(Unsplash | Jefferson Santos)

(Unsplash | Jefferson Santos)

Writer’s Weir: Eliot Fisk Plays ‘Memories of Alhambra’ and May in Juneau

Two poems by reader Summer Koester.

May in Juneau

May brings a southern breeze

Blowing pollen off spruce trees

Sowing little tree baby seeds

Lunch alfresco,

A sandwich and, naturally

My hair in my mouth

The air smells like sweet memories

Of graduation and freedom

My car, green with pollen,

Meanders by mossy stone hedges sheathed

In twisting vines, winding

Over asphalt covered mine tailings

Where ocean once breathed

I roll my windows down and smell the sea.

A woman with long silver hair goes by

The song of a little girl

Powerful, strong

Spills in through my open window,

Passing along my daughter’s school, I see

Friends eating in the yard, sitting on the ground

Every one of them except her –

Where is she?

There, of course,

Dancing across the yard like a fairy

Voice strong and loud,

Heard from miles around, singing to the sea.

— Summer Koester

Eliot Fisk Plays “Memories of Alhambra”

“Memories of Alhambra” he call it,

And already I know I’m in trouble.

Woody Allen’s doppelganger

Dances impossibly deft fingers

Over a small, custom guitar

Sounding not like one, but two.

Transported to a life I have not yet lived,

More lovely than a dream,

I recall stories once imagined

While visiting the ancient Moorish castle

Of love gained and lost,

Deeper than the Mediterranean.

Despair and satisfaction

Of having felt so profoundly,

Loved so intensely …

It is a gift almost too much to bear.

I open my eyes to see antsy children

Squirming on the hard floor.

Devoid of context,

Music means nothing to the innocents.

Mi hijo lost his seventh tooth today …

I invite him to come sit on my lap.

He smells of cherries and apricots.

“Close your eyes and see where the music takes you,” I say.

He won’t, so I close my eyes for him.

Images I once tasted in the Alhambra,

Pheromones of youthful campesinos

Bubble up alongside Spanish dancers,

Humid earth busting

Right before the rain,

Wielding salty tears that run like bulls

Down my cheeks without abandon.

— Summer Koester


The Capital City Weekly accepts submissions of poetry, fiction and nonfiction for Writers’ Weir. To submit a piece for consideration, email us at editor@capweek.com.


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