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 whata poem birthed with music is like a creature born with wings it flies high and takes us with it,
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,A poem written in memory of Peg Morton.
I am a girl of many things;
I am a girl of sorrows;
I am a girl of laughs,
but most of all, I am a girl of curiosity.
I am curious of the world around me, of the world I live in.
I wonder how my younger brother will be when he grows up;