John Balaban Poems
|1.||Abandoned House, Saigon||10/14/2016|
|4.||After Our War||10/14/2016|
|5.||For the Missing in Action||10/14/2016|
|6.||Passing Through Albuquerque||12/20/2017|
|9.||Abandoned House, Saigon||12/20/2017|
|11.||Passing Through Albuquerque||12/20/2017|
|12.||LOOKING OUT FROM THE ACROPOLIS, 1989||12/20/2017|
|15.||Eliseo's Cabin, Taos Pueblo||12/20/2017|
|16.||After the Inauguration, 2013||12/20/2017|
|18.||Anna Akhmatova Spends the Night on Miami Beach||12/20/2017|
|20.||Passing Through Albuquerque||12/1/2014|
Comments about John Balaban
Passing Through Albuquerque
At dusk, by the irrigation ditch
gurgling past backyards near the highway,
locusts raise a maze of calls in cottonwoods.
A Spanish girl in a white party dress
strolls the levee by the muddy water
where her small sister plunks in stones.
Beyond a low adobe wall and a wrecked car
men are pitching horseshoes in a dusty lot.
Someone shouts as he clangs in a ringer.
Big winds buffet in ahead of a storm,
rocking the immense trees and whipping up
clouds of dust, wild leaves, and cottonwool.
In the moment when the locusts pause and the ...
After most of the bodies were hauled away
and while the FBI and Fire Department and NYPD
were still haggling about who was in charge, as smoke cleared,
the figures in Tyvek suits came, gloved, gowned, masked,
ghostly figures searching rubble for pieces of people,
bagging, then sending the separate and commingled remains
to the temporary morgue set up on site.
This is where the snip of forefinger began its journey.