Two Windmill Poems

Clarence Wolfshohl

July 7, 2024

The Evening Wind Up

Sometimes, usually in the second

or third inning, unless Beaumont

or Ft. Worth—whoever the Missions

were playing—had a big first,

the Coastal breeze would reach

us on the southern edge of the Balcones,

and it would be time.

My father and I would be sitting

outside under the mesquite, listening

to Jim Wiggins broadcast Mission games.

The sun was just a slit of orange

and the heat of the day was confused

in the darkening sky, and then

the breeze would slowly sift in.

My signal to unleash the windmill.

I’d wrestle the 2x6 brake lever,

and the vanes would start a slow rotation.

About then Bobby Balcena would step

to the plate, and the pitcher would go into

his wind-up as the Aeromotor’s rudder caught

the wind and the sucker rods began drawing.

Elegant Energy

Wind Farm at McCamey, Texas

Hundreds of elegant towers sleek

against mesa rimmed sky

curve silence.

Propellers turn

in stately ponder. 

Fifty years ago these hills

sat in smell of oil

like bad manners noticed

only by strangers driving through.

Walking beams hunkered low,

pistons keeping Earth’s engine afire.

Black monotony of pumping

like maniacal birds at richness edge.

Now, these towers stand

high to catch western wind,

hum a cosmic chant

as if free of gravity and set

on galactic exploration–

giant propellers spinning out fire

to lift Earth into the air.

Native of San Antonio, Clarence Wolfshohl has been active in the small press as writer and publisher for sixty years.  More recently he has published in Southwest American Literature, The Mailer Review, New Texas, New Letters, and Texas Poetry Assignment.