Joseph Somoza

Joseph Somoza was born in Spain, grew up in New Jersey and Chicago, and moved to New Mexico 46 years ago, where he taught English at New Mexico State University until his retirement.

He has published 10 books and chapbooks, most recently AS FAR AS I KNOW (Cinco Puntos Press, 2015).

He lives in Las Cruces with wife Jill, a painter, with whom he has three grown children.

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► Joseph's microchap & selected poems are available below. Download the single-page microchap by clicking the title.

Origami Microchap

Sanctuary

Click on above title to download PDF microchap.

Joseph Somoza CVR Sanctuary Mar 2019

Cover collage: Jan Keough

Every microchap

may be downloaded

for free

from this website.

(Set printer for landscape)

Crisp And Clear

The sun is bright,
the morning cold.

At the feeder,
a finch and a sparrow
have re-discovered
seed.

I’m reminded once again:
if there’s one thing
I want to do,
it’s this.

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Sanctuary

Quick! Before
time runs out!—though
where would time go?
You, I, and time
are here together
inside this room with
a window,
the music playing,
the cuckoo clock mum,
my slippered feet
on the coffee table,
though, last night,
those same feet
walked in a foreign city
searching for you.
Here, the familiar drizzle
has darkened the sidewalk
outside,
bringing us closer.
The low sky comforts us.
The music echoes
our sweet sadness.

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Walking In The Woods
—Lincoln Nat’l Forest, outside Cloudcroft

Walking in the woods, I’m
thinking to myself,
“I’m walking in the woods,”
though, actually, now sitting on a log
writing about
walking in the woods.

Being a city person,
I’ve always liked thinking about
walking in the woods.
It’s so peaceful there—or here—
among trees that stand in place
and don’t intrude on you.

And their quiet draws attention
to the sounds, such as the crunching from
shoes on fallen twigs and needles as I
walked over to this log to write about
walking in the woods.

A breeze comes up and
sways the trees, makes them seem to
moan, though not exactly moan.
It’s just a breeze blowing against
the surfaces of the leaves,
a natural sound I can only think to call—
in human terms—a moan.

Because I’m still just
a human here among the trees,
come with my notebook, pen, and words
to write about
myself writing
about walking in the woods.

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Poets