|
Sepia
He said: it was beautiful
Pool hall fight
The raised cues
They'd paid for four hours
But there was a disagreement
Anyway, he'd just gone along
With the others
Was just watching
But if you'd slowed it down
In slow motion
It really would have been
Beautiful
Lace
Square of lace curtain weave against the glass.
Gray sky, winter trees, north side
Of the plaza where dried olive leaves skitter.
Beautiful brunette in her fifties--she'll order salad--
An air of sadness, some feeling drawn in with oxygen.
We drink water, then coffee,
"He dominates me."
Not to mention the interminable houseguests.
It's not just that human life is precarioua, or that
The past must catch up with us
But that things are imbued with feeling...
Small scarf at her throat, the desire to speak
Mixing like oil with vinegar
With the desire for silence,
White lace against the gray day,
The sky giving way
To a few flakes of snow.
Witch Lights
Sure, we saw them once--
Remember, back of El Rito
We'd taken the kids out
To El Faralito, but town
Was blacked-out, the grill
Wasn't working, and we all
Had to eat the only thing available
On the menu--burritoes.
It was winter, night, cold
Driving back towards La Madera
Yes, we all saw them
Bobbing in the open field
Green balls of fire
As if carried on lanterns
But of course there was never
Anyone there at all
Between the shoulder of the road and the arroyo.
We weren't frightened, not even that impressed
We always knew they were there
Were pleased with ourselves to see them.
All the way back
The two older kids belted out
"Frosty the Snowman" over and over
To keep the baby quiet
Although it was long past Christmas.
Behind the Wall
How beautiful...
heavy carved wooden gate
leading nowhere...
riotous poppies--
spirit house or dovecote
on a pole
yellow chair
blue delphinium
red umbrella
boddleia--
butterfly bush
with butterflies
bamboo
planted around a green urn--
mountain wind
feather reed grass--
a flash of golden carp
beneath lily pads
rusted iron cross
overgrown with clematis,
snapdragons
Paprika Yarrow
Mexican church bell
that never rings
over the wall
of the vivid garden--
Sun and Moon Mountains.
Gong Strikes
Seven years
After your death
We must
Offer, rice, tea
Passed through incense smoke.
The little girls
Running in the park at dusk
Are almost women now--
What you've missed.
Miriam Sagan is author of more than a dozen books of poetry, fiction, and non-fiction. Her most recent book of poetry, "Rag Trade," (2004) is published by La Alameda Press, Albuquerque, NM. She is poetry columnist for Writer's Digest and editor of the e-zine, Santa Fe Poetry Broadside (www.sfpoetry.org). May, 2004.
Close this screen and the menu will appear. If frames-incompatible, Click Lunarosity