The Bellagio casino glimmers
above a round blue lake.
Outside the Tropicana
waterfalls pour over fake rocks.
All night under the desert moon
the profligate water splashes,
sparkling like silver coins.
Four hundred miles south
three braceros lie down to die
beside empty plastic bottles.
It’s All A Mystery I look around It’s all confusion different stories from all directions what can anyone believe turning in circles dizzy and lost in a fog I can never see through it to the truth that is just on the other side can anyone tell me what is what
A Friend in Montana shares verses on a wide range of subjects, including silence, death, poetry, and eggs.
Dear Editor: I deeply appreciate your publishing my poem “On Garbage” in the Nov/Dec 2017 issue of Western Friend, but I was disappointed that a word was omitted from the penultimate line. It should have read:
Only love matters. Only love turns junk into jewelry,
A crown of thorns into a crown of light.
Tucson, 1986 I hang out wash on an Arizona morning. Damp cotton clings cool on my arm. Wooden pins and curve of rope, sun yellow dress, dusky rose towels, underwear bright spots of blue and pink against the smooth sweep of sheets. Down the path to the hen-house I find three eggs under the straw,