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Veronica Golos read from Vocabulary of Silence.  SOMOS Winter Writers Series at the Mabel Dodge Luhan House, Taos, NM

To Name is to know. TheTaosNews  Tempo Article Feb. 17th 2011

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Published on February 5, 2011 at 5:41 pm  Comments (1)  

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  1. Charles F. Thielman blueearth4u@gmail.com – enJOYed Kah-Nee-Ta!
    4960 Parsons Ave./Eugene, OR 97402

    Watering coleus after midnight, during wartime [April, ’03]

    I rise from the loam of a dream
    and watch heavy winds and rain whip streams
    over rooftops and asphalt
    as night-shift cars flick on by,
    their headlights lit opals.

    Blue spruce stands above the river
    close to that train’s wail and pull of boxcars,
    boxcars empty or packed wood floor to steel ceiling,
    clanking on to a bridge over the river
    as I water coleus after midnight.

    Tony Bennett croons his heart out from my stereo
    into my workroom’s votive and lamp lit, incense filled, air.
    I snip a few leaves to guide this coleus higher and higher,
    then water the neighboring dracaena,

    thinking of the word lluvia, espanol for rain,
    of borrasca, gale force winds, lluvia y borrasca,
    of my friends and their children sleeping and dreaming
    as it rains and rains buckets this March night,

    praying for all,
    seeing how these plants spread their branches, fronds and leaves,

    praying for all the young soldiers to stop killing one another,
    firing, firing into a blinding sandstorm in the desert

    as generals finger arrows over maps

    commanding the ghosts they create.

    Branch given to water

    Dusk deepens the blue heron
    stemmed shallows as souls
    are ferried to riverbank.

    Cairns sky-brushed white
    wax blue-gray. Autumn colors
    and shapes sink, taken by the current.

    Scraps of names tugged from war debris
    swirl inside a clutch of leaves

    as I walk on
    to jetty then shoreline.

    Years of erosion striate a bluff
    as the tide brings in another rosary of agates.

    Each transient flange of rising moon
    threaded stone to eye softens
    a bouy bell’s tossed clangs.

    I driftwood trace a peace symbol in wet sand,

    sing vowels of loss
    to the brown swirl of undertow.

    The ocean is fed broken wings all night.


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