This entry is part 19 of 95 in the series Morning Porch Poems: Winter 2010-11


Some days the sun shines high from its balcony but not unkindly, like the hostess at a party scattering good luck coins and candy to the children gathered below. You used to cut my hair in the garden: I sat on a stool under the guava tree, with an embroidered towel fastened around my neck. Fringed across the forehead, my hair never grew past my shoulders. When the ends began to curl like upturned fingers against my shoulders, it was time to trim. The shadow of my head reflected in the kitchen window behind, or appeared on the railing. When you were done you shook the shorn locks from my nape, the flocked towel like a matador’s cape. One night you woke me from sleep and carried me on your back, walking through thigh-high grass. Where did we go? I do not remember, only that a south wind slammed the corncrib door. I open and close my hands. Sometimes I find a wispy hair, or a sweet; sometimes a coin whose currency has dulled, but not its glimmer.

Luisa A. Igloria

In response to today’s Morning Porch entry.

New Year’s haiku

New Year’s Eve
so pleased my balled-up tissue made the waste basket


“Next year will be different”
watching others party on TV


“Happy New Year!”
The night-shift cashier stifles a yawn


Rainy New Year’s
the stench of scalded feathers fills the farm kitchen


A mouthful of what once were leaves
broken tea bag


Listening to the rain
I pick at an old scab


The dead cherry’s branches still manage to sway
amorous squirrels


Mid-afternoon bottle rocket
it’s still New Year’s

Updated to add:

Donning boots to dance on a sheet of bubble wrap
her 5th New Year

Woodrat Podcast 32: Happy New Year?

New Year's self-portrait
New Year's self-portrait

A very brief show with no guest — just me holding forth. Best wishes for a creative and productive 2011. May the fleeting moments of joy and transcendence out-weigh the boredom and despair.

Podcast feed | Subscribe in iTunes

Theme music: “Le grand sequoia,” by Innvivo (Creative Commons Attribution-Noncommercial-Share Alike licence)

“For the sun’s approximate blaze…”

This entry is part 18 of 95 in the series Morning Porch Poems: Winter 2010-11


For the sun’s approximate blaze, what
would we not do? Outline the gray sky thin
as an eyelid with smoky kohl, powder it
soft bronze. Sweater the tops of trees
in golden yellow, pin bunches of cerise
on the crumpled fields. Lob it a bangle
or two: what do those crows know,
dressed as always in their suits of drab—
on the first day of the year, gargling
like that 18-wheeler into town?

Luisa A. Igloria

In response to today’s Morning Porch entry.