Desert Dweller

young woodpecker squawks
green finch skates on thin ice
pine raises its arms

© 2026 Bruno Talerico
2/365

One-a-day for a year.
365 poems written.
Job done.
Mission accomplished. 

So why do I feel compelled 
to write a poem this morning?

Done isn’t the same 
as finished.

© 2026 Bruno Talerico

Every day I write
hoping you will hear 
and maybe feel something.

Without you,
these pages are just pulp. 

But with you,
they begin to have meaning.
they begin to take shape—
if not answering,
then at least cleanly stating the question.

I write these words,
so someday I’ll understand. 

© 2026 Bruno Talerico
Stafford challenge 365/365.

They argued often, made up more.

Her favorite places to shop
were Macy’s and Bloomingdale’s 
his favorite places were
the swap meet and the junkyard.

He was a tall, tan cowboy,
strong and confident,
allergic to rules, red tape
and rubber stamps.

She was a petite, sweet coed,
unspoiled, fresh,
and head-over-heels.

She wanted to be a rebel—
but comfortable,
Short-lived lust
destined for domestic martyrdom—

She traded him
for a Mercedes,
champagne and malls.

He exchanged her
for a backpack,
a six-pack and desert skies.

Both were happier.
Both missed the friction.

© 2026 Bruno Talerico
Stafford challenge 364/365.
Image created with AI.

Have you ever cracked an egg
and it won’t crack,
so you crack it again
and it still won’t yield?

Then realized
it was hard-boiled?

I have.
(Thanks, Amy)

© 2025 Bruno Talerico
Stafford challenge 363/365.

Rattling
foreign-bound train.

Cattle,
food on the hoof.

Fearful soldiers,
prepared for battle.

Men and animals
who will never see home again,

Both beings
destined for slaughter.

© 2025 Bruno Talerico
Stafford challenge 362/365.
Image created with AI.

Air filled with birdsong.
Mist draped over hillsides.

The sun rose. I walked on my feet,
I saw with my eyes, 
and knew I was human.

My favorite chair, my favorite spot, 
gardens glisten with dew,
shoulders warmed by the sun.

I wonder why I am permitted
so many  sunrises
while others are given so few?

The sun sets.
I lie on my back,
I hear with my ears, 
and know chaos will return.

© 2026 Bruno Talerico
Stafford challenge 360/365.

Attention all personnel.
Deadpan voice crackles through the intercom:
There has been an explosion.
Number of wounded unknown.
All personnel report to ER, STAT!”

We double-time, hearts racing
down the long corridor.

Per protocol, I stop at the lab freezer,
grab four bags of O-negative blood
place them in the Styrofoam ice chest
and proceed to ER receiving
just as the ambulance arrives.

Reporting to the pathologist,
the only doctor on duty after four p.m.,
the MP in charge gasped, “Two dead for sure,
There’s a few walking wounded in the next vehicle.
Fire crew is on scene searching for more survivors.
You wouldn’t believe it, the fucking engine block
from a vehicle in the north lot landed in the east lot.
Helluva blast, no casualties there, thank god”.

Two fit, clean-shaven corporals,
haul a dark-stained olive drab blanket,
a makeshift stretcher, into the ER.
Body parts delivery.

The carnage looks like chuck roasts
in the display case at Charlie’s,
the butcher shop on South Bergen.

Captain Johnston, the chief nurse,
takes inventory:
One torso, one head, one forearm, hand intact,
One foot, great toe missing, four miscellaneous fingers.

Doc Richard’s, the pathologist,
calmly lays his hand on my shoulder
and whispers “None of the hands
wore wedding bands, so they can’t be your dad.”
He seems sincere.
I want to believe him.

He removes an embroidered handkerchief
from his pocket, carefully cleans his glasses
and with a quaver in his voice orders,
“Take those blood bags back to the freezer,
I don’t think they’re necessary.”

© 2026 Bruno Talerico
Stafford challenge 359/365.

Stand up!
Look around!
Can you see?

We are ocean waves. We are magic.

We came like moths to flame—
to this place—
at this particular time.

We are the desert breeze
rearranging the sand.

We are wizards of poetry—
of songs, and love.

Can you see—
when we gather and share,
there is always magic.

We tell tales of dreams and fears,
failure and triumph,
laughter and tears.

We are mystical souls
breaking the rules,
shaking you awake.

We are magicians
repainting the mundane
editing the routine
rewriting the story.

Stand up.
Look around.

Shhh…listen

We chant words that rise
in prophecy and promise,
and sing gentle songs
that whisper in your heart.

©2025 Bruno Talerico 
Stafford challenge 358/365.

If the current political leaders
disappeared today,
I would miss them.

I would miss waking to breaking news,
the first alert, the lies rephrased,
repeated, analyzed to death,
sandwiched between ads
selling things I don’t need
with money I don’t have.

If the current political leaders
disappeared today,
what would I have to look forward to
besides the quiet, indifferent sunrise?

© 2025 Bruno Talerico
Stafford challenge 356/365.