Harvard’s Glass Flowers by Elizabeth Searle Lamb

unable to fade,
here in drawn glass
blue morning glories

a bright young voice
“this one is real–
it has to be!”

New England asters:
the dust of an autumn

she comes for a look,
Pekingese under her arm–
both a little bored

a botany student
carefully noting down
all the scientific names

an evening moth
visits the bachelors-button



By the Sign of the Haiku Sign

About a year and a half ago, I put up these haiku signs–two on Kathryn Sreet and one on Cortez on Santa Fe’s westside.




The haiku is by Chiyo-ni, a medieval Japanese woman poet. Translation by Miriam Sagan and Isabel Winson-Sagan. Design, fabrication, and installation by Tim Brown and Isabel Winson-Sagan.

As is always the case, things happen around an installation.

One warm evening, I was called over to a group of old timers chatting on my block.

“The sign is because you’re Jewish,” one said.
My immediate neighbor didn’t agree. “It’s because she’s a poet!”
“But why do you say Jewish,” I wanted to know, because I am.
“Because the Jewish holidays are on the new moon,” he insisted correctly.
I don’t know where this knowledge came from, but New Mexico has its crypto-Jews. And its interdenominational friendships.

Other neighbors have a gorgeous orange wall that highlights their harvest of tomatoes, free to all. We call them “The Wall.” They call us “The Sign.”

The thrashers enjoy perching on it.



Moonlight Night by Tu Fu

A translation from the Chinese by Arthur Sze of the poem “Moonlight Night” by Tu Fu:

this evening in Fu-chou my wife
can only look out alone at the moon.
From Cha’ang I pity my children
who cannot yet remember or understand

Her hair is damp in fragrant mist.
Her arms are cold in the clear light,
When we will lean beside the window
and the moon shine on our dried tears?

Today’s Poem Comes with an Invitation

Permission Slips by Miriam Sagan

How many elements?
Compose a still life.

Who filled this bowl with sand?
Touch low tide.

Do objects or feelings have anti-gravity?
Shake the dice.

Can doubles exist together?
Pretend to take a sip.

How many seeds in the pomegranate?
Descend immediately.

Is a suitcase a diorama?
Open the book.

Is the blue pyramid water?
Stack things up.

Does THIS stand for THAT?
Draw closer.

Is the souvenir the honeymoon?
Pick your favorite.

Who spilled the wine?
Surprise yourself now.

Is the fear at the center or edges?
Prepare to exit.

What doesn’t fit?
Add something.

How close do you need to be?
Both show and tell.

How are you not random?
Rattle something.

Which one is real?
Draw a line in the sand.

What starts with the letter A?
Express your happiness.

Where is it red?
Count the grains.

Is it edible?
Listen for synesthesia.

Does God play dice?
Shake more than two dice.

Does the astrolabe tell fortunes?
Use Occam’s Razor.

Was it an idea that shattered?
Re-arrange your shards.






CLAY by Suzanne Vilmain
Permission Slips by Miriam Sagan

Cafe Pasqual’s Gallery 

May 1, two thousand fifteen
Friday evening – 5 – 7:30pm

103 E. Water St. Santa Fe, NM
{Next Door to Pasqual’s}
Elevator to the 2nd Floor

B, B, B…by Karla Linn Merrifield

B, B, B…

“There is no feeling more pleasant, no drug more addictive,
than setting foot on virgin soil.” – E.O. Wilson

In the alphabet of my Maritimes summer,
I’m preoccupied with B.

It’s the bunchberries’ fault.
Their scentless ivory blossoms

bewitch me with pale, cruciform petals
above a cross of leaves,

the cardinal points
of my estival compass

this journey north and east where
B leads not to C but to another:

the Bog. The bog’s beckoning

in August seduce me to slog;
sink both feet into peat-moss,

a brown befuddlement up to my shins,
breathing bog, pure bog.

Breathing dwarf larch and orchids,
and lichen, odorless, clean.

I’m baffled I can step away, venture
beyond the subtle beauty of the bog, but

I do.
A bay beckons,

a blue bay
of blue whales.

The biggest beast this blue globe
has ever known knows me.

Baleine bleu beguiles
with the greatest breath.


the Bs of New Brunswick and Bay of Fundy
behind me. I make it to

the Bay of Gaspé;
I reach land’s end; I plunge—

because of the bunchberries,
the bog, the bay, the one true blue whale.