El Paso Poems - Poems about El Paso

El Paso, Texas desert landscape mountain tops cactus’s so green sand storms dry air Footprints of a lone coyote beige sand rocky mountain ledge leads the...

Continue reading...

COWARDS, NOT HEROESv Cowards, not heroes, Call them what they are Not Martyrs, killers of babies, children, people both near and far Cowards not heroes, not terrorists, Call them what they are How much courage does it take to mow down children and people in trucks How much courage does it take to be armed with all kinds of ammunition like...

Continue reading...

A SAGA OF OLD EL PASO AND LADY B GOOD There was a famous lady of El Paso in the Old West She hunted and trapped, trading furs with the best Her pride, her joy, a red velvet cape trimmed in fur so white It seemed to glow with a gleaming unearthly light You might think her name to be...

Continue reading...

El Paso Once upon a time nestled a little western town, At the foothills of blue mountains picturesque. The sun fell behind and twilight colors settled, Delightful township twinkles patterning. Horses neighed in their stables allowed; Even chickens murmured in adobe back yards, Where a serpentine river’s reflections curl Into layered canyons bending. Once upon a time. Once upon a newer time one by one,...

Continue reading...

I like El Paso...the heat, the dust, the heat, I like the cars and the hats the cops wear, cowboys in a rusty B movie, but most of all I like the people, the janitors and doctors and newsreaders, who don't care if they're American, Mexican or both... and the bars are cool, so cool... some smell of menthol and others...

Continue reading...

Hank loughs with guilt thought while the smoke of cigarrattes tingle in his mouth. He has neumonia, "for God sakes"! But he enjoys smoking until the last drag. Finally there is a silence, like a chapel on Sunday mass; little rings bells at the distance sounds. Our friendship is tight he gave me his hand to pull him up. The silence remains in the chapel of his home,...

Continue reading...

Fir-treed mountains extend below me, wrinkled raisins clustered in clumpy desert oatmeal. I know that you like oatmeal. You made it once, on your own, on the phone with me, much closer than we are now. The water boiled quickly; you sister nagged when it didn’t look perfect, like when your mother makes it. I think it’s sweet that she cooks breakfast for you,...

Continue reading...