My Words

Understanding the World through words

Category: poems

Morning Coffee-Poem

I wake up,
stretch and yawn.
It’s dark outside.
I can hear distant
cars already whizzing by.
I force myself to get out of bed
like Lazarus’
suddenly interrupted
eternal sleep.

I fumble downstairs,
steadied by the
smooth banister.
I fill the tea kettle
with cold tap water
click the gas burner
on high
and patiently wait.

The whistle startles my
morning thoughts
I turn them both off
counter clockwise.
The dry coffee grounds
anticipate their
steaming hot libation.

The aroma of morning pierces
the shroud of dawn’s darkness
As I pour the ancient concoction
into my mug.

The hot liquid
rises to the top.
It’s mesmerizing.
An aesthetic contrast
between two opposing colors
Black coffee and white cup.
I add milk,
sugar,
and stir
the liquid turns
to caramel—its
ready to partake, so
I raise it to my lips
close my eyes
and swallow.

Like Glue—Poem

My wife is a rock
She works so hard to make ends meet.

Her concern is for our safety
to make sure we’re not faltering,
emotionally, financially, morally.
When she’s troubled she calls me
on the phone;
If there’s good news,
I’m the first one she shares it with.
I reciprocate her affection,
with flowers, poems, and tender touches.

We’re best friends.
Our most important trait is
communicating.
Let me clarify:
No marriage is without bumps.
It’s not always love, love, love.
We bicker over many things.
Sometimes it’s trivial, even though
It always seems “important” at the time.

Yet, we never give up on each other,
instead we compromise:
we say, “I’m sorry.”
and try to rectify our behavior.
It’s a marital dance—
a passionate tango
at times its jolting,
often times its smooth.
a relationship between
two strong-willed humans,
works only
if there’s commitment:
love and sacrifice,
and plenty of laughter
which acts like glue.

What Is Youth? Poem

What is youth?

Life moves quickly.
Moments elapse into
songs that helps me reminisce;
but, it’s fleeting—
like clouds on a sunny day,
the ones that disappear
into the blue infinite
depth.
That same depth that
circumnavigates our
magnificent earth.
I hold onto my thoughts like picture albums,
as I stand with skinned knees
and a happy smile.
Little did I know
like the cumulus shade that
skips through the pregnant sky.
That the sun I love would not stop counting my days.
Where did my youth go?
It’s the same sky, sun, and Earth;
but now my joints ache
and my smile is etched
by a life filled with plenty of
happiness and
twice the hardships;
a little older,
a bit wiser.
I’m toughened by tragic loss.
I wish I could be young again.
I wish I could go out and play;
to be back by dusk without care
as I sit down with my family,
while laughingly
recounting my escapades.

Youth is a warm familiar blanket I rest under.
Youth is the memory of days gone by that I cherish
like a baby Lark cherishes its mother’s cozy nest.

Sharpened And Oiled-Poem

Got myself a Barlow.
Who knows where it’s been?
I found her unkept,
rusted,
marked by neglect—

A forgotten scrap of metal,
left in a tool-box
that’d become a crypt.

I recall the history—

A trusted companion of
West-ward seeking pioneers
and American boys.

I set out to clean,
and polish
so that it
could be put
back to work.

My “sure-enough” Barlow,
sharpened and oiled,
cuts again.

Dads-poem

When you become a father
everything changes;
priorities, time management,
the distribution of finances.

There were many times were
buying diapers outweighed golfing.
let me think…
milk or beer?
I brought home milk instead.
Changing diapers,
sleepless nights,
sharing a bed with mom.

The hardest is trying to
have adult conversations
and being interrupted
with, “I need to pee.”

“Are we there yet.”
cleaning up throw up,
building bunk beds,
helping with homework.
Adult themed movies
or
The Incredibles?

How many times do I
have to watch this movie?
I just kept it inside
and memorized the lines.

Being a father makes you
a better version of oneself
and I haven’t even gotten
to the teen years.

“I love you dad.”
a sweet kiss and a hug
it makes it all worthwhile.

Lost In Campbell-poem

I remember walking home one day
I got lost
tangled in suburbia.
Houses, driveways, warm cement sidewalks,
sunny blue skies.
I’d walk this path before many times
from elementary school and back;
frightened.
“I must have taken a wrong turn.”
My eyes water
I still dream about it.
walking through familiar streets and alleyways.
The irony of being lost in my hometown
yet at the same time
coming home.

Dante’s Place-poem

 

I wonder if Dante’s poetic place
smack in the middle of purgatory,
(it’s where all poets go after death)
all the great ones find themselves there.
Even those who never had a book deal.

After a hearty breakfast
of Huevos Rancheros
and hot steamy cafe con leche
go fishing—

In that vast ocean of metaphors
where one finds small,
sometimes shadowy,
plump, and juicy enjambments
perfect for otherworldly poems.

Then after a nice lunch of
lamb meatballs on crunchy
Dutch bread topped off with
Belgium beer,

We take a walk in the garden of similes—
Where there are lush trees full of ripe fruit
like cherries ready to be plucked, joyfully
collected in our gilded baskets.

Dinner is roasted Chilean Sea Bass
marinated in garlic and cilantro
served with a delicate glass or two
of buttery California Chardonnay.

It’s during this time
Neither in heaven or hell,
that
we recite our daily poems
one-by-one
like grace is
said after
a lovely meal.

June Seventh-poem

Feeling unpoetic today—
June seventh twenty sixteen.
I’ve been contemplating
¿why?
I don’t know.
I suppose
I can describe my room:

Wide arch into the bath
nicely shadowed white.
Fan above swirling at a
moderate speed.
The TV’s on but I’m not watching.
Purely background noise.
I’m lying on my bed with legs lazily spread.

My door is open while the light gently slips in.
I can feel the warmth of summer seep in through my window shutters like a thin veil; pushed aside by the
cool breeze of the air conditioner kissing my face.

In Bloom-poem

I just shaved, it feels good
I’m growing out my beard
so the shaving is nominal.
Stray hairs mostly
unwanted growth
like weeds in a garden
I plucked them out.
Now it looks clean again
the flowers are in bloom.

Sailing—poem

Work your magic
calling on fate
My left eye is glitching
Like an analog TV
with static electricity.
The perils of a few more
years under the belt
A few more beers too.
Reminds me of a plump
Beachball someone forgot
that it ends up on the side
of the road
drifting
sometimes sailing with
the wind, until it gets stuck.
Calling on magic and fate
I’m tired of getting stuck
being in a rut—
I like the feeling of sailing along
being carried by the Pacific breeze.