girl at the Mirror

I once dreamed
about me as a young girl
looking into a mirror,
almost through it,
seeing a strange side of myself.

My eyes,
drawn into a mysterious vortex,
sucking my soul
into a world of unknown--
a window of opportunity
to view a past life.

I saw a deep tunnel--
felt summoned.
By whom?
Me?
To time travel?

I did not want to be pulled
into another place or century,
afraid of no return.

Would I have taken a journey
through farm life,
talked to my ancestors,
lived like a peasant girl
in another dream?
Would I be here today?

Gary Larson Cartoon

I used to think tiny musicians hid in the radio,
quietly waiting until Mom turned the knob.
They always played soft lullaby music—
their job, to put me to sleep. They failed.
I'd stay awake at night, speculating.
How did they get in there?
Naïve of me to imagine small men
dressed in fine suits, ties and shiny black shoes,
playing inside a radio.
How many fit in there?
When did they know to stop?
Many questions I could not answer.

In Gary Larson's cartoon
a curious man
takes off the front panel
of his car radio.
Jazz musicians with their instruments
look guilty as they are caught inside.
The caption says, "Aha!
It's on my refrigerator.

Unforgotten Homeless

We called her Post Office Patty. Always wore jackets.
Hearsay shared among townsfolk, she chose life on the streets,
shrugged chances of comfortable subsistence, opportunity.

Waiting for Big Daddy from the Flea Market.
Word got around he gave her money—daily.
She ate at Luby's every night, back room.

Something about her—her eyes, shiny,
sky blue against rugged skin, thin, frail,
weathered as cracks in dry wood.

Slept in parks. One night, another homeless raped her.
She got pregnant. Baby taken away. She pushed
a walker around, blankets draped over the handle.

Summer and winter, helpless as a dirty, worn rag,
she limped away, dragging her feet. Stringy threads
hung from her extra-long pants, covering her shoes.

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.

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.

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.