Haiku Travelogue by Libby Hall

birds’ song
gently awakens the day
fat cats amble

ancient buildings
shuttered windows, flower boxes
scooters roar

sailboats on horizon
cerulean blue sea —
laps smooth stone beach

sunkissed people stroll
the Promenade d’Anglais
stately date palms wave

Vieux Nice cobblestone streets
yellow, green, ochre buildings
shutters open to sky

bathed in warm sun
laundry hangs above
narrow streets below

people rendezvous
espresso and cigarettes
cafe society

Cours Saleya
flowers and fish compete
church bells toll

home of Matisse
windows overlook market
colors inspire art

rich red tomatoes
zucchinis wear squash blossoms
fresh butter croissants

figs, dates, grapes, olives
salami, gorgonzola
oui, merci beaucoup

textures, aromas, sounds
medieval fairy tale
bonjour, Cote d’Azur

Our Apron Poem

Joan Logghe, Renee Gregorio, and I are working on a poetry apron for a show in conjunction with the National Hispanic Cultural Center in Albuquerque.
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The aprons will be in a big cottonwood tree, opening March 3.

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The technology involved is that Joan types on cloth, the same way she makes her beautiful poetry potholders.

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She is also writing some interesting simultaneous texts.

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Waiting To Be Beheaded: My Childhood Career Choices

As a girl of the fifties and early sixties, reading in bed, the biographies of heroines, there seemed to be only a few career paths open to me:
1. Save France. Be Saint Joan of Arc. Dress in men’s clothes. Get burned at stake.
2. Run along the underground railroad. Be Harriet Tubman. Wear men’s clothes. End up in Canada.
3. Fly an airplane. Be Amelia Earhart. Wear men’s clothes. Die in a crash.
4. Last weekend I enjoyed seeing the simulcast of the Metropolitan Opera’s “Maria Stuarda.” Exquisite singing, fantastic costumes, elaborate jewelry. Which reminded me of the 4th career choice.
4. Try to rule England. Be Anne Boleyn, Lady Jane Grey, or Mary Stuart. Dress in Tudor gowns with ruffs. Get beheaded.

I Knew I Was Beaten

I Knew I Was Beaten

in the middle of the Mohave
doing my laundry
in a trailer park
by moonlight
on winter solstice
in a desert hotspring
listening to two beat up old white guys
pick electric guitar
play a synthesizer
one with a cane
one with a Santa hat
in front of a glittering X-mas tree
and I was weeping
to a Hank Williams song
with the word whippoorwill
in it

I’ve done laundry
a lot of strange places
but here, among an audience
drinking whiskey
from styrofoam cups
I realized my sorrow
was the same
as everyone elses
and I forgot
I was a Russian Jew
born in New York City
for at the age of fifty-nine
I was just any lady
beating time with her hand
and I had finally
entered America
and I was beaten.