ONLY GOOD NEWS
Creeping charleys crouch near dwarf cactus
Coleus bow to jades
All bathed in fluorescence
as I sway and weave my stories
to faces that will never be smoother
Or radiate more hope.
Belvin, a Mescalero Apache, traveled
far from the home to water
my counter’s greenery.
He fails every subject.
Always breaks eye contact.
You like my plants, I stated.
Yours? One calm word hinted doubt.
Within the quiet canyons formed
by walls of books his gentle
voice colored a vision of weather.
There are no clouds in the west
a whisper to the jades.
A cool breeze settles on the hills
nodding to the cactus.
Every leaf, stalk and spine seemed poised
for his farewells:
Stay healthy, Ramon.
I’ll miss you, Señor Ruiz.
The world will know your story, Belvin
he says just grazing a blushing coleus.
Only then does he step
from shade to light
prepared to address
The sun
lonely for her lost children.
COMMUNITY OF MEN
He appeared one evening
Alongside the scent of kerosene
lanterns and groaning wooden carts
one quite old Japanese visitor
What were the unwritten laws of the village?
The English language side of his card read
Social anthropologist
Because he knew his death was imminent
he feared idle time
the waste of social amenities
The Thais were not impressed
Buddhism offered more than a few lifetimes
They knew he used his daughter
as a lure to connect find a way in
a village’s delicate web
With my bumbling language skills
and what I prayed were polite
entreaties he got to meet the elders
Not the mayor or selectmen
Not the chief or the general
But the old men who kept the pulse
and guided commerce and all
graces without a scrap of paper
an oath or salary
The visitor wheedled and cajoled
The old men yawned
Rice was served and eaten
Beer was poured and finished
Glancing my way the visitor grimaced
Where can I he used a familiar gesture
Everyone in the small hut rose as one
to troop outside stand at parade rest
by a long row of banana trees
Spraying the greenery until the last man turned
Back inside they readily shared what they could
with the man an elder described as
being able to pee as long as an elephant
IT’S NOT DOMESTIC
It’s not Peets coffee I wish
To share nor common drags
From an herbal smoke
Patois of media suggests
We Lovers betray
our bond through joint acts
As if we all must
Inhale and grin
Sip and smile
Point is
it’s not domestic
As in you wash I dry
What I miss is
Art
The design formed by your line-of-sight
Changing my space from X2 to X3
Understand
It’s depth I yearn for
Unless you’re here
I’m trapped flat between
A billion quarks and oxygen
Coffee gulps and clouds of smoke
I’m incomplete
cool to touch
An existential being
I float on jazz
Swim through sound waves
Strung out like a high-C whistle
I call you
And call you
To make me real
Burgess Stanley Needle is a Tucson, Arizona poet. His work has appeared in Black Mountain Review, Zafusy, The Hiss Quarterly, Centrifugal Eye, Origami Condom, Kritya, Gutter Eloquence, Red Fez, Gloom Cupboard, and Iodine. He will happily respond to any e-mails: bbneedle@cox.net
