Friday, July 1, 2016

Joseph Somoza and Jill Somoza

Jill and Joe Somoza in the Organ Mountains when the poppies were in full bloom.
Joseph Somoza sends us 3 poems.

Double Talk

Sitting in my lawn chair, I’m
walking down Bush Street
toward the Fillmore, your arm
entwined in mine.

Now that we’re old enough
it doesn’t matter.  People
may think what they think.
What are we anyway,

Step outside ourselves and
notice the flowering bushes,
the Victorian facades, the old
Japanese woman walking
home with groceries.

If we lived here?
If we came from here?
If we had gone to grade school here?

If we hadn’t become
who we are?                           


He speaks nonsensical
for the love of
hearing speech phrases
in a visible form he can
modulate, re-combine
or, just,
undermine his own
expectations, liking to hear
a possible, new
language one would
speak for no reason
but the love of
how it sounds.

A Million Lives

Amazing always, but especially
now in the early.
A freight train passing through town,
down the hill where
tracks lie in wait for a train
to come blow its whistle

while I sit in morning shade
under the tree, Marty, the black cat,
lying nearby, Jill watering the flowers,
the wooden picket fence as somber
as it’s ever been, unlike my
somberness that varies, often mixed

with joy, unbelief, or
other mixed feelings—colorations
that make the world seem
mine for the moment, a moment that,

at the time,
lasts forever.

Joseph Somoza

construction by Jill Somoza

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