Y’ALL Volume No. 1 Issue No. 1 Fall 2001
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Poetry
Snow flakes of Humanity
By: Rick Wheeler
Inception of conception a miraculous birth structured to guidelines of
relative worth
Intrinsically fragile savagely brutal staying aloft seems so futile
Impacting their world with all their potential are they important or
inconsequential?
Wrought by the hammers of eternal desire from beginning to end what will
transpire?
Uniqueness in heart as well as in mind we are all the same one of a
kind.
Christmas Past
By:
Kristie Hunger
Anticipation
all year long.
January I was good.
By February I was doing
wrong.
The big day would eventually come.
I'd be hauled to the mall
for new shoes and a dress.
Then cry in fear when put upon a big red and
white dressed gnome.
What do you want for Christmas? He'd ask.
I
couldn't remember that list, I was too distressed.
Then I'd be done, my
turn was over, the whole line Mom would whisk me past.
We would work
the whole month for that big night.
The year I was the Innkeeper, we found
out I was allergic to burlap.
At the top of my little lungs I sang 'all was
calm all was bright'.
Round a yon what? What's a virgin momma? And why
are virgins round?
I got to be Mary one year too, rode in on a paper mache
donkey Dad made.
Blue was the color for virgins that year, Mary had no
lines, I couldn't utter a sound.
After the play, when we'd all sung our
loudest and best
We got a bag with an orange an apple, some uncracked nuts
and no candy.
I'd be anxious to leave, Mom would talk to everyone, 'oh mrs
something, what a nice dress'.
On the way home were lights on houses
but we never saw snow.
We'd have tamales from our mailman,queso and,
sausage,
Eggnog and cookies my Granny would decorate with a half cherry
for a bow.
I'd come in to presents under the tree, more than
before.
I always wanted to stay home from church, to catch the man in the
act.
In the morning would be stuffed stockings and the main attraction, a
barbie on a skateboard.
The rest of the time was filled with traditions
from Germany,
I was taught the big family tradition; how to wiggle my
ears..
We'd have coffee and tea at three, play cards with my
Grandpa
Then I'd make another list for next time, and start being good for
another year.
OPUS 1
By: Connie Williams
When I write good poetry on the computer,
my cooking skills
take a nosedive;
my eating flies higher than ever.
Starvation is
static for the moment;
gluttony is running wild!
With green animosity
drowned in a sea of silence,
forgiveness comes to life in glorious music.
The Geese Are Back
By: Clarence Milam
The geese are back.
I can hear them
in the darkness of my morning.
I pull myself from the safety
of the small of my wife's back
smooth and warm, her pale skin almost
glowing in the night that will becoming morning.
Almost.
Almost glowing. Almost morning. Almost safe.
I sip coffee from my blue willow cup. Delicate taste of hazelnut.
My gut growls dictation- always the boss.
I cast pennies for the day
spilling from the page in solid and broken lines.
The Madonna watches me. Always watches me.
From a velodrada candle. A 32 cent Christmas stamp: Sano di
Pietro.
The ghost of lemongrass and pinon haunting my desk.
Always haunted.
The geese are back.
All articles in Mood Harvest
Copyright 2001
Tres Amigos press