Poems

‘Abandoned Soul’

Whispers the burnt yellow patch,

Lying on the dusty floor,

A silent testament to her youth,

Lost in the shadows of war.

A teddy bear who was once cherished,

Now lies torn and discarded,

Representing the remains of a shattered childhood,

In a world where innocence fades.

Beneath the old bunk lie sewn-together clothes,

Belonging to a child so petite,

That the screams of her life-not-lived scream big,

In the face of a cruel world.

No laughter echoes in her room,

The loudest sounds come from the stain of blood on the floor,

And the chilling presence of a Nazi badge,

An unforgettable reminder of what came before.

Her dreams, like stars, faded from the sky

When that badge entered that room

And took away the light.

She could have healed hearts,

Or graced the stage with melodies bright.

In classrooms, her wisdom could have shone,

Yet those paths will remain forever unknown.

In the peaks of history's darkest hour,

Let her memory stand tall,

For in her loss, she speaks volumes,

A testament to the human soul's call to dream,

And a reminder of the many lives lost,

And the many lives that were not yet lived.

The morning gloom, the clouds look gray,

Your toast is burnt; your hair won’t stay.

The coffee spills on your brand new shirt,

The day just started and you're already hurt.

You miss the bus; just a second or two,

The rain starts pouring on top of you.

A cab stops by to end your plight,

Just to stop at every red light.

While at work, the clock ticks slow,

Spent so long typing; nothing to show.

A call from your boss, but your phone dies,

Stranded in your chair with no alibis.

When all goes wrong, here's a cure,

I think of this often, however obscure.

That time when, as president, William Howard Taft,

Once got himself stuck in his own bubble bath.

(And everyone knew about it. So things could be worse.)

From the mines of South America you uncover my might

To the sphere in Ekati where you take me on sight

Even deep under the sea like my jellyfish neighbors, I shine bright

The stars watching closely from above try to replicate my light

Oh, I am so precious! Oh, I am so wanted!

Rubies, emeralds and sapphires do not come close

Why I am the most beautiful jewel they say

In the past royals went to wars and now men fight everyday

They put a price on my beauty so that women envy each other

All the colors of the rainbow I reflect, except this leaves me to wonder…

Oh, I am so precious! Oh, I am so wanted!

Rubies, emeralds and sapphires do not come close

Everyone gasps as they walk by my window at Tiffany’s

I scream, I shout, I start a fire I hope is seen above from my little island

I leave in a teal, tiny bag, trapped, a perfectly crafted ribbon my lock

I guess Rose was right to throw the Heart of the Ocean from the dock

Oh, I am so precious! Oh, I am so wanted!

Rubies, emeralds and sapphires do not come close

Crystallizing is the name of the game, a skill that is my forte

That is because I always reach my pressure point

Diamonds are a girl’s best friend

But who will be mine if I am not in the spotlight?

Oh, I am so precious! Oh, I am so wanted!

Rubies, emeralds and sapphires aren’t expected to come close

Over the summer I had a job

A camp counselor - taking care of kids

I expected arts and crafts

A swim in the pool

Fun memories and good laughs

During their summer break from school

But I never thought I’d be calming rage

Catching chairs

Evacuating the room

Or the stories I heard

From children

Unlucky children

I never expected the questions

That they would seek guidance from me

That I would be unprepared

That I would be the adult in the room

I have no time to chat

Do I relate to that!

I wish I could stay

I’m busy anyway

Cars on the road all in a line

Will keep you from the office ‘til nine!

I have payments to prepare

Papers to share

i’s to dot

Mistakes to spot

Lunch with my boss

t’s to cross

I really have to run

Gosh it’s nearly one!

I truly must be going

My workload is overflowing

Email to attend

Staff to commend

Clients to call

Mail to haul

Dinner at eight

You mustn’t be late

But I look a the hour

Our day has gone sour

From wasting our day

With this rhyming cliche

Laying down on the damp grass

staring up at a starry night sky,

I glance again, and again, for a text with your name,

but still no reply.

Because those moments that you aren’t near

I feel you, always.

Whether it be in the messages I type to you without clicking send,

or the way my eyes automatically search for yours in those crowded hallways.

Because I feel you in the few photos of us I’ve taken,

staring at them as if I can’t draw them by memory.

Wondering if you even remember me taking them,

correct me if I'm mistaken.

Because, it isn’t your absent replies that hurt, but it’s

because of them, that I can see,

that I’m the last thing on your mind,

and that you're the only thing on mine.

I’ve always dreamt of epic journeys

Gilgamesh, Strange, Odysseus’s odyssey

I’ve always thought that mine is yet to come

No letter at eleven

Never claimed by a god

And suddenly I get a letter every day

A million oracles try to guess my fate

I’ve traveled across the country looking for home

I’ve learned lessons and mastered skills

Am I ready?

Did all of the heroes have this fear?

Will this journey be shared?

And will it be remembered?

Or am I just a Mary Jane?

I see blue

Neverending blue

Bright aqua blue light

Cobalt bleu consumes knees down

Navy blue paints my skin

I breathe deep, and cornflower fills my lungs

Blue seeps in

It penetrates

And overtakes

Steel blue in my blood

Aegean takes my brain

And lapis is my heart

I am blue

The pot on the stove isn’t boiling

It doesn’t have my attention

It doesn’t need it

The pan on the stove simmers

Bubbles grow and pop

Peppers start to brown

The sheet in the oven is almost done

The cooked dough is nearly golden

The filling bubbles out

The mixer keeps on beating

I keep a careful eye

Under mixed and it’s liquid

Over and it’s butter

The gentle notes from the broth give away

Something harsh and burnt fills the air

Smoke takes over, and my eyes start to leak

Promptly, I move the pan and flick off the burner

I get ready to take a breath, but the oven’s alarm interrupts

Quick again, I bend down to withdraw my sheet

I turn back to my now-butter

But a crackle, snap, pop on the stove stops my tracks

I glance back and

The pot is overflowing

As darkness falls fast, mist clears with soft grace,

Past departs to witness the birth of dreams

As the idle clouds drift without a trace,

Make not a sound to disturb moon’s shy beams,

While Death tends to night with quiet remorse;

Taking away time of those still astray,

As he steals glances from people with force,

And the stars blink their sleepy eyes away,

Their sweet lullaby, humming in my ear,

Eyes mirror my reflection with a stare,

But so I feel the ending drawing near

As kind Selene holds my dear face with care,

My lost thoughts buried in a tangled sea,

As the wind whispers its secrets to me.

As soft brushstrokes of warm pink lightly blushed

Clouds dusted in delicate tufts of white.

Radiant sunglow beams leave red cheeks flushed,

Glistening in cozy morning daylight.

Souls intertwine, love & balance align,

Peace at last, fated blessings of calm skies.

Glimmering rays dance all over cloud nine.

The universe smiles beyond your eyes,

Soon you’ll see that in between the sunrise,

Most won’t fathom it until they turn away,

There lies an uncovered truth, a disguise

We have yet to discover, night by day.

Golden honey dripping from the sun’s gleam,

As if it were nothing more than a dream.

maybe it was the moment you held berry jam to my lips

the taste so sweet

cherry, garnet, ruby

blooming their dark blush over my pale complexion

i turned red

sipping on your wine

i drink all your words up

but inside I bleed

spitting blood into the sink

red is pouring out of me

crimson, scarlet, maroon,

painting me red in soft brushstrokes

for the very tip of my finger,

has been pricked by the loveliest of roses

- red is a poison

I am from the pitch,

from Adidas balls and goals.

I am from the leather couch in the den

(Cream, smooth, it felt like a cloud).

I am from the perfectly cut grass,

the blooming orchids whose buds taught me to never stop growing.

I am from noche buena parties and sarcasm,

from Andrew and Elle

and Anabelle.

I am from trips to Denver

and playing board games late at night.

From never give up

and always respectful.

I am from praying every night

but never going to church on Sunday.

I'm from La Romana and the golf course in Casa de Campo,

steak and brownies.

From the 87 absences my dad had on his 10th grade report card,

the late nights with friends and family,

and the canal my cousins and I used to jump into to spot crocodiles.

I am from the birth certificate and hospital pictures that are stored in my garage,

the Christmas ornaments and elementary school awards in the attic.

I am from the memories in my old house and the late nights with my cousins,

and the board games I could never score.

I am from soccer cleats, 

from Nike and Adidas.

I am from the grass in my backyard. 

(Breathtaking, magnificent, smelled like fresh rain).

I am from the Arabian jasmine and ocean breeze, 

the smell I can remember when I am at my lowest.

I am from carrot 

and contacts, from Mohamed and 

Engy  and Elzomor.

I am from the study some more 

and score today.

From think outside the box and always look at life from a positive perspective.

I am from Friday morning prayer 

and the 5 pillars of Islam.

I’m from Orlando and 

Egypt, Koshari and Kofta.

From the story of my Dad getting scouted by a pro coach 

but his father rejecting the offer, 

the time my Grandma tripped on a soccer ball in front of the 

hospital, and the story of my aunt making a milkshake 

and milk goes flying out of the blender.

I am from memories and mementos stored in the attic at my beach house in Egypt

and from the first move to America with my family in the garage of my old Arizona house.

Stored to help me know my true self and how far we came.

In the shadows of childhood, she learned to stand tall

A little sister with a burden, not meant for one so small.

With tenderness in her touch and wisdom in her eyes,

She navigates the world where her brother resides.

Her laughter mingles with echoes of his joy,

Tears shed silently, a caregiver’s ploy.

She carries the weight of his world on her shoulders,

Her young heart, love steadily smolders.

While other children play, she tends to his needs,

Her innocence was lost to life’s unforeseen deeds.

She learns patience, compassion, beyond her years,

As she wipes away his worries, his silent fears.

Though her childhood may fade, her spirit remains strong,

A little sister, protector, where she belongs,

For in her embrace, he finds solace and peace,

For in their journey to adulthood they cease.

Eyebags and a messy ponytail

Overshadow the earthy green work shirt

With the desire to seem friendly.

A tight-fit dainty sun dress reflecting

The glow on my cool toned skin.

A Florida flamingo pink hoodie paired

With baggy sweatpants and food stains for days.

No matter which path you take.

No matter if you’re alone or with friends.

No matter which part of town you’re in.

No matter if your skirt reaches your fingertips.

The whistle still echoes in the air.

The remark still lingers in your mind.

The dirty smoky smell stays in your hair.

But “What were you wearing?” they question.

Boys will be boys but,

Men will never be men.

In the tender grasp of childhood, I learned to bend,

To shape myself to fit their will,

A marionette, their desires were my string,

Trapped, controlled by every whim they bring.

Their whispers shaped my dreams, my fears, my fate,

A puppet master, cruel and innate,

To not comply meant guilt, an infinite burden,

So I obeyed, my true self carefully hidden.

But now, as years pass, I find the cost,

Of living as a puppet, truly lost,

The expectations of others were hard to carry,

And I didn’t know who was without caring.

In the shadows where their strings once laid,

I've learned to take control in my own way.

The pressure slowly faded away,

My life has never been the same.

Yet, in my heart, a heavy burden rests,

Plenty of manipulation tests,

Although I have control, I despise,

The echoes of its influence, without disguise.

I long to break free from this nightmare,

To shed the mask I've worn these past years,

To be myself, untied, unconfined,

To leave the puppet stage behind.

But habits are hard to leave and wounds hard to heal,

And in the dark, secrets tend to be unseen,

So I fight with the puppeteer every night,

Struggling to free myself, to find the light.

However, I continue to pull the strings,

As the nature of a puppeteer,

But in the quiet moments, deep inside,

I long to take off my puppeteer's mask.

In the quiet halls, I wandered alone,

A stranger in a crowd of faces unknown.

I had moved to the land of dreams, yet I felt helpless,

Lost in the burden of my own loneliness.

No friends to call my own, no laughter near,

Just solitude and silence, my greatest fear.

As months passed by, loneliness and I became friends,

But I kept yearning to connect with someone else.

But then, a whisper of hope came my way,

A new opportunity, to join a family where love would stay.

With hesitant steps, I dared to say yes,

To step out of the shadows, to face the test.

In the embrace of strangers, I found my home,

Each smile and gesture makes me feel loved.

Though shyness made me doubt myself, I found my spark,

As warmth and acceptance hugged me tight.

With time, walls crumbled, and barriers fell away,

And in the midst of laughter, I found my place to stay.

I was no longer a stranger in a crowd so unknown,

But part of a family where I was known.

So here I stand, no longer alone,

Finally happy, in a place I now call home.

For in the quiet halls where I once roamed,

I found my heart, and it found its home.

As the years passed by, she wished to stay in the past,

Fearing what might be waiting for her on the other side.

With every breath, she felt the change,

As time, relentless, made its way.

She fretted and worried about the end,

Knowing it will always be there.

But in this race against the tide,

She missed the beauty in front of her eyes.

For aging was not just a mark of time,

It was a canvas where her life was drawn.

In every wrinkle, there was a sign of a smile,

But she saw it as a sign of demise.

With every gray hair, a strand of wisdom gleamed,

Telling the stories of when she was a teen.

When time was up, she started to look into the past,

Regretting not valuing her short life.

Then she finally came to see,

That life's true essence lay in simply being.

As the years she had left continued their gentle flow,

She found peace in letting go.

And when her time on earth was done,

The woman thought about everything she had enjoyed.

For in the end, it's not the wrinkles she saw,

But the love and joy that filled her heart.

A young, Western Jew sat down with a Cambodian Monk,

The dark streets of Siem Reap, lit up by lanterns embraced them.

The Jew, troubled by his inner thoughts seeked guidance in the pagoda

His woes driven away not by drink or grass, but by prayer and reflection

Love, to the Kampuchean, is given with the intention to receive

Mendacious intent notwithstanding a return is expected

The Jew scoffs internally, respectfully disagreeing

Does the Jew not love since he expects something in return?

Does the Jew not reflect?

Wrap himself in leather and exalt his own lord

G-d, to the Kampuchean, is nothing but a European idea

Tinted by Parisian colonialism, his mind is clouded

To the Jew, G-d represents everything, much more than reflection

Why can’t this Cambodian man just see?

He prays to a statue and the Jew to an idea

Bewildering to the atheist but otherwise plausible

The Jew sings his songs

And the monk counts his breaths

How are they so different?

Yet their hearts beat the same

To the Jew, G-d’s return is internal — why can’t the Kampuchean understand?

But maybe he was right, G-d’s return was far from tangible

If only he tackled life with the same breath as his divine faith

Perhaps pain would be temporary and love unconditional

Maybe this was what the Cambodian wanted him to see

And something the young Jew struggled to grasp

If everything was done without conditions

Maybe the young Jew could live free from expectations

This quandary is far from resolved and will never be

But I will forever remember our conversation Nen, and everything you’ve taught me.

It wasn’t Auschwitz or Majdanek

Nor was it Łódź

It wasn’t the Polish war museum

Nor the Schindler factory

It wasn’t the Warsaw zoo

Nor the active synagogue

It was a small little Pierogi shop on the streets of Krakow

A pierogi shop with a mirror

My eyes tired from reading so much, and my legs weak from the hours walking around

Auschwitz

My stomach rumbling as I ordered “dwa talerze pierogów, proszę”

Seeing concentration camps, destroyed ghettos, and museums galore was a powerful experience

But it did not change me, not in the slightest

I did not learn much new information, and simply saw buildings and objects

Until that pierogi shop

Where I looked in the mirror.

I did not see myself, no

All I could see was a young Jewish boy

A boy with no name or story, just another brick in the wall of that ghetto

I may have seen my face but those were not my eyes, devoid of joy

They were the eyes of a young boy, his life ahead of him, and boy did they sparkle.

The last thing you’d expect leaving Auschwitz is to see your eyes sparkle

But that was the inevitable reality for me

My stomach was full, my clothes new and fresh, and I was walking in Krakow today with a

Kippah on my head something that for him would have been a miracle

On paper I am nothing like that boy except for being Jewish you see

The reality is, never again is always, and it includes me

It includes all of us, and all of those to be

Because a world like that boy’s I pray none of us again see

Don’t even ask how I am related to him because I honestly don’t know

But if I can tell you anything besides “never again”, it’s that those eyes were not my own.

I signed the paper, certifying my intentions were true...

My fear of asking for help vanished into the blue.

I sought a shoulder to rest on, and an ear to talk to.

I conquered my fear of the needles’ prick...

I would close my eyes and try to make it quick

Just the thought of the needles was enough to make me sick.

I waited patiently as he shaved my ankle...

No, I thought, I needed to find a way to be tranquil

His hand holding me down felt like a warm, light shackle.

I watched as he doused the area with a soft soap...

I knew that this tattoo was my biggest hope

If only I sucked it up with the stinging pain I could cope.

I heard the loud, buzzing sound of the tattoo gun...

This was a wasp that I would never successfully outrun

But how I was ready for this nightmare to finally be done.

I felt the needles slowly begin to pierce my skin...

I was ready for blood to gush from within

For me to yelp in pain like an out-of-tune violin.

I realized the sensation was not too much to bear...

My muscles began to release my grip from the side of the chair

As I slowly felt my pain evaporating away into the air.

I softened my painful, tough-hardened attitude...

And chuckled at the awkward verisimilitude

I began to welcome the ink with gratitude.

I witnessed that wasp morph into a bumble bee...

Its foreboding beauty I finally began to see

And with its tenacity, I finally began to agree.

The hum slowed down until it came to a full stop.

My pain for some art in black ink I did just swap.

But this was much more than a tiny tattoo.

It is my faith and my soul being born anew.

the fog has come, and i

have slept through day.

i sit beneath the fading stars,

their truths or lies beyond the skies.

i recall pale hands, once here, unalone,

somewhere upon the field. quiet, you laid

with me. we made a promise to never forget.

i loved you—i think.

the fog has come, i hear its whisper,

rambling about what is.

what was. what might have been.

i still miss your soft lies of summer.

i was a dreaming deer, and you

two glassy pearls through mist.

my magic eight-ball eyes met yours,

assured me we were decidedly so.

the fog has come, it rolls

over empty silver-kissed blue grass,

once blazed in gold by rays of sun,

now grazed and mourned by stars gone dun.

i miss you—i think.

but night is night

and fog will fade.

i did not know you. i never will.

how was it that you left so fast

your auburn glow and breeze that past

when was it that you turned to cold

from hands that i still yearn to hold

how was it that you left so fast

so soon eterne did tinge your grass

why was it that your color fade

from lips sojourn beneath the shade

how was it that you left so fast

at once so close and yet so vast

when was it that you took your call

from amber tears that colored all

at last, a change

your final fall

Hello cat!

You are so little,

your paws pink wax stamps,

your claws black grime loved,

your fur the color of warm chicken soup on a sick skipped school day.

You purr purr like night,

content to wander?

To watch? Is to be quite enough?

No! you scratch and attack and break the calm,

fleeing, suddenly, gone unseen;

what for, small one, I wonder?

What takes from you to turn tail,

to run, from brimming bowl

and oft brushed beds? To run

from loving hands, firm pats moments ago adored?

I think it is instinct.

Or God.

Something beyond me entirely.

Or maybe it is me,

selfish to stop your vicious little hunt.

I think I will let you roam.

Adventure’s yours to know.

And surely, you’ll return.

I am your home.

My soup is yours.

I am from hard workers,

from Crayola chalk and bubbles.

Yo soy de los Huaynos de Humali.

(Blue and bright,

tasted like fresh air.)

Yo soy de las chacras de choclo,

the dew with the smell of Eucalyptus

while the Eucalyptus helped me through sick days

and my grandma hopes to see me be one with the sun again.

I am from games of hopscotch

and friends that I will only see once,

from Jara and Contreras.

I am from smiles filled with ice cream

after trips with my grandfather

and the yellow school bus who I would wave to while playing with the hose.

From hola mi causa!

and ya Vamos Brianna!

I am from the violin of Santiago

with Los santitos

and rosaries held with callus hands.

I am from Celinda to Ayde to Judith then to me,

Cebada caliente and otongo.

To dreams being lowered

and my great grandma’s life being swept by the night.

On a shelf lays a book of memories,

even ones that I do not have but people have of me.

Pictures were taken before I opened my eyes and before the first cries.

A book that cannot be closed with photos that have nowhere to go,

with young happiness and profound love.

I am from those moments--

when the wind blows,

hope that a seed is planted,

on impressions that are made to last.

The map has been

transposed from A to Z,

from the mountains of Asia

to the monsters in the

Northern Atlantic,

only to discover that there

were no monsters in the sea.

We have conquered every

part of every continent.

We crushed the world

until it began to crack -

and we continued crushing.

I see the cities built

by hand and by rail,

and I see the cities built

by laborers and by factories

that build cities over the land.

And don’t you think

that there were no monsters in the sea

because the real monsters

were us?

The ones that were not

charted on any man’s map,

but as cities built

as the wilderness falls?

And I see the cities built

by smoke and by stone,

with buildings and with towers,

and I see their lights.

They hurt my eyes.

When I drive my car past it

it looks at me.

‘cause you’re hot then you’re cold

Small black eyes

shining

fur slicked

cold, wet, caked with mud and

you’re yes then you’re no

its eyes follow me as I drive away

with Katy Perry all I hear

all I be -

you’re in then you’re out

and it turns back down towards the ground.

When I drive my car past it

for the second time

it crosses the road

stops and stares

you’re up then you’re down

into my eyes.

Trailing a carcass with a tail

from its teeth.

you’re wrong when it’s right

I approach it

and it runs back down

between the bush,

it’s black and it’s white

leaves casting shadows

behind the house.

It’s black

and I’m white.

You have not known love

until your hair has been washed in the back of

a Supercuts by a woman named Maria

She trims my hair says

Disculpame when her hand brushes

my cheek because I can

feel her callous

Maria cuts flowers in the factory

and ties them into all-too-nice bouquets

Maria stabs herself with a thorn

Maria is bleeding

and she sucks the wound

in the hanging-lightbulb bathroom

Maria is sick and cuts flowers

in the factory and ties them into bouquets

too nice for her or the girl beside her

Maria is bleeding

and she sucks the wound

Maria is bleeding

And she trims my hair says

Disculpame when her hand brushes

my cheek because I can

feel

Maria has callouses on her hands

Maria has purity on her hands says

Disculpame when her hand brushes

my cheek

and I whisper

Santa María

holy saint.

As I rub his back,

I sit up taller

As if I can make up for his slouching.

As he struggles to breathe

I inhale deeply

As if I can make up for his failing lungs.

As he struggles to speak,

I ask too many questions

As if I can make up for his confusion.

As he stops eating,

I do too,

As if I can distribute the pain.

As he stops talking,

I speak up,

As if death can take the silence instead.

As he slips away,

I sit down

As if my control can be his.

As he gasps out life,

I try to inhale it all

As if I can breathe it back into him.

As he speaks of his peace,

I try not to sob

As if I can be at peace with him.

As I hold his hand,

I squeeze

As if he can squeeze back,

As if I can hold onto his drifting soul.

Set the table for two.

Don’t forget the utensils and napkins, dear.

I pull out your chair for you,

And you demand your food.

The hunger pangs consume me,

But my love must be served first.

Are you hungry for me?

I serve you a silver platter, painted red.

Chew, chew, chew.

I’m devastated; you eat with no desire.

I feed you my love, I feed you my all,

I feed you, all while I starve.

Why aren’t you hungry for me?

My heart looks torn around your mouth,

Your fingers and teeth are tainted red,

Yet, you eat with disgust.

Dear, crave me like I do you.

You chew, chew, chew.

I hunger for you,

but you eat my remnants, repulsively.

I am hungry, but you are well-fed.

The conductor stands at the podium,

A baton guiding her every move.

Strings, percussion, brass, woodwinds––brace yourselves.

The symphony has just begun;

A beautiful, gorgeous melody.

The tempo picks up,

Trumpets, that’s your cue!

Play a somber melody, shall we?

Onto the next movement––the intensity begins.

In the empty stadium, one reserved seat stands;

Yet, you are no longer seated.

The strings sob, woodwinds wallow.

Our symphony has lost her coordination,

Luckily, judges don’t watch us.

Our only judgment is God.

It would be you, too, if you had sat down and stayed.

A song turned into chaos,

The baton falls from my broken, aching hand.

The orchestra––lost and confused.

Off tempo, wrong measure, missing key changes.

All I can do is fall to my knees:

This is Love’s Requiem.

I try to catch water in my hands,

Tight-fisted at the lake by our home.

You watch me, laughing, ridiculing me.

With a lack of understanding, you belittle.

Ecstatic when my cupped hands filled,

Disappointment ran down my fingers,

Your reflection in the water sneered.

You knew: I’d never have enough.

I tried, I tried, and I tried.

Slipping through the gaps,

and I couldn’t hold it for long.

Seems that your purity was fleeting, intangible.

Our love was temporary;

The lake ripples, never still.

Too entertained by your own reflection,

You never saw my tears flooding the lake.

So, I spent eternities cupping my hands at your mercy.

Ages spent loving you,

Struggling to hold water in my hands.

The water never stops moving.

Your reflection moves away,

and I am left with an everlasting ripple.

My dampened hands,

I cannot seem to dry them.

A silent pain that you can’t express out loud,

On the inside it’s going insane.

It drags you down till you finally drown.

Now I have a souvenir everytime I hear your name.

I’ve accepted that you went away.

But something in my bones refuses to let go.

I’ll get on my knees and pray,

But the grief never leaves me though,

Grief is love’s souvenir.

How beautiful everything was until it ended,

But since you left, this feeling won’t disappear.

The wound is beginning to get infected.

Everything has been put in place;

I wish nothing had changed.

I still remember every line in your face;

Hopefully this wound will heal with age.

This grief shows that I have loved,

But should I move on to show self respect?

Forget the feeling of your touch

Should I treat this the way you treated me with neglect?

Years ago, I was fascinated by the unique melodies strewn together by keys on a piano,

Or the rhythms of a gait that reminded me of songs.

Pages upon pages of fantastical stories,

Overflowed my mind with thought.

This predicament has since been lost on me.

As the years have passed, and technology progressed,

My creativity gradually regressed.

Production, creation, and individuality is an ancient art,

Lost at the hands of an artificial dawn.

Jobs known for their human touch,

Baristas, cashiers, drivers and such,

Have been overrun.

Lost at the hands of an artificial dawn.

Originality of music, schoolwork, and artistic expression,

Have now become nothing,

But an impression.

Lost at the hands of an artificial dawn.

Can you tangibly prove that these words,

Scattered on this page,

Are not the product of this artificial age?

A silence fills the room.

A silence so fearsome,

I cannot bear to listen to it much longer,

Left alone with my thoughts,

I ponder on it all.

The small, the large, or the insignificant.

I look down upon the keys of my piano.

Seemingly waiting

to be graced by the dexterity of my fingers.

So I play.

And I play loud,

Amplifying the sound,

enough to make,

the silence retreat into the dark.

So loud that I cannot think.

So loud that I cannot feel anything.

Anything at all.

A cacophony fills the room with music so grand,

silence kneels to its boom.

I am calm and at ease,

Despite the violence

Unleashed on the keys.

I can feel and I can see

all the emotions I poured on my keys.

The Piano is my weapon,

and the music, my attack.

On everything that can hurt me.

But for now,

As I let up on those keys,

The room goes back,

To the void of silence

that made me feel so aghast.

She can see her reflection in me,

Ever since she was a child

Always laughing and smiling

I would never betray her

I keep all her secrets

She trusts me, I trust her

So wonderful

So innocent

So unpainful

So decent

A few years go by

She does often come by

But she just stares

What happened to her?

I think she wonders the same

Her pimpled face and new body

She can’t seem to laugh like before

Feel like before

Trust me like before

When she sees me

She cries and screams

And one day

She’s so mad

She looks at me, I look at her

Still so beautiful, I believe

But she doesn’t, she hates me

I see a hammer in her hand

And now its in me

Suddenly I shatter,

And in my final moments, I understand

She shattered me

Just like I shattered her.

10 birthdays ago,

I was blowing out my candles, happy birthday to me

I was finally 5 just like I wanted to be

I was so happy, at 5 I was never unhappy

My friends hugged me and it was my place to be

I looked up at the sky and wished to be 15

I would be grown and it would be so much fun

5 birthdays ago,

I was blowing out my candles, happy birthday to me

I was finally 10 just like I wanted to be

I ran around with my friends and it was my place to be

I looked up at the sky and wished to be 15

I would be smiling and it would be so fun

1 birthday ago,

I was blowing out my candles, happy birthday to me

I was finally 14 just like I wanted to be

It felt weird, only one more year

I smiled and laughed, I was getting older

I looked up at the sky and wished to be 15

Everything would get better, everything would be perfect

And it would be so much fun

This birthday,

I blow out my candles, happy birthday to me

I am finally 15 but I don’t want to be

Nothing happened in the way I wanted and I don’t like who I am

I don’t feel like I’m supposed to and I’m not happy

I look at my candles and a single tear rolls down my face

I close my eyes and remember who I was 10 birthdays ago

I was so happy, at 5 I was never unhappy

My friends hugged me and it was my place to be

I open my eyes, but unfortunately I’m still 15

I blow my candles and wish to go back to when I wished to be 15.

I am from warm blankets,

from Walmart and supermarkets

I am from the sweet smell of my mom’s perfume.

I am from the grass we never cut,

the orchids in the kitchen and living room.

I am from Dia De Muertos and curly brown hair,

from María and Juan

and all the Malpica.

I am from fishing trips and movie nights.

From “say please and thank you,” and “don’t be mean.”

I am from ghost stories and missing the dead.

I'm from Mexico and Spain,

quesadillas and spanish tart.

From, the acceptance letter my dad got from Harvard,

The dream my dad had of me before I was born and packing my bags and leaving everything I

know.

I am from old, brown photo albums and memory boxes hiding in the closet.

I am from those photos showing many generations of faces who fell in love with each other.

I am from those special moments held by memories, and I proudly carry them with me.

Friendship.

A teapot using a pot.

A caterpillar eating a leaf.

A fly falling into a trap.

Are we friends if in the end it’s Amensalism?

You, unscathed and I, harmed?

If you are the asteroid and I am the earth

How can I turn my back on you?

Friendship.

You were the first.

The first to show me kindness.

The first to help me up.

You are my trusted confidant even if you spill all my secrets.

If you are the asteroid falling towards the earth I must prepare for impact.

I would gracefully fall in your trap if it made you happy.

I would let you eat my leaves with no complaint.

You could pour your tea even if the water burned me.

Continue to stab me with your dagger even if I bleed for I would only smile.

Friendship.

People always ask what is the meaning of life.

In theory it’s something that’s relevant to everyone a moment that connects us all.

Birth or Death.

Do we live to be alive or Do we live to Die?

This question completely occupying the minds of many

It’s a question that consumes your conscience.

Taking over every inch of your mind.

Staying inside while the oblivious live their life without the daunting question.

Do we live to be alive or Do we live to Die?

Maybe the meaning is no meaning

Not of life having no purpose

But maybe this meaning isn’t possible to write down.

How can you summarize Life in just one meaning?

Maybe the meaning of life is experiencing Life’s moments.

Occasions in which your life has undeniably changed

It’s not birth or death.

It’s everything in between.

That is life.

Unordinary is discouraged

Biologically we are programmed to fend off the strange.

To hate what is not us.

But what happens when you are strange?

When you are the thing that others Biologically need to fend off.

You try to educate but the unknown is scary.

People avoid you like the plague.

If you interact with the weird you are weird.

Its social suicide that no one wants.

You become a social outcast.

The wine stain in your white carpet.

The statistic in your chart

The reminder that your society is no longer perfect.

And why?

Because the Unordinary is discouraged

i hate how you aren’t next to me.

i hate how your boba order is now mine. The closest I can get to your lips as i take a sip.

i hate how your cheeks paint red as you smile and your ruler straight teeth.

i hate the straight glossy black hair that’s uneven because you’re growing out your bangs.

i hate how you would send me videos of people dancing banda at dances.

I hate how you used to love dance banda music and wanted me to learn with you.

i hate how now i know how to dance banda. Sad i know right that i learned too late.

i hate how fluent you are at speaking spanish.

I hate how your “slang” stays with me now. I take a pause as I tell someone “echale gañas”

which means keep going. You used to tell me when things got rough.

i hate how your skin color coordinates with any clothing color.

i hate how i hated the Weeknd and now i like him more than you.

i hate when someone calls me the names you gave me.

i hate February 24th every year.

I hate the numbers 224; today, tomorrow, forever.

i hate how you would always tell me “you are my 224”

i hate how you i wont to see you, today, tomorrow or forever.

i hate how i don’t hate you

I love you.

I don’t wanna leave but my time here is just getting smaller and smaller.

“Take a picture, it’ll last longer.” They say

Someday these memories will wonder and ponder.

But what about the ones you don’t document?

They just replay in your head

Saying “remember when…”

You reminisce and they come together like a blend

Like if you were there and didn’t have to pretend

Memories somehow make us who we are

Some shine bright like stars

And others we want to burn like cigars

And some left scars.

You’re laughing as you remember when you were in Mexico or that one time at the bar.

Or that one time you went to the park with Sofia your ex saying you’ll never grow apart

Remember when?

I slip past my linen sheets,

I smooth my nightgown ruffles.

The wooden floorboards start to creek,

and step by step, I shuffle.

I strike a match, light the wax,

and hope it fights the wind.

Embraced by heat, I can relax,

goosebumps cleared from my skin.

I bolt the door behind me,

and make my way into the night.

The insects buzz, endlessly,

and I pray that they won’t bite.

Crickets chirp their crooked song,

I hear the crinkle of the fallen leaves.

My barefoot feet follow along,

as my lighted candle beams.

The heat of the fire speaks to me so,

I adhere to the path it decides.

It shows me where I need to go:

I search for where my soul resides.

I won’t give up until I find

myself and who that is.

If I must lose the candle, walk in blind,

you can have my matches.

The air gushes down his face,

An iconic free fall in style,

The glide, a coral cruise,

He lands safely in a bush,

He wanders and loots,

The storm closes in,

And now, he hunts his prey,

The man builds and moves like a drop of sweat,

Going high and low,

In and out,

The trees’ remnants engulf the humanoid banana,

The simple banana watches as it is full-pieced by the man,

The man edits,

The edit basic, cookie cutter, peanut butter, and for a moment all is silent,

Then a shot, a stare, and a yell: 200 Pump!

In the chaos, the banana was lost like a flopper in a barrel,

In the end, its demise certain, it returns to the lobby he birthed from,

Taken down by a man, piece control Kyle,

The storm closes in,

The supply drops drop,

And he continues full tarping into the end game,

A shuffle, a skirmish, and a death, siphoning from his opponents, Kyle endures

The storm has closed in,

Life continues, the final battle begins, and the storm burns,

The man heals from the storm’s effects, in the end, the med-kit pops, the bandage used,

The storm’s sickness eliminates his opponent, the victory ensured,

Kyle dances a celebratory dance, and he sings:

FLASHIN’ LIGHTS IS ALL SHE EVER WANTED (YEAH!) BEGGING ON HER KNEES TO

BE POPULAR!

And once more there is another victory for the OG, the imposter is among us,

And on this Fortnite, the battle royale ends, and the storm’s closes on the island’s stage.

A woman’s heart is behind her breast,

tender is its flesh,

and warm.

To get to a woman’s heart first you must:

explore her bare, with clarity, with candescence,

and in that you will find her beating and breathless,

an attentive mind behind

an active body.

Secondly you must:

tear into tissue, discover the purpose of her womanhood,

to provide, to nurture,

and in that you will see her desire to give herself up, martyrize, maternalize her life,

to water a seed and watch it grow.

All women crave,

All women are givers,

A woman’s heart is revealed under her breast.

feminine, ephemeral,

short-lasted,

fresh, but fore-casted,

pink-breasted, poor-rested.

Clever, not suggestive.

Leisurely she leafs through

Life, and laughs,

her future paths

cluttered with plans, demands.

And in juvenile style, her wiles,

driven by her desires,

eclipse,

And slip from her grasp:

A lapse.

Deep in his thoughts

The man created

And debated

His ideas

The expansion of schemes

Of designs

Floated through his head

The speaking of words

From the top of the tongue

To the bottom of the throat

Filled his skull

All under his wide dome

Where intentions are

A guy with ideas, making the world his own.

Tadpoles don’t have spatial awareness, their

aimless sway with the water a sight to witness, just

as a toddler walks their first steps we stare at awe

not knowing the coat they’ll wash on; silver or green, perhaps

a beautiful crimson red leaving others to

follow the beautiful anomaly. Then they sprout,

walking with a waddle that if they don’t catch

up life’s fanged bite will enthrall with a certain intensity;

their frail bodies will diminish before they

start to truly live at all.

But when do you find the chance to

breathe when constantly it’s a fight to even

thrive in the bodies of land and water, when do

the young get to appreciate the silver lining or the sight

of the reflections by the ponds; even, seeing their

own feet before being swallowed whole.

Papa, what’s a symphony without

the taps at your boot’s edge

lost in your little world, withdrawal

to this reality where you’re human

could my life be a symphony

if you foolishly hadn’t taught me

to leap off the edge, where another

man takes me in his arms singing a different song

to us, to you perhaps it was all intentional

as your voice bounced off the walls

every belt was a declaration of a bridge

being torn, closing into the core of the city

each step we took, the notes we sang,

all these compositions were ours

nobody could hear them, but that’s the

beauty in the art of noticing

papa, what’s a symphony without

the taps at your boot’s edge

teetering to ground at the time measures

of Son, while your little girl eagerly seized

you as her compass, Cuba’s legacy in a foreign peninsula.

“Go!” Is chanted, the ritual reverberated

by each of the children leaving space

for the words to flow, just as

the paper boats do along the current

they crumple inside themselves as each

burns to reach the end first, like comets

the water wears the edges off, sandpaper quality

for a state of matter so smooth.

Down the drainage by the pavement it goes,

foes to another; do the

little kids know this is their fate; life’s race track rough

but soft to the touch, fragile to snap in two.

“I won! I won!” bellows from a girl, her smile

so pristine against the rain that’s sprinkled upon her all the others

sigh, only one other truly happy for the winner

she tells her “Way to go!” with a high-five and gusto.

The friend had been last, and yet she’d won

too because the smile from the victor made it

all worth it as short jumps scattered

puddles on the ground, giggles bubbling.

The crowd fizzled out, the two of them last with

their measly paper boats. “Want to go again?” Exchanging looks,

a little world had felt it was just theirs to cease with paper boats;

captains that steered with love. “Sure, why not.”

Trust not the quest of matter and mind

To know everything is to be robbed of wonder

Listen to the music the children sing when it is grief they find

Their laughter, their armor, always remains kind

Did the white coat ever find the light under?

Trust not the quest of matter and mind

Our little song of hope enshrined

To be data, to be studied? See our thunder

Listen to the music the children sing when it is love they find

These lyrics of our lives are jeopardized

At times we become the hunted and hunter

Trust not the quest of matter and mind

I trust our human desire to share as mankind

It is a sonnet’s summer, a writer’s hunger

Listen to the music the children sing when it is freedom they find

Do you ask how we progress and redesign?

How can we without a note uttered?

Trust not the quest of matter and mind

Listen to the music the children sing when it is you they find

It’s not the blood or the heart

It’s the dented door frame from the wrong lock

The messy notebook with your awful handwriting

The cat scratches on my bed

It’s not the mind or our breath

It’s the rundown sidewalk from families and families

The hole in your shirt

The cracked plate

The frayed carpet

Worn down door knobs

It was never our DNA or fingerprints

It’s the trails we make when many have walked across the same patch of grass

This is what we leave behind

This is proof we were here

We Were Here

It’s worn out just like us

It’s lived a life just like us

It beats to the same drum as our pleasant song:

We Were Here

Happiness was at first a physical matter.

It was the sun's warmth on my feet,

But then I wondered if I must be physically there to experience it

or if I could carry such a rarity

into my dreams.

At once happiness became brownies at midnight laced with

laughter and the flash of our camera.

When I saw you again, I couldn’t tell you such a thing

I was failing to love the ground

we walked on.

Happiness then became the wind, the sails, and the smell of summer

as it passed by our eyes just like the time left

in our days.

Now I can tell you, not with certainty of course, that happiness is a game that I was never meant

to win

but I’ve been so lucky to play

with you.

May the next players love your breath all the same.

how can one’s crown

hold just as many thorns

as it does flowers?

how can a smile

still be riddled with the pieces

of the last moment’s frown?

how can a halo

burn the skin

as much as it brightens it?

the joys of tomorrow hold

the cracks of today,

heard in the broken laughter

that echoes on the marble walls.

the beauty of a rose

is in the sultry petals,

but remains untouched

for the thorns that tear

the hands of those that try

to take the bloom

is it normal to dread the ending

when you haven’t even reached the start?

i was a nobody until you

took my name

and made it mean something;

let it become weighed down

with each breath you used to call it,

slowly pulling it toward the earth,

bringing me to something real.

without someone to say it,

what does a name mean?

the moment we are given a name,

we are given something

to be remembered by;

the one thing we will carry with us

long after life swallows us whole.

this invisible label,

etched on a stone slab,

will be the last thing left of us here.

life consists of

juxtapositions, contradictions;

does it not?

time and its lack thereof

steps taken and paths unwalked

questions asked and answers found

on and on

round and round

flowing rivers and deserts dry

those that laugh and those that cry

material whats and spiritual whys

for those that live

will someday die

and thus, they truly are alive

Maybe you're standing in the kitchen

With your grandma

Making scrambled eggs and hot chocolate

In your favorite mug

The one with the lion on it

You loved it because it starts with an L,

And so does your name

And maybe one day you’d grow up to be strong and powerful like that lion

But for now,

You’re small and safe in your grandmother’s house

Watching the manatees out the window

You get distracted and burn the eggs a bit

And you make a mess in the kitchen

But she doesn’t mind,

She never minds

Soon you’ll grow up

Learn to do complicated math

And over-analyze poetry

And have to face your future

But for now, it’s just you,

Your grandma,

And a shiny mug with a lion on it.

Let me be young for a few more minutes. I promise I’ll make up for it.

We write our songs

And beat our drums

We study and define

And compartmentalize

We mechanize

And computerize our lives

We study our Bibles

And study our labs

In an effort to know what we are

To know what put us here

If this is all unique

If we really are the first

Desperately grasping at straws

To know, to say, to conquer

Trying to leave a handprint on the fabric of time

A way to say

We’re here. We’ve been here.

We filter our minds

And let our stories die

We spread our man-made wings

And fly towards an artificial sun

Thinking we could manufacture salvation

But our wings will always melt

Our metal monsters will always break

Leaving the answers just out of reach

Because we were never meant to know

We were meant to wonder.

It’s night when I see you, lingering in the doorway of my badly-light bedroom

As if to say

Go to bed, school is tomorrow

And we know how you get when you’re tired

I stay up anyway

Maybe it’ll keep you with me

It’s night when I hear you, banging around the insides of my badly-lit mind

In my head I scream

Go to bed, Lael

School is tomorrow and they’ll never leave if you let them stay

I resign to sleep

Tonight I don’t want you haunting my dreams

It’s night when I feel you

Rummaging around in my broken room

My door is off its hinges and my dresser has been flipped

I do not sleep tonight;

I stare you in the eyes

It’s morning when I leave you

Lingering in the corner of my badly-lit room

It’s your turn to stay up tonight

Waiting for me to return.

Last night I went on a trip

I told the moon about you

About your long hair and soft lips

She smiled, knowing it was true

I told her about your lovely face

How it shines under her gentle beams

Your spirit, impossible to replace

How your smile somehow always gleams

And in that moment, when talking to the moon

That’s when I realized that I love you

The moon wiped my tears and sang me a tune

Singing about the utter bliss between us two

She calmed me down and told me

Even from here she can see your emerald eyes

Along with every mountain, valley, and sea

She can always spot them, wherever she flies

Our souls connected like constellations

Bright beings illuminating the sky

Sparks flying with every conversation

A love forged when the stars align

The moon loved our story

Glancing back at Jupiter and Mars

I am lucky to be with such glory

One that can be seen, even amongst the stars

Pain has a lot of names,

Agony, loss, suffering.

Pain has a lot of names,

But yours was never supposed to be one of them.

As each syllable traces my tongue,

My tastebuds turn to barbed wire.

Bitterness, a flavor that was once sweet,

Upon my tongue it lingers, distinct and profound.

Pain has a lot of names,

The sculptor of souls, polishing our edges.

Locked away, in a dark corner of my heart,

There lies the wound that never heals.

Every day it bleeds,

Seeping, leeching, tainting.

The viscous liquid staining everything scarlet,

I watch as every fiber of my heart begins to fail.

Pain has a lot of names,

Defeat, surrender, loss.

Pain has a lot of names,

And I regret ever learning yours.

During the day she sings.

You can hear her from the highest mountain top,

From the lowest valley.

Her voice is strong and stern.

Powerful enough to flow throughout the planet,

To reach every being,

Down to every lion and to every ant.

She is mighty with her song.

The song that flows with her rhythm,

The powerful beat of her heart.

Molten pumps erupting from her core,

Bubbles of passion marking the surface.

The whistle of her winds,

The way they chime through the lush flora

And the singing from the birds,

Their intricate acoustics waking up the world.

But when the sun sets and the world is asleep,

If you listen closely, you can hear her cry

A cry from holding all the secrets she can’t conceal

From singing her song with a cutthroat

Only few will notice the change in the wind

The way it sings to a different tune,

Almost as if its choking on the words,

The words we all struggle to say.

The secrets we’re afraid to admit.

They sadden her, and she grieves quietly.

But if no one hears her when she cries,

Does that mean there’s nothing wrong?

The stark contrast between night and day,

We must rise up and acknowledge,

The unevenness of light and shade.

How it hurts her; she can’t conceal this pain forever.

I.

Light meanders into my household bedroom, filtering through half-opened hurricane shutters,

illuminating my opened laptop,

the blistering whir of my artificial companion—startles the peace,

cutting through the sunlight’s warm touch,

The Sun winks over my palatial blue screensaver, engaged in a fierce battle over my limited

attention

My computer’s cerulean brightness, the inviolable victor

re-focusing my retinas forcefully, incrementally

taking screenshots of what appears to be, in front of me,

Information passes through without a passport, I am a hologram—transparent

II.

Opening the portal, an entrance

visitors only accepted through the USB port,

for a few meager, desperate moments, there is nothing: blank hollow white walls surround me,

I blink

Viridian green elephant leaves materialize, the mist of a rainforest beckon me

to join a biosphere that I desperately want, to be real

to be there, in my worn-down bedroom—I want to replicate it.

Nature, overpowering humanity,

isn’t this the way the world once was,

How the world was supposed to be?

Now nature can easily be mimicked through glitching, PNG generated

Palm fronds.

III.

I want to embrace these vibrant palms nevertheless,

Intentionally overlaid humidity overpowering my periphery—blurry insects twitch, or are they

falling leaves?

Ladybugs glitch and break, their red smearing onto Perfect green grasses

Plucked from yellowing prairie fields unrelated to this ecosystem,

How is this nature when there’s no light. The sun’s warm whisper is no longer a given,

but a concept to be taught, the soil enveloping my feet, is Still, Stagnant,

a contrived replication.

because no human-created object, can Begin to recreate,

what created Humanity.

I am (like the rust on the iron strings/ intertwined in a harmonious melody] played by tentative

fingers—knowing & unknowing— of the subsequent chord). my wearied eyes rapidly scan the

sheet music— for what comes next.

I’m a big fan of a gold star—lamentably it’s all i’ve known and yearned for

through my education so far,

tiny toddlers grabbing plastic pages of glossy smiley face stickers: one sticker equal to your

success,

Defining new words, self-worth

no wonder I’m still an avid sticker collector.

When these toddlers transform into teenagers,

hands now grab and yearn for cellular appendages,

Instead of frivolous yet formidable butterfly stickers

Along this journey my companion, the gold star,

disappeared

My self worth, replaced with momentary remarks of

“Good job” or “excellent”

but words don’t last.

They simply permeate, the air

With effervescent pastel pink meaning

before they burst,

fizzle,

Forgotten.

Gold stars last forever. guarding your content sleeping self,

when the moon isn’t bright enough

When you’re not bright enough.

A feeling un/beknownst to me

Until my scintillating lifelong friend, disappeared

from the night sky

I used to embody that star

i’m afraid

Terrified, that my sparkle is gone

As impermanent as the sticker

which once seemed,

The stamp of my self-worth, now lost amongst the rest of the solar system,

which I once Belonged to.

We sit at the kitchen table.

And I carve my initials into the coffee-stained wood.

(My attempt to live forever)

You give me a smile

I hold it in my arms

You say you don’t believe in pain

How?

Your smile is suffocating.

You say,

As pain is life, I am a woman.

I laugh, swallowing the room

Your smile has been stifled

You knew I would smother it?

I am unapologetic

You say,

Yes

You are unashamed.

Why?

You say,

The earth is forever spinning.

I am made quiet

Do you think that means we are forever dancing?

and you smile.

My knuckles are bruised and bloody.

You’ll hold them in your hands.

Careful,

not to dirty your own

My calluses and chipped hands never stood a chance

The black hole

in the pit of my stomach

begins to swallow

My soul is nothing

but at least it’s endless…

You giggle

Pure…

Untainted…

In life

you must be able to take a couple of hits

An occasional cracked rib

and the light can reach within

Mama, there’s a monster under my bed - You say

Scared by the darkness, the unknown

Something we never truly grow out of

You come home from school, with a bloody, skinned knee

The other children at school are mean

Your mother asks, “What happened?” as she gently cleans your wound,

You say, “I fell.”

Mom, there’s a monster under my bed

You’re older now--a little reckless

you go out, have “fun”

Saturday night, half past 2, you stumble home, speech slurred and dizzy

Your mother yells--another confrontation -- You say, “Leave me alone”

I’m sorry Mom, there are monsters under my bed

You grow up, move out, overwhelmed by the weighted responsibilities

Work is all-consuming

You lose sleep, friendships, and connections, but it’ll all be worth the promotion right?

You’re unsure about your choices, you just want to get things right

You need your mom.

Mama, there's so many monsters under my bed

You build a family of your own

Your son runs in--another skinned knee

I ask, “What happened?”

He says, “My friends and I were having fun!”

Thank God, no monsters under his bed...

Silence

The waves crashed on the Norman shore,

Currents tumbled on the ocean floor.

Bloodsoaked sand blew in the wind,

Memories of death did it send;

and Silence.

Machine-gun bullets dotted the coast

The souls of dead men roamed as ghosts

Withered bodies, remembrances of pain

Washed away by the rain;

and Silence.

So the true wounds of war are felt.

In the quiet, the trauma is dealt,

though rain and time washes away

wind carries astray.

The silence remembers the deaths of that day;

Silence.

Words unsaid,

Or words said at the wrong time.

Is life really that big of a surprise?

I’ve always heard, ‘’Life is what you make of it,’’

And though I agree, I don’t think that statement’s exactly…

Everyone’s cup of tea.

Can a small action determine the rest of your life?

Can a change of heart immediately change where you were going from the start?

I’d like to say it does…

I just feel that life has a lot to offer,

With any path you choose.

The overthinker burdens themselves,

With thinking repeatedly of what they did wrong,

Instead of pondering over what they could do right.

The narcissist makes no mistakes,

As with every wrong turn,

They say this is where their life is supposed to go,

Instead this facade being a mask so no one will know.

None of that’s of any use to you, is it?

One thing I will tell you though,

Is that you’re only here on Earth for a visit.

You may look at me like I’m crazy,

But what I mean by a ‘’visit’’ is…

Your time here, forever, it won’t last.

Every day, you command your vessel,

Every day, you command your actions,

Every day, you command your words.

We all have a little bit of stardust in us…

So go ahead, make a wish.

No matter who you are,

We are all made of the stars.

It’s who each of us truly are.

Like a broken record player on fire… that’s how it feels, hearing all of this at once.

Red I’ve known since I was small…

You could range from screaming irrevocably to not saying a word at all.

The flames don’t dance around your head, but instead they fight.

I wish I could say that the same thing doesn’t happen every time.

Red, Blue, Purple.

The flames don’t fight around your head, but instead they kill each other.

It’s been passed on to my brother, but it’s even worse.

I cover my ears to not hear but I still do, like tar threatening to melt through my brain.

Red, blue…

The Hades flames hold hands around your head, trying to swat away any unaccepted notion.

My other brother isn’t explosive, but stubborn.

He doesn’t understand how the red makes everything catch on fire,

Even if he’s not here to see it.

But sometimes I think, “God, I wish you were here.”

But I don’t think he’s going to be as close as he ever was,

Ever again, I fear.

Red?

The lavender flames walk feebly around my head, seemingly carefree.

No, red isn’t me.

Surprisingly, I carry myself with a lot of fragility.

Sometimes I hide my fire to the point where I feel that I have no desire.

I’ve heard purple is the hottest flame.

When it takes over I feel my eyes blank,

Chest burning…ever so slightly in pain.

I’ve refused to show my flames because I’ve seen what anger can do.

I’m so paranoid with my actions and words because with whatever I say,

I feel like I have everything to lose.

I’m aware that my character derives from my fire, but…

Is it possible, with what I do,

To feel like with anything I say, that I have nothing to lose?

Purple.

The Sun takes its leave,

The Moon casts its light.

It is unknown to all,

That the wolf will rise.

As the waves crash against the shore,

There is less sand departing and more staying.

Sea creatures flinch,

When the wolf rises from the sand in a fit,

Like a phoenix rising from the ashes.

With every step,

The canine shakes off some minerals from where it came.

With every breath the canine wonders,

Why have I been given life?

With seashells for eyes and a rough complexion,

The wolf trembles, looking at what is beyond the shore.

Lost in confusion of what it’s supposed to do, saltwater escapes its sockets.

The wolf doesn’t know that it has nothing to lose.

A man, with the size and power of a Titan sighs.

Suddenly, He snaps His fingers,

And day is turned into night.

The wolf apologetically pads to the shore,

And what was once a form stumbles and crumbles,

The ocean swallows every piece whole.

Regretful,

Like vacantly staring at someone you once knew,

Only now no longer,

That person is you.

Like the cry of a tree when it dies,

The wolf vanishes with a crash of waves and silence.

Finding a purpose concludes with a crashing crescendo.

The phoenix explodes in a flurry as the wolf washes away.

Hummingbird, hummingbird, give me a song

Open your heart and I’ll listen along

To the melody played in my ears when you speak

Of the thoughts that arise from your head through the week

Hummingbird, hummingbird, show me a dance

You jump to a beat and I’m pulled in a trance

Like a moth to the flame, you have drawn me again

To explore how to capture such beauty in pen

Hummingbird, hummingbird, stare at my eyes

The warmth in your own is my number one prize

I am blinded and deafened and frozen in place

Only thawed by desires to keep with your pace

You’re as sweet as the nectar you drink from each flower

And agony sprouts as I miss you each hour

The pins of pining driving through my skin,

Which cries for romance felt in waves now calm

Are piercing slowly, one by one within

The pincushion that pumps this bleeding soul.

Each needle made of glances, glares or grins

Now puncture me from head to toe, and drape

My limbs within your thorn-riddled blanket

Of charms I can’t begin to ask for more

So store your flattery inside my heart

And make your lover beg for more of you.

I’m made to keep affection for a while,

As dancing fills your heart along with me,

Who softly waits for your return in hopes

Of sewing tight without a need to pine

You sit and talk of the monster I am

With wine and bread around your home

You sit and talk of the monster I am.

Each mass of love’s a thunderdome

Where poison sneaks inside the mouths of those

With wine and bread around your home.

Encumbered by the passion you all throe

At people always in disgrace

Where poison sneaks inside the mouths of those

Who's ostracized within your grace.

The kindest throw their stones at those in need

At people always in disgrace.

But there are followers crying the creed

I’ve found a bed to rest, all while

The kindest throw their stones at those in need

I’ve learned that hatred’s just God’s trial

You sit and talk of the monster

I am I’ve found a bed to rest, all while

You sit and talk of the monster I am.

Blue and bright is the sky

over the Havana center

Trumpets glare as the sun flares

culture thrives yet some can’t bear

though the pros bring vices

Cars brake and trumpets mute

as voices yell and rifles shoot

peace woes and pain grows

Havana now, echos make it linger

some to aid and some to hinder

Red marks the sky

as it does the streets

the old is crumbled

and the new is despised

as the world sets in with glaring eyes

The well off are ruined

the poor off are fined

all resources are mined

and sent to the new mansions

to supply a slew of executive expansions

All to aid the working man

whose rights are taken away

and liberties broken

whose told he is benefited

yet cast away to the fields of sugar

Many grow old

more depart

red visionaries grow sparse

as if it were all a farce

though wished to be- it cannot

As Havana red now

shall one day be blue

what if I told you that the sky is just the sea

for birds & the wind and the waves are one

and the same & in the depths of the ocean there swim

cephalopods that represent our hopes and dreams amorphous

afraid forever flitting away toward a Great Unknown &

what if I told you that love is not love but we all say we find

love in the blank spaces between lines on a musical staff, notes

to love songs unwritten but we say we can hear them to try &

figure it all out so we will have an answer to the questions asked of us at

the metaphorical (?) pearly gates — no

at Osiris’s gilded scales, balanced with a feather & what if I told you

that once I imagined those scales, the way the sun must not

have reflected off the gold, and I placed the heart of many a hero — no

a protagonist, not a hero —

I placed their hearts on the scale but never my own never my own. &

what if I told you that explorers once dreamed they would

reach the edge of the world but the world kept going around & around

& only then did they realize that the Earth is a sphere. but — no.

that’s a lie, too. the Earth is pear-shaped.

I read it once, so it has to be true.

do you think the explorers believed they would find the key

to eternal life in the land beyond the sunset? to escape

the judgement of the gilded scales — no

to overturn them altogether, gold flashing end over end, &

the notes to love songs fall off the staff, toppled by the weight

of a heart, & in the ocean the cephalopods that represent our hopes and

dreams swim contentedly in the depths, unaware that the soul

they were once attached to is gone, &

the birds still fly amidst the wind-waves of the ocean-sky,

attached to nothing & no one and all

is well.

We met when we were too young to know ourselves much less

each other — in the pink ribbons of pink leather ballet slippers & uncomfortable pink

leotards over our uncomfortable pudgy children’s bodies &

the glassy mirrored walls of our ballet studio reflecting pink pink pink:

rose-tinted glasses & pink ballerina dreams stretching on unbroken…

& the ribbon flows on into the click-click-click of bicycle spokes speeding

down the huge hill by your house and winding around the corner shouting

in childish wonder to: our old elementary school, where over the years we

watched our hair grow longer & our bodies grow taller &

the old playground that had been our home grew away into an unfamiliar

wonderland of green-painted metal & beige plastic, not ours any more:

& in the blink of my mind’s eye we are older, middle schoolers just beginning

to become ourselves & I do not dance anymore because that’s not

who I am & you still dance because that is you.

& we are alone entering high school & you stop dancing for a while because

it’s all getting to be too much & I pick a new name for myself. We find

friends more like ourselves than each other, become nothing but

hearsay to each other — & just like that, we are gone. I am left

holding the end of this pink ribbon, looking back to see the little girls

kicking our feet on the swing set pretending to be leaves to be princesses to be

anything we wanted until we learned who we were & who

the world told us we could not be. & I examine the ripped ends frayed away by

time & my old friend I think:

once our spirits were kindred, comparing wounds from scratches on the

playground blacktop or people we thought were friends. but you

made a life dancing in a town that had always meant death to me & I

fled to the Big City, my suitcases packed with words & words —

when in truth we never know which words

will be the last ones we say to each other.

we will walk away, the ragged torn strings of our ribbon

flying free between us. & that’s a shame but it’s okay.

it was a damn good story.

the moon: or

half a moon: or

the crows that spiral to the right of the moon in the sky

far: but to us who cannot fly far they might as well be:

one and the same.

their coats flash light at the right angles: then shadow: then

oil: then two strokes of ink on a canvas: then paper airplanes: then:

they spiral: ritual: gyrate: break loose: the moon: lunacy: distortion: gone.

clouds: no clouds: birds: just birds.

a little girl points her finger into the sky.

La luna, her mother says.

Hola, Luna, the girl says.

a flock of sparrows flits by: they cloud the sky in their multitude,

paint spirals in the emptiness between the buildings. they flutter above me like

ocean currents: I wish I could stand on my tiptoes: let them carry me away.

light dims: clusters at the horizon: drawn in by the glitter of the sea:

the birds: know or do not know: spiral by the geometric clusters of our buildings:

know: they will be there when those buildings crumble to ash:

they know: they are: they wait.

At five years old I stare at my mother’s face in the mirror

Braiding a bright red ribbon into her hair as she does every time we visit my grandma

I stare at her brown hands as they weave

and ask her if she could do the same to mine

At ten years old my mother is getting ready for an interview

In the mirror she looks at me and tells me she’s fixing her hair

With a silvery iron in hand turning the rich spirals to flat “fixed hair”

Like the springy waves were a problem that needed to be hidden

At fifteen years old I stare at my own reflection in the mirror

Two braids laying in my sink, the scissors standing beside it

Eight long years of growth taken away by my own hand

There would be no more plaits ladened with bright colored ribbon

A decision made to conform

One I will regret until it grows back out

And I can once again wear my hair in ribbon

Who will I be tonight? Who will I be tomorrow?

12 years from now will I be hike across the mountains

Will I stand on a stage and play a musical piece

Will I sit in a bookstore signing copies of my book

There are thousands of pathways at this point

A question that should be easily answered

“What will you do when you’re older”

Thousands of pathways screaming “follow me”

From my standpoint I stare at the peak of the mountain

Wondering how the world would look from up so high

I wonder if 12 years from now I’ll be the same way I am now

Not just in my constant worry for the future

Would I make it to the mountain and smell the roses on the way up??

Will I follow the movements on the piano and listen to the harmony?

12 years from now will I be as in love with life as I am now