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.