7/3/04 Two poems by Marj Schroeder 

Holes of San Miguel

Black holes

Left by friends

Coalesce.

Gaps grow greater

Gulp and

Swallow my life.

I gobble gorditas

Dawn

Sunlight spills over the hills

Tile roofs blaze and sparkle

Like mirrors sending

Distress signals.

5/15/04 Garden Queen    by Michelle Smith

written for the Garden Club of San Miguel de Allende, and in honor of Michelle's sister, Shirley Williams, on her 60th birthday.

5/15/04     RUTH O'NEAL (who is dying of cancer) by Michelle Smith

Ruth O'Neal, that elegant spirit,

a rascal and rogue in disguise.

She's ever the lady, and never you fear it,

we'll sing you her praise to the skies.

But more, so much more is our dear lady--

intelligent, charming and wise.

We're hoping her past is just a bit shady,

because of the gleam in her eyes.

We met her down south, in old San Miguel,

this one with the "traveling" heart.

She left California, tho' she loved it well,

in Mexico made a new start.

She's been our dear friend a good many years.

We love and admire her no end.

We've shared lots of laughter and very few tears.

How lucky to call her our friend!

5/8/04   RENEWAL  (a haibun - prose/haiku)    by Allen McGill

Manhattan high-rises glint gold and silver in the light of the early morning sun.
I slow the car to savor the view, aware that I may never see it again.

Whether I'm running from something or towards something I'm not sure, probably both,
but I'm on my way. A tunnel takes me into the city, and another one out of it.

Jersey Turnpike ~
in my rear view mirror
the twin towers

Endless highways and moderate motels are all I concentrate on, heading for Mexico.
I'm giddy about leaving a stressful job in a frenetic city, and excited about a new lifestyle
in San Miguel de Allende. A more affordable life at that.

I laugh when I think of the comments received when I spoke of my plans. 

"Mexico? Oh, that's nice. I have family in Albuquerque."
"Mexico? But aren't you afraid of bandits?"
"Mexico? Heh, heh, heh. Don't drink the water."
"Mexico? WHY?"

Driving while it's still barely light is a challenge. I'm not an experienced driver, and unhappy
without a full night's sleep. The windows are kept open and the radio blares rock music to
ensure I stay awake.

Even the interminable toll roads signify freedom when you've endured a constricted city life.
Stops for food and sleep while driving south are revelations: foods, accents, attitudes, customs.

waiter ~
before each order,
"Praise the Lord"

the broken neon
flashes VAC NCY
nearing twilight

City thruways confuse my sense of direction. There is no rush, I tell myself. No need to panic.

Texas -- the urgency that has tightened my neck muscles begins to ease. Mexico, my goal,
in near. The land is flat, but soon fields of Bluebonnets carpet the land like patches of sky fallen
to earth.

border town's
Spanglish culture
dust everywhere
 
After a night in Laredo, I approach the border crossing at dawn. Mordida --bribe-- is first and
foremost on the inspector's mind. He jokes openly about it with his cohort, unaware or uncaring
that I understand. Playing dumb gringo saves me money.

After time, money and aggravation, I enter Mexico. It's a twelve-hour drive to San Miguel, so I
stock up on bottled water and pesos.

The country is bleak. Miles of desert stretch to the hazy mountainous horizon. I pass near
modern Monterrey. Across the river lies a hill town of shacks. On one lonely stretch of road,
women and children approach selling snake skins, wild birds and tarantulas. I wonder if anyone
ever stops to buy.

yellow blooms
on desert cacti
noonday sun

It's dark when I arrive at the outskirts of San Miguel high in the Sierra Madres. The Parrochia --
parish church -- of pink limestone rises in spires above the main square, copied from a postcard
of a European cathedral. The rear is unfinished -- no postcard.  

The streets are cobble-stoned, the building facades 17th century, the pace slow, and the air
festive with serenading mariachis.

I'm home.       

Saturday night
the main plaza swarms
with strollers

           4/26/04   FOR JENNY JOSEPH   by  Sylvia Berek Rosenthal                     

 You said

                when I am an old woman I shall wear purple.

Well I am an old woman

                I do wear purple, pink, and polka dots.

                lots of polka dots

yet more than that

I don't finish every book I start.

                sorry mama, you were wrong

I don't HAVE TO finish everything.

                I'll read anything that is fun

                that touches me

                that suddenly tells me something                 

                I didn't even know I wanted to know.

but writing that is turned in on itself 

                so convoluted

                I have to dig and burrow

                to find some meaning.

oh no!

my time now is flexible

                                there are very few "have tos"

nevertheless my time now is valuable

                and I choose to husband it.

I won't stay to the end

                of a lackluster play

                a pointless movie

                a tedious lecture.

It’s bad enough the money's spent

I won't also squander my time.

                                 but oh there are compensations!