paul s anguiano
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Poetry

A few selections of varying quality which I've written and published over the years.
Please respect my rights on these and contact me if you wish to copy any of them.

Cyrano

It is only a piece of gravel;
A small stone which sits alone in the
Gutter of an unused
Parking lot.
Passing near it again today
On my daily journey to
Meet the cares of the world
I am comforted,
Knowing that such a small thing manages
Amid weather and people and circumstance
To retain its place,
The same as yesterday
And last week
And last year.

Passing Away

Rose-hued tear drops
Softly slip away--
A fleeting display
Of tissue paper lenses
Looking back from
A towering bud
Of fragile life
And forward
Into the unknown.

Disappointment

Eye
Water
Drop
Fall
Cheek
Drip
Streak
Lip
Quiver
Nod
Turn
Sob
Blink
Sigh
Wipe
Dry
Stand
Look
Walk
        Away.

Dance of Boughs

Round out the windy
Rush through tree swish in
The swirl of breeze
And fro flows back the
Green of leaf bough in
Its gently guarded tease.
To sweep the whistle off
They low the echoed
Air of whispered song
And shape-smear wipes the
Rigid fray to lithely
Wave the game along.

One Pence

I found it flashing
Copper, wet,
content in where it lay,
Yet blinking in the sun.
And walking by its pebbly home
I thought to pass it on my way:
A gutter coin;
Not worth the time.
And yet...
I stopped.
Why not?
I bent,
Retrieved the coin.
And though
'Twas spent,
I know not when or
Which it was or
What with it was bought.
But now I pause
A moment only,
just a passing thought,
And wonder on the other coins
I've found
And then forgot.

Restoration

Damp
is my back
against the
early morning grass,
And gazing heaven-ward
I watch the spreading color
Bring light once more into the world.

A Stranger in a Stranger's Land

Rough hands on a calloused hoe-handle
Hew ridges of life
In the field of another man's sun

And while the gnats gather together
Dust blots their meal dry on a
Tightly furrowed brow
In the field of another man's sun

And the land will drink
Of rain and sweat and teardrops, red,
Alike from brown or white
In the field of another man's sun

And at days end, a tired yawn
Is filled by hired hands
On an often unseen shovel
In the field of another man's sun
 
© 1986-2004 Paul Anguiano, All Rights Reserved
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