© 2009 Photos by Sue Miller
Saturday, June 13, 2009
Monday, May 11, 2009
Miss Roxy Roo
I miss my favorite cat, Miss Roxey Roo.
I remember those early mornings,
her body draped across my shoulder.
The way she wagged her fluffy tail
that wrapped around my neck
and fanned my nose until those
super fine hairs sucked into my mouth
and into my nose with every inhale, buffed
my face 'til I spewed, scratched and sneezed.
She loved to prop her smooth, velvety,
Persian head on my comfortable pillow,
lifted and gleamed her lime-green eyes
then smacked her lips for her silent meow
to catch my smile through sleepy blue eyes.
I miss petting her long-black fur
wiggling my fingertip in the hole space between
her soft-padded paws, touching her pug nose,
wet like dew, marveling at her idling purr
which hummed a tune of contentment.
She pranced and held her tail up high,
that powder puff, my little Zsa Zsa.
She answered to her silly nicknames,
like "Putty McDutty" and "Little Spudnutty."
She came to my high whistle sounds.
My in/out girl who picked her food,
guarded the yard and scared large dogs.
Made acrobat stunts, grand somersaults,
like a moonstruck cat on a full-moon night.
She pounced my fingers between the cushions,
poked 'til I bled if I moved too slow.
Chased long strings I dragged through the house,
'til she got tired and plopped on the carpet.
Sat by windows and chattered at birds,
swung her head as they swooped from trees.
I remember one day...
she scampered, shameless into the kitchen,
brought in a bird covered in snow.
Yes, it flew behind the fridge, riled
the humans which excited her,
and made us late fixing dinner.
We played fun games like hide and seek.
Imagine me shuffling down the hall
on all fours as if I'm a cat –scuffed
my knees and hurt my wrists, turned
the corner to hide in my room.
I think she laughed along with me.
She followed me like a loyal shadow,
in the yard and around the house,
trailed behind me to the street corner.
I carried her back to the house,
cradled her lovingly in my arms
as if she were a sweet, little child.
I still miss my sweet little Roxy.
She's been gone over 20 years.
I remember those early mornings,
her body draped across my shoulder.
The way she wagged her fluffy tail
that wrapped around my neck
and fanned my nose until those
super fine hairs sucked into my mouth
and into my nose with every inhale, buffed
my face 'til I spewed, scratched and sneezed.
She loved to prop her smooth, velvety,
Persian head on my comfortable pillow,
lifted and gleamed her lime-green eyes
then smacked her lips for her silent meow
to catch my smile through sleepy blue eyes.
I miss petting her long-black fur
wiggling my fingertip in the hole space between
her soft-padded paws, touching her pug nose,
wet like dew, marveling at her idling purr
which hummed a tune of contentment.
She pranced and held her tail up high,
that powder puff, my little Zsa Zsa.
She answered to her silly nicknames,
like "Putty McDutty" and "Little Spudnutty."
She came to my high whistle sounds.
My in/out girl who picked her food,
guarded the yard and scared large dogs.
Made acrobat stunts, grand somersaults,
like a moonstruck cat on a full-moon night.
She pounced my fingers between the cushions,
poked 'til I bled if I moved too slow.
Chased long strings I dragged through the house,
'til she got tired and plopped on the carpet.
Sat by windows and chattered at birds,
swung her head as they swooped from trees.
I remember one day...
she scampered, shameless into the kitchen,
brought in a bird covered in snow.
Yes, it flew behind the fridge, riled
the humans which excited her,
and made us late fixing dinner.
We played fun games like hide and seek.
Imagine me shuffling down the hall
on all fours as if I'm a cat –scuffed
my knees and hurt my wrists, turned
the corner to hide in my room.
I think she laughed along with me.
She followed me like a loyal shadow,
in the yard and around the house,
trailed behind me to the street corner.
I carried her back to the house,
cradled her lovingly in my arms
as if she were a sweet, little child.
I still miss my sweet little Roxy.
She's been gone over 20 years.
Neighborhood Walk #3
I walked to the park again
and to a place down the street –
for exercise, photos,
Vitamin D from the sun,
inspiration, nature –
hoping to see something minuscule,
bugs, dandelions, objects windblown.
To capture new images
with my camera –
textures in tree bark and
bus stop grill work,
ruggedness in rocks,
frailness or strength in twigs,
even tire tracks on the dirt made
by two yellow Caterpillar trucks
sitting by a large hole
that workmen have dug there.
Like my hair blown by the wind,
I saw the resiliency of life
in grass, leaves, wildflowers.
I would think the wind
would rip all of it out by the roots.
Ground cover with yellow flowers
the size of a freckle on my arm,
and purple flowers half the size
of my palm, met the roundness
of my camera lens, and eager clicks
of my finger on the shutter.
I wish I knew their names.
For the first time I saw beauty
in weeds, even those dried up,
droopy and wrinkled, stuck
by the ditch on El Paseo and Farney,
a ditch half full of murky water,
stippled by white and yellow streaks
made by the sun, trickling
between large trees
in neighbor's back yards.
The wind forced water ripples
in the same direction as my path.
On that path, supple plants soaking
what's needed from the water,
green in contrast to whitish dry weeds
next to tall, reddish-stemmed
growth that looked like Amaranth.
White flowers - pollinated
by a zipping hummingbird
moving too fast for me to
stare at its colors or take a picture –
its fluttering wings cutting air.
That alone was worth the trip,
realizing that nature takes care of itself
without worrying about life,
death and all stages in between.
and to a place down the street –
for exercise, photos,
Vitamin D from the sun,
inspiration, nature –
hoping to see something minuscule,
bugs, dandelions, objects windblown.
To capture new images
with my camera –
textures in tree bark and
bus stop grill work,
ruggedness in rocks,
frailness or strength in twigs,
even tire tracks on the dirt made
by two yellow Caterpillar trucks
sitting by a large hole
that workmen have dug there.
Like my hair blown by the wind,
I saw the resiliency of life
in grass, leaves, wildflowers.
I would think the wind
would rip all of it out by the roots.
Ground cover with yellow flowers
the size of a freckle on my arm,
and purple flowers half the size
of my palm, met the roundness
of my camera lens, and eager clicks
of my finger on the shutter.
I wish I knew their names.
For the first time I saw beauty
in weeds, even those dried up,
droopy and wrinkled, stuck
by the ditch on El Paseo and Farney,
a ditch half full of murky water,
stippled by white and yellow streaks
made by the sun, trickling
between large trees
in neighbor's back yards.
The wind forced water ripples
in the same direction as my path.
On that path, supple plants soaking
what's needed from the water,
green in contrast to whitish dry weeds
next to tall, reddish-stemmed
growth that looked like Amaranth.
White flowers - pollinated
by a zipping hummingbird
moving too fast for me to
stare at its colors or take a picture –
its fluttering wings cutting air.
That alone was worth the trip,
realizing that nature takes care of itself
without worrying about life,
death and all stages in between.
Oldies
A relic, old school, traditionalist,
a dinosaur. I must be ancient when...
xxxxxxxxxxmy preference is oldies –
like classic soul power,
early rock and roll, doo-wap,
post second-war blues, gospel, jazz.
Four and five-part harmonies –
horn-driven, guitars, funky saxophones,
walking bass shuffles, call and response,
turnarounds, improvisations.
xxxxxxxxxxDigs deep into my veins.
Carves itself into my brain. Mesmerized.
Wanting more. A habit.
Like a feisty old fish caught
on a hook but I can't get away.
I'm dancing on reeled-in line,
satisfying the pits of my everything
xxxxxxxxxxand loving it.
a dinosaur. I must be ancient when...
xxxxxxxxxxmy preference is oldies –
like classic soul power,
early rock and roll, doo-wap,
post second-war blues, gospel, jazz.
Four and five-part harmonies –
horn-driven, guitars, funky saxophones,
walking bass shuffles, call and response,
turnarounds, improvisations.
xxxxxxxxxxDigs deep into my veins.
Carves itself into my brain. Mesmerized.
Wanting more. A habit.
Like a feisty old fish caught
on a hook but I can't get away.
I'm dancing on reeled-in line,
satisfying the pits of my everything
xxxxxxxxxxand loving it.
Pigeons
Loud gray pigeons, cooing,
surround one brown one.
Some peck between gravel,
search for wind-blown seeds
from yellow-flowered shrubs.
A sated fat pigeon
hobbles along the curb,
performs a dance,
part clumsy curtsy, some wobble,
a little trip and fall, prancing,
part "Madam, look at me."
She, a center of attention,
stands firm, dignified,
perhaps amused
by the entertainer, Mr Fatso –
white-chested, ash-bellied.
I picture him wearing a white
round hat, white jacket,
tapping a baton, a grand fanfare.
Oh the competition, abundance
and what a pronouncement
out of 10 or 20 cooing males
to one reserved, silent female.
She ignores the others
who wait and stare at her.
They hope she chooses
one of them who cares,
won't bring fake promises
as would the showman,
the quick overnighter –
Mr. Extraordinaire.
surround one brown one.
Some peck between gravel,
search for wind-blown seeds
from yellow-flowered shrubs.
A sated fat pigeon
hobbles along the curb,
performs a dance,
part clumsy curtsy, some wobble,
a little trip and fall, prancing,
part "Madam, look at me."
She, a center of attention,
stands firm, dignified,
perhaps amused
by the entertainer, Mr Fatso –
white-chested, ash-bellied.
I picture him wearing a white
round hat, white jacket,
tapping a baton, a grand fanfare.
Oh the competition, abundance
and what a pronouncement
out of 10 or 20 cooing males
to one reserved, silent female.
She ignores the others
who wait and stare at her.
They hope she chooses
one of them who cares,
won't bring fake promises
as would the showman,
the quick overnighter –
Mr. Extraordinaire.
Monday, April 13, 2009
Dragonflies and Tadpoles
Poem and Collage by Sue Miller
Except where otherwise noted, these works are licensed under http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by/3.0/
Tadpoles (May 7, 2008) by Pingu1963 / Marjon Kruik
http://www.flickr.com/photos/pingu1963/2473751214/
Caught (August 11, 2007) by D'Arcy Norman
http://www.flickr.com/photos/dnorman/1084249431/
Dragonfly (July 15, 2008) by Krikit
http://www.flickr.com/photos/krikit/2675850356/
a young teen
exploring my neighborhood
other side of the dam
east end of Madrid Street
during summer monsoons
muddy pools
rainwater sat for days
stench from heat, humidity,
sun-baked growths
water life co-habitating
screaming frogs, blue
and red-wing dragonflies,
sun-drenched butterflies,
ugly tadpoles, biting mosquitos,
curious birds
I thought nothing of it
hopped on my bicycle
carried jars and butterfly nets
peddled to the dam
to the stinky pond
pretended to be a biologist
spent hours catching, scooping,
observing tadpoles and dragonflies
sometimes alone, sometimes
with brother Bill and his friends
Hills and Heavens
Once I sat on smooth boulders by a waterfall –
Watched a bat dive-bomb to catch
gnats and flies, fearing rabies if the bat bit me.
Stared at a pencil-thick water snake wiggle
in a small pool of runoff. Gazed at a lizard
and skink as they dashed across rocks, disappeared
into sage brush, buried themselves in sand.
Another time I fell into a large bed of big black ants,
sprained my left ankle. The sound of ripping tendons.
Piercing pain, hot flushes, white flashes, cold sweat.
Nearly passed out. Could not get up. In the midst
of stickers and weeds, ants and a bee,
my ankle swelled to twice its size.
When I camped at Faywood Hot Springs –
it took forever to set up a green tent in the dark.
Tried making sandwiches but one fell on nasty dirt.
Sat naked in the hot spring. Watched a million stars until...
one coyote started, then another, and another, and another,
until I heard frightful yaps of hysterical laughter
ricochet off the hills in surround sound.
That night I could not sleep, felt a slithering snake
slide under the tent at the small curvature of my back.
Scared, wondered why I take chances for my thrills.
I am holding the hills and heavens in my heart.
Watched a bat dive-bomb to catch
gnats and flies, fearing rabies if the bat bit me.
Stared at a pencil-thick water snake wiggle
in a small pool of runoff. Gazed at a lizard
and skink as they dashed across rocks, disappeared
into sage brush, buried themselves in sand.
Another time I fell into a large bed of big black ants,
sprained my left ankle. The sound of ripping tendons.
Piercing pain, hot flushes, white flashes, cold sweat.
Nearly passed out. Could not get up. In the midst
of stickers and weeds, ants and a bee,
my ankle swelled to twice its size.
When I camped at Faywood Hot Springs –
it took forever to set up a green tent in the dark.
Tried making sandwiches but one fell on nasty dirt.
Sat naked in the hot spring. Watched a million stars until...
one coyote started, then another, and another, and another,
until I heard frightful yaps of hysterical laughter
ricochet off the hills in surround sound.
That night I could not sleep, felt a slithering snake
slide under the tent at the small curvature of my back.
Scared, wondered why I take chances for my thrills.
I am holding the hills and heavens in my heart.
Saturday, March 28, 2009
Monday, March 23, 2009
A Resting Place
x
Tranquility – just what I needed,
relaxation, my get-away,
a new sanctuary for part of a day
near picnic tables, a creek, pines
in the Black Range Mountains.
Peaceful water rippled, trickled
as I listened for little bubble pops
by fish kissing water surfaces.
Red and yellow wildflowers
danced in the breeze
as a prudent bee pollinated,
a stink bug raised its hind end
under my close inspection,
patches of healthy clovers half covered
a pathway around boulders,
a cool gentle wind made goose bumps
on bare arms. The sun tapped my shoulders
in the blue gaps of sky and tall pines.
May the hands of God rise from the water,
release a white dove into the air
to bless this hidden place.
relaxation, my get-away,
a new sanctuary for part of a day
near picnic tables, a creek, pines
in the Black Range Mountains.
Peaceful water rippled, trickled
as I listened for little bubble pops
by fish kissing water surfaces.
Red and yellow wildflowers
danced in the breeze
as a prudent bee pollinated,
a stink bug raised its hind end
under my close inspection,
patches of healthy clovers half covered
a pathway around boulders,
a cool gentle wind made goose bumps
on bare arms. The sun tapped my shoulders
in the blue gaps of sky and tall pines.
May the hands of God rise from the water,
release a white dove into the air
to bless this hidden place.
Sunday, March 22, 2009
Shop on Picacho (Las Cruces, NM) - The Gen
© 2009 Photo by Sue Miller
© 2009 Photo by Sue Miller
The Gen is a costume rental place.
Sunday, March 15, 2009
Tuesday, February 24, 2009
Old Adobe Building
© 2009 Photo by Sue Miller
I think I stepped
through this door once
over thirty years ago;
a friend's parents owned
this Old Mesilla building
catty corner across
from the old Post Office.
How silent it stands
leaning and weathered,
huge cracks between
each mud brick,
large rough gaps
around the small window
secured by bars and grate,
and rat holes
by this shabby wooden door.
I wonder if spirits
of locals and tourists
from those bygone days
still wander inside
shopping for trendy items;
and what about
years before,
what they wore
in the 40s, 50s and 60s.
Mesilla Tree #1
© 2009 Photo by Sue Miller
x
pitiful
wicked
worn and hungry
deserted,
desiccated,
like the cracked,
delapidated
aged, sandy
mud-brick building
behind you
unkempt
as the yard
around you,
I see
a wise old wizard
with electrified hair
under that stiff,
pleated, tattered robe
parched bark,
as wiggling snakes,
or welded twigs
wicked
worn and hungry
deserted,
desiccated,
like the cracked,
delapidated
aged, sandy
mud-brick building
behind you
unkempt
as the yard
around you,
I see
a wise old wizard
with electrified hair
under that stiff,
pleated, tattered robe
parched bark,
as wiggling snakes,
or welded twigs
that climb like weeds
Saturday, February 21, 2009
Sunday, February 15, 2009
Saturday, February 14, 2009
Friday, January 30, 2009
Monday, January 26, 2009
Beadwork
Strands of beads.
Need three hands
holding this thing
plus three more hands
holding that thing,
slide my thumbnail
under a split ring
to hold it open
long enough to force
a loop through it,
but my thumbnail slips.
I scream.
Strands "recoil" here,
strands "twap" there,
some "twuang,"
some "toing"
everywhere.
Need two more hands
to hold beads,
strands, clips,
loops, rings,
wire, pliers,
STY-
RO-
FOAM.
G-r-r-r!
GET ON THERE!
AAAACK!
Need three hands
holding this thing
plus three more hands
holding that thing,
slide my thumbnail
under a split ring
to hold it open
long enough to force
a loop through it,
but my thumbnail slips.
I scream.
Strands "recoil" here,
strands "twap" there,
some "twuang,"
some "toing"
everywhere.
Need two more hands
to hold beads,
strands, clips,
loops, rings,
wire, pliers,
STY-
RO-
FOAM.
G-r-r-r!
GET ON THERE!
AAAACK!
Sunday, January 18, 2009
Thursday, January 1, 2009
Sunday, December 21, 2008
Reflections
My mind in a pause – a reflection of my eyes
ripples between twirled ice, forced around
in circles by my drinking straw as ice taps,
clanks against a dented glass half full.
I stare at building lights and streetlights
through an A-shaped window, reflections
of Nopalito's interior superimposed
on nighttime's world. Cars pass on Missouri
as phantoms liquefy into the road.
Ceiling light transposes itself, centered
on a streetlight. A wall near the cash register,
with a plant and chili ristra, emerges, growing
out of parked cars. A wall vent floats
on a black sky. Skewed coffee cups
and red glasses dance over commercial coffee
makers and soda machines as my waiter's reflection
circulates like fan blade shadows around tables
and chairs while he serves his customers.
Light and dark shapes, transparent, glowing, shattered,
geometric, layered, like my thoughts broken or scattered
by other thoughts, transposed over recognizable images,
create chiaroscuro illusions, the way dreams do
or don't make sense because pieces are there.
ripples between twirled ice, forced around
in circles by my drinking straw as ice taps,
clanks against a dented glass half full.
I stare at building lights and streetlights
through an A-shaped window, reflections
of Nopalito's interior superimposed
on nighttime's world. Cars pass on Missouri
as phantoms liquefy into the road.
Ceiling light transposes itself, centered
on a streetlight. A wall near the cash register,
with a plant and chili ristra, emerges, growing
out of parked cars. A wall vent floats
on a black sky. Skewed coffee cups
and red glasses dance over commercial coffee
makers and soda machines as my waiter's reflection
circulates like fan blade shadows around tables
and chairs while he serves his customers.
Light and dark shapes, transparent, glowing, shattered,
geometric, layered, like my thoughts broken or scattered
by other thoughts, transposed over recognizable images,
create chiaroscuro illusions, the way dreams do
or don't make sense because pieces are there.
Monday, November 24, 2008
Free Tickets
I appealed to him dressed like a lady –
in skirt, blouse, curly perm.
A New Orleans local chauffeured
me around town, rattled on
about his life. He bought tickets for us
to hear Clifton Chenier, great Zydeco player.
Car backfired over a loud muffler.
Fire ignited under the hood. I bailed.
He muttered something about driving
his car home. Handed me the tickets.
I stood on the curb laughing.
Watched him zoom down the road,
fire smoldered upward
from cracks under the hood.
Smoke billowed out the back end.
"THANKS FOR THE TICKETS!"
Enjoyed myself listening to Clifton Chenier
at the downtown night club. Shook my buns
that night with two handsome tourist guys.
in skirt, blouse, curly perm.
A New Orleans local chauffeured
me around town, rattled on
about his life. He bought tickets for us
to hear Clifton Chenier, great Zydeco player.
Car backfired over a loud muffler.
Fire ignited under the hood. I bailed.
He muttered something about driving
his car home. Handed me the tickets.
I stood on the curb laughing.
Watched him zoom down the road,
fire smoldered upward
from cracks under the hood.
Smoke billowed out the back end.
"THANKS FOR THE TICKETS!"
Enjoyed myself listening to Clifton Chenier
at the downtown night club. Shook my buns
that night with two handsome tourist guys.
Wednesday, October 29, 2008
Grapes
A poem I read today
about a lateral lattice forging form
with the sun's shadows, reminds
me of living on Betty Circle.
My stepfather grew green and purple
seeded grapes on a white trellis
along a cinder-brick wall – terraces
separated by a chain-linked fence.
Diamond shadows shaped
by the sun, beamed through the fence,
made shade on the small garden
by the grapes and shadows on the wall
between the trellis's empty spaces,
leaves, and multitude of succulence.
I picked whole clusters, ate them unwashed
in the back yard until my belly ached.
Each bite a sweet juicy burst.
I didn't mind the seed's slight bitterness.
about a lateral lattice forging form
with the sun's shadows, reminds
me of living on Betty Circle.
My stepfather grew green and purple
seeded grapes on a white trellis
along a cinder-brick wall – terraces
separated by a chain-linked fence.
Diamond shadows shaped
by the sun, beamed through the fence,
made shade on the small garden
by the grapes and shadows on the wall
between the trellis's empty spaces,
leaves, and multitude of succulence.
I picked whole clusters, ate them unwashed
in the back yard until my belly ached.
Each bite a sweet juicy burst.
I didn't mind the seed's slight bitterness.
Skating
Remember roller-skating in El Paso,
two or three times every week?
Envious of local, competition skaters –
their speed and grace, strength, endurance,
I wanted to glide like them.
Did well to skate without falling,
cross one foot over the other
turning corners on the wooden rink floor.
Enjoyed playing games on skates.
"Put your left foot in, put your left foot out ...
put your left foot in and shake it all about ..."
My mother paid for lessons she could not afford.
I learned to balance, to push with one foot,
roll along the figure eight line, forward and backward.
I learned to Tango.
She remarried,
wwwwwwe moved to Las Cruces,
wwwwwwwwwwthat was the end of that.
two or three times every week?
Envious of local, competition skaters –
their speed and grace, strength, endurance,
I wanted to glide like them.
Did well to skate without falling,
cross one foot over the other
turning corners on the wooden rink floor.
Enjoyed playing games on skates.
"Put your left foot in, put your left foot out ...
put your left foot in and shake it all about ..."
My mother paid for lessons she could not afford.
I learned to balance, to push with one foot,
roll along the figure eight line, forward and backward.
I learned to Tango.
She remarried,
wwwwwwe moved to Las Cruces,
wwwwwwwwwwthat was the end of that.
Mayonnaise In My Hair
Ridiculous — that idea
about nourishing dry hair
with mayonnaise to help split ends.
Massaged it through my hair —
oily, slippery, lemony mayonnaise.
Let it sit — took forever to wash out.
Slipped, sliding in the bathtub,
sludgy as an oil slick.
Almost fell in the shower.
Legs flew haphazard.
Swoop! Swoop! Swoop!
Screaming — hysterical laughter.
Held onto soap holder,
faucet and handles for stability.
Hot water pelted my body.
Could have sprained an ankle,
busted a knee, hurt
my back, cracked my head.
Never do that again.
about nourishing dry hair
with mayonnaise to help split ends.
Massaged it through my hair —
oily, slippery, lemony mayonnaise.
Let it sit — took forever to wash out.
Slipped, sliding in the bathtub,
sludgy as an oil slick.
Almost fell in the shower.
Legs flew haphazard.
Swoop! Swoop! Swoop!
Screaming — hysterical laughter.
Held onto soap holder,
faucet and handles for stability.
Hot water pelted my body.
Could have sprained an ankle,
busted a knee, hurt
my back, cracked my head.
Never do that again.
Monday, October 13, 2008
Waving Curtains
First time to move away from home.
Not a good living arrangement,
but some place to stay.
A singlewide mobile home.
Wagon Wheel Trailer Park.
Doña Ana road.
Quiet, sitting in a corner chair,
in the living room
by a window,
double pane slid upward.
Pleasant, cool breeze blowing
through the screen,
blowing a thin, lacy white curtain
in front of my face.
In a void, a trance,
allowing the curtains to wave
over my head,
tickle my ears, neck and shoulders.
I think this happened
before -- déjà vu.
The wind, carrying me
through a mysterious dimension.
I waver between
worth and worthlessness.
Curtains stop waving,
snap out of the spell.
Why do these things happen
when I am alone?
Not a good living arrangement,
but some place to stay.
A singlewide mobile home.
Wagon Wheel Trailer Park.
Doña Ana road.
Quiet, sitting in a corner chair,
in the living room
by a window,
double pane slid upward.
Pleasant, cool breeze blowing
through the screen,
blowing a thin, lacy white curtain
in front of my face.
In a void, a trance,
allowing the curtains to wave
over my head,
tickle my ears, neck and shoulders.
I think this happened
before -- déjà vu.
The wind, carrying me
through a mysterious dimension.
I waver between
worth and worthlessness.
Curtains stop waving,
snap out of the spell.
Why do these things happen
when I am alone?
Calling My Name
Flashed on a memory
xxxxx in my youth.
Too young to understand,
xxxxx or be aware of
things uncommon.
xxxxx A building.
A school? A public place?
I recall
a long flight of stairs.
xxxxx Alone, climbing
toward the top.
xxxxx Late for a class?
xxxxx Felt someone peck
xxxxx on my shoulder,
xxxxx calling my name.
Was it an angel's attempt
to prevent my going there?
xxxxx I turned around
xxxxx but nobody there.
NO BODY THERE!
Nobody there.
xxxxx in my youth.
Too young to understand,
xxxxx or be aware of
things uncommon.
xxxxx A building.
A school? A public place?
I recall
a long flight of stairs.
xxxxx Alone, climbing
toward the top.
xxxxx Late for a class?
xxxxx Felt someone peck
xxxxx on my shoulder,
xxxxx calling my name.
Was it an angel's attempt
to prevent my going there?
xxxxx I turned around
xxxxx but nobody there.
NO BODY THERE!
Nobody there.
Green Stick
Haven't seen one in years.
Hey, preying mantis, how
did you get in? Get down
from my kitchen ceiling.
Quick! Think--
before he scorches himself
on that light bulb.
Shhhhhhh! Screeching ladder --
you'll wake the neighbors.
Open this wide-mouthed jar.
Schroop, schroop, schroop!
Ouch! Hit my knee on the ladder.
C'mon, Greenie!
Gotchya!
Schroop, schroop, schroop!
Carry you across the parking lot.
Mmmmm! Kind of nippy.
Wish I had put on a jacket.
Schroop, schroop, schroop!
Dumping you onto the dirt.
Get out of there, sticky thing!
Shake, shake, shake!
There! You're not hurt.
Crawl up that post
to your light God.
Now I can go to bed!
Hey, preying mantis, how
did you get in? Get down
from my kitchen ceiling.
Quick! Think--
before he scorches himself
on that light bulb.
Shhhhhhh! Screeching ladder --
you'll wake the neighbors.
Open this wide-mouthed jar.
Schroop, schroop, schroop!
Ouch! Hit my knee on the ladder.
C'mon, Greenie!
Gotchya!
Schroop, schroop, schroop!
Carry you across the parking lot.
Mmmmm! Kind of nippy.
Wish I had put on a jacket.
Schroop, schroop, schroop!
Dumping you onto the dirt.
Get out of there, sticky thing!
Shake, shake, shake!
There! You're not hurt.
Crawl up that post
to your light God.
Now I can go to bed!
Monday, September 22, 2008
Drifting Through A Fog
(On suffering writer's block)
A fog drifts through the gaps of my mind,
haze as a mist hangs between hills and valleys--
low floating clouds on a humid day.
Thoughts harbor in silence, suspend,
then chatter away about nothing,
about everything at once.
Cranial grayness filters the light, hides the crannies,
glides through a part of me that reflects
how my brain got stuck, dangled in midair.
I sit here dazed with nothing to write,
wondering where the next word comes from.
Must I cull utterance from my next-door
neighbor's cigarette smoke? So be it.
I'd rather grasp them from coolness
of my living room air conditioner. Maybe
that will blow away and free me from congestion.
A fog drifts through the gaps of my mind,
haze as a mist hangs between hills and valleys--
low floating clouds on a humid day.
Thoughts harbor in silence, suspend,
then chatter away about nothing,
about everything at once.
Cranial grayness filters the light, hides the crannies,
glides through a part of me that reflects
how my brain got stuck, dangled in midair.
I sit here dazed with nothing to write,
wondering where the next word comes from.
Must I cull utterance from my next-door
neighbor's cigarette smoke? So be it.
I'd rather grasp them from coolness
of my living room air conditioner. Maybe
that will blow away and free me from congestion.
Monday, September 8, 2008
Faith
it is when you lose dignity –
that voice from above
or inside you
becomes relevant
and you know its sincerity
a credence above self-doubt
strengthening allegiance to beliefs
pledging to make things better
and it gets better
if you commit to it
like an oath to others
plus support they give you
as you trust them to do
that helps regain self-confidence
your God-self
an internal faith
that keeps you going
that voice from above
or inside you
becomes relevant
and you know its sincerity
a credence above self-doubt
strengthening allegiance to beliefs
pledging to make things better
and it gets better
if you commit to it
like an oath to others
plus support they give you
as you trust them to do
that helps regain self-confidence
your God-self
an internal faith
that keeps you going
Monday, July 28, 2008
Changed
I am not the same person
as ten years ago, five years ago.
I am still changing.
I made myself
an exposé of viewpoints,
opinions, priorities
because of different conditions,
tastes, level of thinking.
Growing older did that --
current politics and news, too --
where I'm compelled
to think outside
mainstream thought
thanks to those who educate
about those who suppress,
spread lies.
I roam and wander
through debris,
through mountains of issues
and tons of things that matter,
to find my merits
by virtue of those
who influence me --
through layers of life
still shaping me,
leads me to a perspective,
of what is yet to come.
Though I may be in fear,
I know I can overcome it,
I know I can change
my growth, my fire, desire, hope.
Someone once told me
"You haven't changed a bit."
Yes I have -- significantly.
as ten years ago, five years ago.
I am still changing.
I made myself
an exposé of viewpoints,
opinions, priorities
because of different conditions,
tastes, level of thinking.
Growing older did that --
current politics and news, too --
where I'm compelled
to think outside
mainstream thought
thanks to those who educate
about those who suppress,
spread lies.
I roam and wander
through debris,
through mountains of issues
and tons of things that matter,
to find my merits
by virtue of those
who influence me --
through layers of life
still shaping me,
leads me to a perspective,
of what is yet to come.
Though I may be in fear,
I know I can overcome it,
I know I can change
my growth, my fire, desire, hope.
Someone once told me
"You haven't changed a bit."
Yes I have -- significantly.
Subject Lines
Spammers will do anything
as I've found on my computer,
depositing obnoxious email –
from misspellings to hilarious titles.
What makes them think
I will click on their spam?
Subject lines about "Viagra" – delete
"The Best Stock Picks" – delete
"Melting Away Fat Easily" – delete.
"Study Hall Dumpy." Wait a minute –
what on earth do they mean?
It must be a precarious place
to study my dumps. Gross! – delete.
"Boa Constrictor Boobs"
OK! Imagine a bare-breasted blonde
wearing boa constrictor head sculptures
as pasties over her nipples – delete.
"Your Needle Bath"
Ouch! I hurt thinking about
laying in a bathtub full
of sharp sewing needles – delete.
"Dysentery Deflection"
First of all, did dysentery
ever have a reflection? – delete.
"Waking in Sheets Teeming with Bugs"
That spammer is high on drugs – delete.
"FOSSEMODS" in all caps.
F O S S E M O D S
Is that the newest drug prescription
for today's fussy models? – delete.
(Author's note: The above spams are true.)
as I've found on my computer,
depositing obnoxious email –
from misspellings to hilarious titles.
What makes them think
I will click on their spam?
Subject lines about "Viagra" – delete
"The Best Stock Picks" – delete
"Melting Away Fat Easily" – delete.
"Study Hall Dumpy." Wait a minute –
what on earth do they mean?
It must be a precarious place
to study my dumps. Gross! – delete.
"Boa Constrictor Boobs"
OK! Imagine a bare-breasted blonde
wearing boa constrictor head sculptures
as pasties over her nipples – delete.
"Your Needle Bath"
Ouch! I hurt thinking about
laying in a bathtub full
of sharp sewing needles – delete.
"Dysentery Deflection"
First of all, did dysentery
ever have a reflection? – delete.
"Waking in Sheets Teeming with Bugs"
That spammer is high on drugs – delete.
"FOSSEMODS" in all caps.
F O S S E M O D S
Is that the newest drug prescription
for today's fussy models? – delete.
(Author's note: The above spams are true.)
Saturday, July 19, 2008
Guardian Angel
© 2008 photo and poem by Sue Miller
A friend crafted and gave me an angel,
made of gold foil wings, long blue
and white broomstick bandana skirt tied
at the waist, pea-sized pink and red bouquet
glued at the end of a twisted Tyvec arm,
a wooden ball for a head, rosy cheeks
on her light pine face, painted eyes
and an "L" for a nose, light curly blonde
bundle of hair with flair, yellow
garland for her miniature corona.
I have her suspended on a hook
by my turquoise door. I believe
she protects me from intruders
when I am asleep at night.
I believe she guards my apartment
while I am gone, repels
bad spirits with her other hand,
reassures me that things are fine,
gives me strength and faith to live
made of gold foil wings, long blue
and white broomstick bandana skirt tied
at the waist, pea-sized pink and red bouquet
glued at the end of a twisted Tyvec arm,
a wooden ball for a head, rosy cheeks
on her light pine face, painted eyes
and an "L" for a nose, light curly blonde
bundle of hair with flair, yellow
garland for her miniature corona.
I have her suspended on a hook
by my turquoise door. I believe
she protects me from intruders
when I am asleep at night.
I believe she guards my apartment
while I am gone, repels
bad spirits with her other hand,
reassures me that things are fine,
gives me strength and faith to live
when I'm feeling tired or less worthy.
Clouds
Evening's cool breeze breaks
today's heat, penetrates holes
in my shirt to cool sweat
on my stomach, tickles
my neighbor's clanging wind chime.
A breeze that ruffles tree limbs,
sways a little girl's long blonde hair
and white dress as she walks
barefoot carrying her doll
through puddles. A breeze that rolls
heavy clouds toward Old Mesilla.
Clouds fracture, reveal bluish
dusk. Large white spider veins
and lightning bolts flash and split
the southern sky. A gush of rain
pours like a giant hour glass filled
with white dust. Traces of pink paint
the western side. Clouds with charcoal
and sepia undersides meet the setting sun
that highlights light ashy edges.
Swirling clouds form a mastodon
chasing a spinning poodle, collides,
dissolves as one dark mass.
today's heat, penetrates holes
in my shirt to cool sweat
on my stomach, tickles
my neighbor's clanging wind chime.
A breeze that ruffles tree limbs,
sways a little girl's long blonde hair
and white dress as she walks
barefoot carrying her doll
through puddles. A breeze that rolls
heavy clouds toward Old Mesilla.
Clouds fracture, reveal bluish
dusk. Large white spider veins
and lightning bolts flash and split
the southern sky. A gush of rain
pours like a giant hour glass filled
with white dust. Traces of pink paint
the western side. Clouds with charcoal
and sepia undersides meet the setting sun
that highlights light ashy edges.
Swirling clouds form a mastodon
chasing a spinning poodle, collides,
dissolves as one dark mass.
A Grasshopper's Ride
Good morning, Mr. Grasshopper--
want a ride on my left windshield wiper
going south on Espina?
You can watch cars pass
from other directions,
watch students walk on sidewalks,
skateboarders roll through campus,
bystanders with headphones
push walk buttons at traffic lights.
Ha! a lawn sprinkler sprays
a fine mist on you and the windshield.
Let's watch innocent gray doves bob
their heads on the grass.
Oh no! I almost smashed
that low-flying grackle.
I can tell you loathed the experience
by your flinching wide-spread antennas.
Are you breathing?
Normally, I would knock you off by flicking
you with my thumb and middle finger
just to see how far you'd fling in the air.
Instead, I watch how well you attach
yourself on my car on the way to work.
Here, go hide in these well-trimmed bushes.
Welcome to NMSU, Mr. Grasshopper,
where everything is plush green,
where water is everywhere,
where trees bend or dust blows on your face.
But don't stand on the sidewalk;
you might get stepped on.
want a ride on my left windshield wiper
going south on Espina?
You can watch cars pass
from other directions,
watch students walk on sidewalks,
skateboarders roll through campus,
bystanders with headphones
push walk buttons at traffic lights.
Ha! a lawn sprinkler sprays
a fine mist on you and the windshield.
Let's watch innocent gray doves bob
their heads on the grass.
Oh no! I almost smashed
that low-flying grackle.
I can tell you loathed the experience
by your flinching wide-spread antennas.
Are you breathing?
Normally, I would knock you off by flicking
you with my thumb and middle finger
just to see how far you'd fling in the air.
Instead, I watch how well you attach
yourself on my car on the way to work.
Here, go hide in these well-trimmed bushes.
Welcome to NMSU, Mr. Grasshopper,
where everything is plush green,
where water is everywhere,
where trees bend or dust blows on your face.
But don't stand on the sidewalk;
you might get stepped on.
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