I Am Gray

Stefan Sencerz

October 6, 2024

I have no hope

My attitude

old trash drifting in still waters

a drab gravel road leading nowhere

sand sifting through numb fingers

poppy seeds counted when you try

yet are unable to fall asleep

No anticipation, no expectations, no hope

for expectations open the doors

to hope and I am gray

I do not wish to have hope

Some think I am cold ice

perhaps they saw me

only from a distance

only for a moment or two

never really touched me

for when you take me in your hand

I do not feel like ice at all but more

like ashes from a long-extinguished fire

mixed with melting early Autumn snow

Some think I am smooth‑jazz

I must admit, an apt and witty comparison

even if a bit insulting

for, indeed, there is something boring

in so called “smooth jazz” and there is

something boring in gray, too

surely, I’m not a rill of golden hues

from Fats Navaro’s trumpet

nor am I weaver of burnished muted 

long notes from Miles’s horn

but I am not a pretty line of Kenny G, either

prettiness attracts attention

and I am plain and distant as distant 

from the sun as the Earth 

covered by thick clouds at dusk

I am Gray, you would notice me

only through the contrast with the light

Sometimes Blue sends raindrops my way

splat... splat... splat... splatting

on the surface of my windows

yet never getting in

never really reaching me

“How are you, Gray? Are you sad?”

I hear and

close the shades 

lock the house

for I wish no guests

a telephone ring might 

put me in a state of panic

I listen to rain

but I do not feel it on my skin

outdoors is way too challenging

stream and pond too distant to walk

(Besides, there is always what if

what if I open up, try to look

deeply into the waters

and yet only find mud?)

So, I hear songs of birds

but do not hear the melody

I see the birds fly away

vanishing behind the line of horizon

yet I do not try to follow them

For there is a hope in a birds’ flight

they carry with them many Springs

Yet there is no hope in me I am Gray

I watch the world through the rainy windows

drifting away with a distant blues from the Delta

Stefan Sencerz, born in in Warsaw, Poland, came to the United States to study philosophy and Zen Buddhism. He teaches philosophy, Western and Eastern, at Texas A&M University, Corpus Christi. His essays appeared in professional philosophy journals (mostly in the areas of animal ethics and metaethics) and his poems and short stories appeared in literary journals. Stefan has been active on the spoken-word scene winning the slam-masters poetry slam in conjunction with the National Poetry Slam in Madison Wisconsin, in 2008, as well as several poetry slams in San Antonio, Austin, Houston, and Chicago.

Watching the Trees

Stefan Sencerz

December 31, 2023

In memory of Chögyam Trungpa

I try to see trees as fluid 

swirls of black, brown, and green 

and white, yellow, and blue 

They take upon the solid form: 

giants having their feet planted 

firmly into the rich soil 

their torsos growing 

into the canopy of leaves

arms outstretched 

to passing clouds 

heads reaching up

into the heavens

Sometimes white and pink butterflies

settle on the giants’ arms 

then the rains come 

butterflies fade away 

giving place to

plums, peaches, and pears

Sometimes branches take on the form

of fractures in the solid sky

That’s when the perspective shifts

clouds dissolve gates open

subtle lights and rainbows sift in

Stefan Sencerz, born in Warsaw, Poland, came to the United States to study philosophy and Zen Buddhism. He teaches philosophy, Western and Eastern, at Texas A&M University, Corpus Christi. His essays appeared in professional philosophy journals (mostly in the areas of animal ethics and metaethics) and his poems and short stories appeared in literary journals. 

Stefan has been active on the spoken-word scene winning the slam-masters poetry slam in conjunction with the National Poetry Slam in Madison Wisconsin, in 2008, as well as several poetry slams in San Antonio, Austin, Houston, and Chicago. 

Azul

Elizabeth N. Flores

December 24, 2023

If this poem was a color it would be blue.

Smothering the Christmas tree.

The kids wanted multicolor lights. 

That’s all they’ve known. 

This year the tree branches and lights 

are brilliant blue.

Con elegancia,

as their mother wished. 

Because of the dazzling blue Christmas tree 

she saw in the window of a mansion 

she christened El Grande,

as she drove down Ocean Drive 

on her way to Christus Spohn Hospital 

to work the night shift.

Elizabeth N. Flores, Professor Emeritus of Political Science, taught for over 40 years at Del Mar College and was the college’s first Mexican American Studies Program Coordinator. Her poems have appeared in the Texas Poetry Assignment, Corpus Christi Writers (2022 and 2023 editions) anthologies edited by William Mays, Mays Publishing Literary Magazine, and Windward Review.

Treasure Covered in Green

Thomas Hemminger

November 5, 2023

We made a lifelong memory

in the slimy green bed

of a neighbor’s backyard creek.

Retirement won’t stop our friend

from sharing her love for the

natural sciences with anyone

who will listen—always the teacher.

“Come fossil hunting” she invited,

so we threw on muck boots

and came at once.

Green is nature’s birthright.

The inherited hue of growing things

when the sun blesses their

reaching with nourishment and promise.

From the post oak to the river moss,

it will be the shade of our memory today.

“Dad! Come see this one!”

When we turned over each plate of slippery

greenwashed limestone in our hands,

we turned back time itself with

every blood clam or palm frond

immortalized in the rock.

We came home with a trove

of specimens to clean and catalog,

but the real gold will forever be

this memory

with a neighbor we love.

Thomas Hemminger is an elementary music teacher living in Dallas, Texas. His personal hero is Mr. Fred Rogers, the creator of Mr. Rogers’ Neighborhood. It was through America’s favorite “neighbor” that Thomas learned of the importance of loving others, and of giving them their own space and grace to grow.

The Browning

Elisa A. Garza

October 29, 2023

Not just this drought, 

dry grass spears crisping 

under relentless sun. 

Or the dark cows lying in dust 

chewing tough stems

and brittle mesquite pods.

Texas has always been brown,

rivers khaki with silt 

melting to marshes, 

seeping to waves 

that slap seaweed onto shores.

In fall, magnolia leaves flip 

from green overnight, float down 

to join the cinnamon pine needles, 

and hide the precious pecans

that will keep the squirrels fed 

through winter. Beavers build 

their wooden dams, bears hibernate 

in the quiet thicket while the deer 

walk regally and hunters wear 

the forest. They seek relaxation 

in the wait, a set of antlers

to display, meat for their tables,

but no longer cure leather

to wear, to make saddles 

or shoes. Texas is brown,

like the faces of my people,

the Alazapas and Lipan Apache,

los Carrizos and Coahuiltecans,

the hacienda dons, vaqueros,

seamstresses, shopkeepers,

and migrant cotton pickers. 

Our children are brown,

a café-colored past,

a bronzing future, inevitable,

bountiful, breathtaking.

Elisa A. Garza has published two chapbooks, Between the Light / entre la claridad (Mouthfeel Press) and Familia.  Individual poems currently appear in Huizache and Last Stanza Poetry Journal.  She has taught for public schools, universities, and community programs and now works as a freelance editor.

Telehandler Ballet

Suzanne Morris

October 22, 2023

I watch from far away

on the darkening porch

as the big yellow telehandler

slowly disappears

behind red barn gables

then slowly...slowly...

emerges on the 

far side to

make a wide arch

around the broad field

slowly...slowly...

proud virtuoso...

in a gesture

of fond farewell

down a path to the

truck and trailer

that have come to

bear it away.

I remember you

spoke of the danger

riding so high in the

giant telehandler

how careful

you must be

to avoid tilting over.

But I wish I had noticed

before too late

how it moved with the

grace of a ballet dancer

and came to a halt so

slowly...slowly...

long slender arm

unfolding...

closed hand opening...

wish I had stood far away

on the darkening porch,

to notice the grace

whenever you drove it,

and tossed you a

rose bouquet.

Fading Light

Donna Freeman

October 15, 2023

Colors of twilight

gray and violet

spread over waiting shadows, 

soften the edges of day.

Landscapes lose their lure,

have dropped from sight

in the faint and fleeting light. 

Watching the sun’s surrender,  

like a changing of guards,

I am not quick to mimic her

yet must prepare for what I face. 

If I leave this place

I will go with what

I know of love.

A squirrel,

a wren,

…and a cat.

I’ll leave it at that.

Donna Freeman’s poetry has appeared in Wilderness House Literary Review, Blue Lake Review, Ocean State Poets Anthology: Giving Voice, RI Public's Radio’s “2020 Virtual Gallery" and ekphrastic exhibitions at Imago and Wickford Art Galleries. She is a retired teacher and clinical social worker.

Texas: Black Young People Refuse Despair

Janelle Curlin-Taylor

October 8, 2023

$5 billion for my wall

Or I will not reopen the government.

Former Oval Office Occupant

The government shuts down, the black churches gather

I rage and fume ‘till I despair.

Leadership moves to the young people

Sandwiches Friday for TSA employees working without pay.

Welcomed, rushed, fed, appalled by statements

Transformed by song, surrounded by love, noise, numbers

Held by silence, light in ever-changing colors

As the sun sets through the stained glass windows.

Feasting on beautiful faces, resonant voices

Amazed by resilience – in the face of torment

History has not been kind

Prognosis is not good.

I rage and fume and fight despair.

Yet hope rises and will not be put down

The money tumbles in, the teams assigned

500 workers will be fed on Friday.

“I have stood on the mountain” he said.

“I have seen the Promised Land.”

They have heard, they believe

Their actions do not lie.

Janelle is a native Texan, actress, mycologist, therapist, minister and poet.  Her poems have been published in di- verse-city Anthology, Blue Hole, Best Austin Poetry 2018-2019, Waco Wordfest Anthology, Texas Poetry Calendar, Voices de la Luna, Lone Star Poetry Anthology, Tejascovido, Texas Poetry Assignment.  She is married to California poet Jeffrey Taylor.

Amarillo Sunsets

Janelle Curlin-Taylor

October 1, 2023

Just beyond the edge of town, a beige plain,

Not quite desert but close.

In that last development

Before the next development

Spilling across the plain

Beige brick houses with beige interiors

Beige sofas, beige carpets, beige dreams.

Drive out onto the beige plain.

Engage your camera – wait.

As the fiery ball of the sun disappears

A feast of colors too rich to describe

Rises above the plain.

Colors that defy names fill the sky,

Crowding out the blue.

Light and atmosphere conspire

To dispel the world of beige.

The palette of the Universe.

The canvas: the Panhandle sky.

Janelle is a native Texan, actress, mycologist, therapist, minister, and poet.  Her poems have been published in di-verse-city
Anthology, Blue Hole, Best Austin Poetry 2018-2019, Waco Wordfest Anthology, Texas Poetry Calendar, Voices de la Luna, Lone Star Poetry Anthology, Tejascovido, and Texas Poetry Assignment. She is married to California poet Jeffrey Taylor.

Los Colores de Paso del Norte (The Colors of Paso del Norte)

Vincent Hostak

September 24, 2023

On the Paso del Norte bridge

the blue of truth turns a faded grey,

the color young Federales once wore

before these days of desert camouflage.

It’s the color of girders reflected in the Rio Grande.

We could walk across borders once, see the occupation: 

those white-grey blisters on chocolate-red waters

for as long as the sun blanched the river’s skin, 

which was almost always.

This color, on the patches of a Spanish Mustang,

tints each knee to each heel, 

bespeckles its ochre flesh

draped across its uphill build.

It’s the blue in the Dylan song,

his misadventure in the borderland

(one we were too young to even hope to have).

You might find the color on a paint chip:

“Just Like Tom Thumb’s Blue” (sic).

Wasn’t the wind whistling that tune

on the bridge during a fray between 

the Westerlies and the Trade Winds?

We, too, were “lost in Juarez”

sporting the colors and tells of foolish

Anglo kids from the Northeast side,

denim and deerskin fringed cadets.

What were we to find?

Shellacked brown toads in tight tango embraces,

an alabaster chess set with its

badly buffed Gandalf king,

pirated cassettes with poorly translated labels.

You said, they saw us coming, but also,

were just trying to make a living.

That Mustang might still roam

some unpatrolled, cholla freckled

public canyon land, grazing

along the margins of a playa

Far from the curio-seeking tender teens,

parades of plaza mariachis,

all-to-easy to procure Carta Blancas

chilled with a strong taste of can, these

places were more than we could imagine, 

and now, more than we ever should.

Razor wire in the Rio Grande,

deadly palisades between kindness and hostility

making orphans of children in their sway.

There are shadows starker than crisp reflections

dwelling in all our neighbors’ eyes and a pale 

“floating barrier” that scars our common flesh.

Vincent Hostak is a writer and media producer from Texas now living near the Front Range of Colorado south of Denver. His recently published poems are found in the journals Sonder Midwest and the Langdon Review of the Arts in Texas and as a contributor to the TPA. He writes & produces the podcast: Crossings-the Refugee Experience in America.

Color Me Red

Kathryn Jones

September 17, 2023

In this gray world I need more red:

A Northern Cardinal trilling from an oak tree branch

Don Juan roses climbing a wrought iron trellis 

Roma tomatoes swelling on tangled green vines 

Grapefruit dangling like rubies in the Rio Grande Valley

A Summer Tanager flitting in the Davis Mountains

Texas Star Hibiscus blooming on my patio

Ruby-throated hummingbirds probing honeysuckle

Watermelon flesh dripping with summer sweetness

Striped cliffs celebrating a Caprock Canyon sunset

Ocotillo flaming after Big Bend rains

Muddy water flowing down the Rio Rojo

Blood of South Texas ancestors beating in my heart

Coloring my state, my being red, so red

Kathryn Jones is a journalist, essayist, author, and poet. Her work has appeared in The New York Times, Texas Monthly, and in the anthologies A Uniquely American Epic: Intimacy and Action, Tenderness and Action in Sam Peckinpah’s The Wild Bunch (University Press of Kentucky, 2019) and Pickers and Poets: The Ruthlessly Poetic Singer-Songwriters of Texas. Her poetry has been published on tejacovido.com, in the Langdon Review of the Arts in Texas, and Odes and Elegies: Eco-Poetry from the Texas Gulf Coast. She was inducted into the Texas Institute of Letters in 2016.

mesquite

Lou Ella Hickman

September 10, 2023

distilled hard liquor

whose knots coil

and ever slowly  

the spun gold sap

seeps slow tears

under a spear thorn

Sister Lou Ella’s poems have appeared in numerous magazines, was a Pushcart nominee in 2017 and 2020, and authored she: robed and wordless in 2015.

The Red Brick

Marilyn Robitaille

September 3, 2023

Built by a father and his son in 1920

The little house just down the road

Is made of sturdy red, earth-red brick

Much bigger than a modern brick

And barn red through and through

Cousin to a cinder block perhaps 

No pictures can be hung inside

Unless we drill, watch for crumbling

Plaster hand-rubbed white across walls

Somebody called it “Country French”

1920s Texas farmhouse meets Monet 

Updating anything takes certain care

The builders built beyond themselves

So a hundred years after them, I’m here

Adding Mediterranean blue, bookish

Calling it our “guest house,” but it’s more

Pass by the Red Brick on the dirt road

And you’d never guess its secrets 

Brought back to life after many years

Occupants as varied as wildflowers 

Some for a long time, others for a night

Several Texas Poets’ Laureates stayed

Brought their books, regaled us lyrically

Musicians recorded albums in the living room

Families celebrated graduations and reunions

Fired up the barbeque, tapped the keg

One couple stayed over Christmas, no tree

My French friend and his Russian wife arrived,

She sang opera. He shared a good Bordeaux.

My Italian friends came direct from Rome,

Drove our Caddy, calling it “magnifico” 

South Korean guests asked for a rice cooker

Then left it growing cold for lack of use

Goat farmers and horse traders with trailers

Left streaks across the yard when it rained 

Blue-eyed honeymooners booked for a week

Enjoying simple things: spacious quiet, stars, love

The Red Brick welcomed all of them, all

Casting red, a touchstone for their memories

A milestone for our own.

Marilyn Robitaille, Ph.D. is the owner/publisher of ROMAR Press. She was recently named Managing Director of the Frazier Conservatory (opening late 2023), a planned private retreat in Stephenville, Texas, that will give special priority to non-profit organizations or events that celebrate the land, revitalization, the arts, and regional culture.

In the Barrel Composter

Chris Ellery

August 27, 2023

I put a few moldy grapes in the composter.

The next day bees have come

and turned the drum into a hive.

Already a queen and waxy cells 

beginning to fill—chrysanthemum, 

acanthus, zinnia, marigold, 

goldenrod, passionflower, blazing star, 

plumbago, beautyberry, blue sage. 

Winter looms in the blooms of Indian summer. 

The insects hover and buzz,

swarming nuggets of an overripe season.

What is the sun to their eyes?

Inside the black barrel, amid the vegetable rot

of kitchen scraps and yard clippings,

the last colors of gardens, fields, and woods

are distilled into gold.

Chris Ellery resides in San Angelo, where he taught film, creative writing, and American literature for 31 years and where summer often stretches into late autumn. His current interests as reflected in "In the Barrel Composter" include alchemy, Daoism, and the symbolist movement in literature. Contact him at ellerychris10@gmail.com. 

Color of Heat

Linda Simone

August 13, 2023

Unlike aubergine fleece 

soft against bite of New York winter

or warm salmon sunset 

diffusing Miami shoreline

or chili-red oven filaments 

intent on baking a pie

or the mercury snake

at fever pitch—ready to strike, 

in San Antonio, 

this June, July—forever?— 

sky flames orange, 

skin glazes in deep bronze sweat.

Only the prickly pear,

its small suns

atop wide green arms,

is left standing. 

Linda Simone’s publications include The River Will Save Us and Archeology. Her poems have appeared in numerous journals and anthologies, most recently in The Path of Birds (Flying Ketchup Press, 2023). She also paints watercolor miniatures on recycled tea bags. Originally from New York, Simone lives in San Antonio, TX.

Once in a Blue Moon

Jeanie Sanders

August 6, 2023

Blue moon come back

to linger over a perfect Texas day.

Framing the edge of the sky like

a pin that holds the World together.

Behind that pinned edge

another World perhaps

that is as green and hot as this day.

The smell of which produces

a rush of memories.

Houses that were so big

now grown smaller when visited.

The piano that Grandma lay upon 

to sleep and read, dipping snuff

as she turned the pages.

My cousin and I playing where

no adult voice could reach

hidden away in the dark under the piano.

For we had secrets to whisper that

would lose their magic if overheard.

And in the dark guarded by

the returning moon

we looked up into the sky

with the magic of the day still in our heads.

And saw huge animals with green eyes

lurking in the trees staring.

Giving fuel for the next day’s conversation

as we pretended to be afraid.

For would they come again

under the magic of the light?  

Jeanie Sanders is a poet and artist.  She lives in Lytle, Texas. Her poems have been published in The Texas Observer, San Antonio Express News, The Texas Poetry Calendar, Passager, La Voz de Esperanza, and several anthologies.  She is the author of two poetry books, The Book of the Dead: Poems and Photographs and The Dispossessed.

Clouds

Chuck Taylor

July 30, 2023

So I say if they give you lemons that taste like nails

You might go ahead and make somber battery acid

So I say if they pave over those trees you so dearly

loved, that dense forest of hardwoods that ran

along the floodplain of Wolf Pen Creek, to build

a line of commonplace chain corporate eateries

that drove out of business the local establishments,

then I say this time take time to consider not

taking acid revenge, don’t give yourself an ulcer

or disfigure anyone’s face. Go out and consider

the quiet clouds, they haven’t found a way to market

the clouds yet, no one as yet claims mineral rights

or owns the deeds to clouds. So I say stare at

the common clouds, watch them drift across the

sagacious empty blue of sky, using a tree perhaps

as your reference point, and enjoy the way

the clouds shape-shift, how they build cathedrals

way up in the air and then break them silently

down right in the soft miles before your eyes,

watch till time grows timeless and the sun

begins to set and you see how the rosy fingers of

the sun illuminate the clouds at first, but

then the color shifts, taking on bands of purple

or yellow tone, and then the sun sets further

and its light just clips the lower bumps of clouds,

making them a pinkish orange, while the

rest of the clouds grow dark. Your soul is like

those clouds. Luminous and light your soul

shape-shifts through the sky of your body, building

splendid architectures, taking on such holy

colors. Timeless are the clouds of your unknowing

where the worries of naming lemon words

break like a mirror dropped on a floor and your

humble rosy heart drifts in a living peace on its

royal road to falling snow or blessing rain. That’s

you, you know, sliding so easy from life to life.

Chuck Taylor's latest novel is "Hamlet Versus Shakespeare." He taught Shakespeare at Angelo State University. The novel turns the tragedy of Hamlet into an adventure and comedy. Taylor is retired from wandering and teaching and spends his time with books, friends, family, manuscripts, a dog, and household repairs.

Tex Mex Food 101

Alan Berecka

July 23, 2023

Mexican bakeries

in South Texas

sell it by the slice

I could eat it

by the ton—

white pound cake

iced in thick

pink frosting

that hints

of a tang

of citrus.

The perfect

mix of tastes

that even

this gringo

can order

in the local

Spanish dialect,

as I point

and ask for

“Pink Cake!”

and think

to myself

Gracias a Dios.

Alan Berecka is the author of five books of poetry, the latest A Living is Not a Life: A Working Title (2021, Black Spruce Press) was a finalist in the Hoffer Awards. His poetry has appeared in such journals and websites as The Christian Century, The Concho River Review, The Texas Review, The Texas Poetry Assignment, and The Main Street Rag.  He recently participated in the Lithuanian Writers Union’s international spring poetry festival which took place in May 2022. This was the second time Berecka has been invited to read at festivals in the birthplace of two grandparents. He earned his living for many years as a librarian at Del Mar College in Corpus Christi. In January 2023, he finally lived long enough so he retired. He and his wife Alice reside in Sinton, Texas where they raised their now two adult children.

The Burst of Red Rockets

Betsy Joseph

July 23, 2023

Sons now grown, living on their own, 

and the heat index rising steadily outside,

we find we have little interest in seeking 

crowded fireworks displays on this Fourth of July.

We listen instead to a raucous chorus—

these cicadas that drown out our voices

with their incessant drone—

and in place of bottle rockets whooshing 

high into the twilight sky,

our eyes are drawn to the grand sentry along our curb:

the tall crepe myrtle now shooting rockets

of scarlet red blossoms,

a patriotic contribution to this holiday

that crackles with summer heat.

Betsy Joseph lives in Dallas and has poems which have appeared in a number of journals and anthologies. She is the author of two poetry books published by Lamar University Literary Press: Only So Many Autumns (2019) and most recently, Relatively Speaking (2022), a collaborative collection with her brother, poet Chip Dameron. 

Where Color Comes From

Jim LaVilla-Havelin

July 16, 2023

drought

and then

some rainstorms

this desert flower

that cactus fruit

we watched the first grow 

before we knew it -

a pod

almost breathing itself balloon big

and then one morning broke open in a starburst

a slippery tentative green flecked with burgundy

slumped on the dirt

it could have been an anemone

an organ gasping

a token for a summer of deaths and sickness

wan, translucent, speckled, scored, a star –

the wine thickening toward the deep 

unknowable center

the fruit bumped off

the top of the cactus

where

it was learning the lessons of

precariousness

fallen to the hard earth

we picked it up

brought it in the house

before bugs or boars could get it

sliced it open

to reveal a pink-purple so deep

it was a wound, a promise of sweetness

a blaze across our eyes

we did not eat

the brown grey ashen dry world of drought

lets color in

slowly

small miracles of a world without clouds

a sky the color of this new linen shirt

and sometimes

my eyes

Jim LaVilla-Havelin is the author of six books of poetry. His most recent, Tales from the Breakaway Republic, a chapbook, was published by Moonstone Press, Philadelphia, in May 2022. LaVilla-Havelin is the Coordinator for National Poetry Month in San Antonio.