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  1. Letter to Fortune

    Dear hand that shakes the cup
    and rolls the dice out on the table,
    what is the luck of the draw today?
    The trees stir their bagfuls of newly-
    minted green. Somewhere, water tinkles
    like silver. Even the hairs on your chest
    are brushed with copper. Put on your crisp
    white shirt, snap on your black bow tie, do
    up your cummerbund and tails; and deal.
    I never said I’d stopped playing. High winds
    rearrange the clouds, having learned too
    about this game of chance: your turn now
    to guess which one is hiding the sun.

    ~ Luisa A. Igloria
    04 17 2011



  4. Just a note to affirm these morning lines not only for their intrinsic value, but as a kind of poetic pump-priming.

    Since a trip to Mississippi two years ago I’ve been carrying the title “Delta Rain” around with me. I knew it needed to be a poem, but it went nowhere. Now, after weeks of 140-character descriptive lines, it’s taken on life and is included in my new post “Waiting for Rain”.

    While I may not continue posting these lines, I believe I’m going to keep up the discipline. There’s great value to it. Oh – and a lot of fun, too!

    And thanks for the info on the Villanelle. I really appreciate it.


  5. THE PEBBLE UNDER

    “Quick, guess where the pebble is,
    and if you do, you will be happy!”
    What if this were the only wager
    in a game of chance of opening
    and closing a cup over a rolling
    pebble, not unlike the hide-‘n-seek
    the sun plays now with clouds
    darting heither and thither with
    winds blowing from all directions?
    Will you take it? Will I dare?
    What have we got to lose,
    one way or another? I hold
    your hand and you squeeze mine,
    a signal to choose the arrant hiding cup,
    and voila: I miss it. Happiness, too?

    Happy is as happy does: you are
    with me to roll the dice. Would I care
    willy-nilly where happiness lies?
    Under the cup where the pebble
    has custody of nothing, least of all
    my joie d’vivre — you, my love,
    who will be my ransom should I
    lose this game of chance?

    —Albert B. Casuga
    04-17-11


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