Topic: Mike's Poems & Writings
Buried Corn under Mokavai Mesa
A poem by Mike Strassman
The Indian agency sits like a rusted typewriter
in a sunless desert.
Beside it a sandstone face, carved by the wind, sun
and flintlocks, ignores the brilliance and heat
of his father.
"My Mother" he mumbles, "no longer has her sun."
It's just another worker for Standard Oil.
"We are aware of traditions, but just can't do it."
Feathers hang on a rearview mirror.
Posted: September, 08 2011 8:39 PM
|Here is a poem Mike wrote about my dog, Jenna, who lived with us in Tucson:
She did not care when cold snows touched her feet.
She ran ahead rejoicing in the wild.
We kissed as clouds breathed moist upon our hair,
I shivering, her unknowing of danger.
Only a half hour between work.
She greets me as if I were the woods.
I have not the time,
she eats my leftovers.
We keep her like furniture.
She sleeps in us when she needs comfort,
we put her out when she loves us the most.
And should she make a mistake,
a wag of a tail across the street,
sliding on dry pavement,
she'd be the only one who wouldn't cry her eyes out.
Posted: October, 03 2011 6:10 PM
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