My Words

Understanding the World through words

Tag: Poets

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.

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.

EDC—Every Day Carry

I carry my soul on my back,
I carry the memory of my father’s untimely death.
I carry the love of my children’s laugh.
I carry the weight of my next rent that’s due.
I carry the moves made to Texas, Oregon, Kentucky, and Georgia, then making my way back.
I carry the memory of good times and hard times.
I carry the manifold wrinkles of age under my eyes.
I carry the reality of what’s wrong with this world.
So I sharpen my knives slowly methodically—each stroke wet stone soaked with fears.
The memory of brothers-in-arms lost overseas, burdens laden with tears—
Everyday I carry things.
Everyday a new burden is laid on my scared back.

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.

Photography-poem

Photography captures the moment,
the click click of the shutter.
Behind the veil–
It’s a drama between two actors:

1. Framing our visual experience.
and
2. The complexity of seizing that elusive light.

Written That Way-poem

The best movies
are written
that way.

No Errors-poem

There are no errors in
film photography
only new discoveries.

grieving 



good friend



selfless love