33 Miners

Luis Urzua

33 miners below.

Not looking into an abyss, but from it.

Each man gazes up at impermeable, ancient rock,

sealing him in his doom, in his tomb.

69 days of not knowing

how it will be, if they will be.

69 days of hope, despair, grief and doubt.

Deep below and high above, leaders emerge,

courage ebbs and flows, and frailties come to the fore.

Hope arrives as the urgency of birth, thrusting, piercing the rock.

One by one, the men are lifted into a new unknown,

Newborns delivered from the earth to the waiting arms of a joyous world.
Martha

This is when

This is when she feels the freest.

Barreling down Highway One towards Santa Cruz in early morning. The ocean, endless, to her right, in all the colors of blue that blue can be. Pastures, eucalyptus groves, strutting clouds, solitary sand dunes, sheer-terror rock cliffs and autumn colors conspire to pleasure her on the journey.

This is when she feels the safest.

Cocooned in the driver's seat, soothed and energized by Irish ballads, Elgar symphonies and Bob Seger's Silver Bullet band. The music carries her spirit in all directions while her body stays the course.

This is when she feels the most herself.

Her thoughts are her own and uncensored, free-floating, not sticking to anything in particular, not needing to or making sense.

This is when she feels her heart and mind open.

Nothing is impossible or dire. She is aware of timelessness and insignificance and presence and now.

This is when she is.

Extemporaneously Speaking

The mellifluous serendipity of life
Juxtaposed against the prevaricating impetuousness of
Supercilious malcontents
Gesticulating stultifying and deleterious consternations
On subordinated Homo Sapiens
Illustrates cognizance replete with cataclysmic . . .

Wait! Wait! Hold up!

I ain’t gotta try usin’ no big highfalutin’ 10 dolla’ words
To say what I gotta say.
I just gotta say it straight out.
So here goes.

Life is lovin’ me and I’m lovin’ it right back!


Saundra C.

He Dreams

He dreams beyond his reach
desires more than he can have in one lifetime
He envisions a hacienda with stucco enclosed courtyards
sheep grazing, pretty girls riding in the arena
manicured orchards, a small family mausoleum
He can almost hear the mariachis playing,
smell the spring lamb on the spit
in celebration of the holy day of resurrection
Sometimes his sleep is filled with loss
a nightmare full of failure,
the house, the land, the family: all gone
He wakes in terror, reaches across the bed
for the warmth of the woman at his side

Fog and Ice

She dreams of how it will be

when she is old and he,

not much younger

will decide she is no longer of use

to herself or others

and consign her to the home

away from home

The home where old men and women

locked in rooms at night

are left alone

to face the silence

and unanswered questions

What was it for?

How could it have been different?

Who am I?

She fantasizes a different outcome

one based on legends

movie scenarios

where the old are set on ice floes

no food or water

left to drift

to die alone

Without drugs

without machines

without somber-faced relatives petting hands

and wiping away the spittle

Without their unspoken prayer

“God, let her get on with this

So we can get home and get some sleep.”