Adam David Miller

WORDING, a Ghazal

It is not as though we haven’t found a word,
we have. But, I ask, are we sure it is the word?

People maim and kill, search and pray
all to protect what they call the Word.

The paths of love are long and hard,
but smoother if one masters the word.

Blue birds sing, doves croon, all make song,
but nothing is as lasting as is the word.

Adam David, stop your jiving, spinning tales,
You know you’ll never master the word.

Plane of View

We sent out two plane loads
to San Diego and San Francisco,
twin giant birds jammed with
our dogs and cats. This while
bodies floated like bundles
bounding gently in the toxic gumbo,
and that one in Algiers* lay
soaking up sun and fetid air.

I helicoptered over the shifting scene.

These were folk I had seen
sitting on stoops, groups idling at corners,
never amounted to much. Oh,
those little ones, childr---

We even got out a parrot.
Ungrateful bird. Here we were
rescuing him, and all he could crack
was, “Goddamn your souls to hell!”

*District of New Orleans only slightly affected by flooding.

Guanajuato Birds Return at Evening

They hit the eye
as a black point
on the high horizon.

A wedge expands and folds,
a headless snake, body fattened,
airborne, sweeping mightily.

Sweep, sweep and countersweep,
wheeling abamicos; heavy wind,
they hurtle with seeming mindlessness,
hit the ear like wind pushed rain.

Thousands, so close, yet with bird radar,
never touching, wave after wave,
they make the inestimable pass,
pass and pass again.

Black punctured cloud.

Their timing immaculate, ten of six
each night, rush of bird of blood.
Branch sagging numbers, they settle,
chattering, chattering, safe for now
in Embajadora's trees.

Women at the Fence, at the Well

to Sandra Bond Garrison

Women who stand at fences
stand together and apart.

Their fence is separation, not a wall.

Women who stand at fences channel
love through hands that pass
the trowel, tulips, tea roses,
bleeding hearts and tansy,
pass their hands over and back;
tea roses, talk of chrysanthemums, tea talk,
ritual turn of phrase, twist of hand fork,
honeysuckle on one side, jasmine on the other.

They trade stories of success and sorrow.
Feeling flows between the lines,
crone* lines of courage and gentleness.
Two crones, fingers in earth, exchange
secrets of bulbs, ladybugs. Their stories
hold no bitterness.

Anchor Steel links let light through;
not like love or plants, they need no tending.
Women go to the well for water, the fence
to freshen the spirit.

Women who stand at fences
stand together and apart.
Their fence is separation not a wall.

*Current women have established crone and witch as women of wisdom.

Remnants are Reminders

for mitch and lois

I weed the Chinese poppies
during a light drizzle. Remember
there was small rain when we planted,
wanted to get them in before the storm.

Those poppies along the front driveway
are all that you would recognize
from outside. Redwood and Monterey pine
gone from back fence. Magnolia, found rotting,
was cut down, to neighbors' loud cries.

Nor would you know the feel of kitchen,
with Japanese lanterns gone, recessed lights
and a picture gallery over wide window.
Back porch has sink and toilet. No more
morning fighting over johns.

Remnants are reminders. The stubborn poppies,
holding their own in that pebbly earth,
dutch door for kitchen, soft wood paneled
skylight for middle room, and the curving
brick walk that gathers these traces in.

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Cover Design: Joseph McNair