Freckles
small
brown
freckles
heralds of the sun
constellate upon your face
in May.
such a tasteful subtlety
from the Artist who created you
who planned for them to bloom
the day before
I sat close to you.
Saturday, May 14, 2011
Thursday, May 5, 2011
Inspiration
My favorite thing these days is a blank page;
a palette where my thoughts arrange themselves
in short ironic verses, or maybe
a stick-figure picture of my brother.
Sometimes I think white makes me hungry
and that's how I leave it all day
eating and wasting my time.
But the best days I have something coming,
and the whitewashed page fills with symbols
calling forth pictures and people
dressed in jeans, dresses, and suits--
Yes, these are the best days,
taking me from this homely study desk
to the place where all good thinkers go--
where Shakespeare lectures on the streets
and Thoreau has built his cabin;
where Petrarch, Confucius, and even Freud
sit chatting in lawn chairs discussing the weather.
a palette where my thoughts arrange themselves
in short ironic verses, or maybe
a stick-figure picture of my brother.
Sometimes I think white makes me hungry
and that's how I leave it all day
eating and wasting my time.
But the best days I have something coming,
and the whitewashed page fills with symbols
calling forth pictures and people
dressed in jeans, dresses, and suits--
Yes, these are the best days,
taking me from this homely study desk
to the place where all good thinkers go--
where Shakespeare lectures on the streets
and Thoreau has built his cabin;
where Petrarch, Confucius, and even Freud
sit chatting in lawn chairs discussing the weather.
Wednesday, May 4, 2011
Paint
My words are paint
dribbling from my mouth
on my shirt, staining it,
staining you.
A river of
dark blue
and sky blue
and denim
and teal--
from my lips to your ears
that gets in your hair
and runs down the back of your neck.
I paint on your clothes
and your skin like a canvas,
color your cheeks
and your silence--
then you answer with splashes
of yellow and red,
and we laugh shades of orange, purple and green
leaving their marks on the ceiling.
dribbling from my mouth
on my shirt, staining it,
staining you.
A river of
dark blue
and sky blue
and denim
and teal--
from my lips to your ears
that gets in your hair
and runs down the back of your neck.
I paint on your clothes
and your skin like a canvas,
color your cheeks
and your silence--
then you answer with splashes
of yellow and red,
and we laugh shades of orange, purple and green
leaving their marks on the ceiling.
Sunday, May 1, 2011
Abuelita
We were gathered together in the church
la familia, dressed in Sunday best and somber.
I saw her cold-looking sallow face
with its typical scowl
and her hands folded across her breast.
The priest was chanting in Latin
and everyone repeated the incantations,
the eerie drone echoing off the ceiling.
Usually Carlos and Lita were rowdy
laughing raucously as they clutched their cervesas
but today there were no cervesas, at least not now,
and nobody told any jokes.
I thought of her life, a complex tapestry of
homemade tortillas, staunchly ironed clothes
and grandchildren on her lap, whom she cared for
while their parents were out "living their lives";
how some of her daughters married alcoholics
and her husband occupied Hiroshima,
and how all she really wanted
was to leave this arid Utah valley
and go back home to México.
And I thought,
after all these years,
surrounded by us, her people
in the church she went to once a year
it must be nice to finally get some sleep.
la familia, dressed in Sunday best and somber.
I saw her cold-looking sallow face
with its typical scowl
and her hands folded across her breast.
The priest was chanting in Latin
and everyone repeated the incantations,
the eerie drone echoing off the ceiling.
Usually Carlos and Lita were rowdy
laughing raucously as they clutched their cervesas
but today there were no cervesas, at least not now,
and nobody told any jokes.
I thought of her life, a complex tapestry of
homemade tortillas, staunchly ironed clothes
and grandchildren on her lap, whom she cared for
while their parents were out "living their lives";
how some of her daughters married alcoholics
and her husband occupied Hiroshima,
and how all she really wanted
was to leave this arid Utah valley
and go back home to México.
And I thought,
after all these years,
surrounded by us, her people
in the church she went to once a year
it must be nice to finally get some sleep.
Bringing my blog back to life
So after a long hiatus, I've decided that now I'm graduated and have some free time it's about time for me to bring the old blog back. Except this time around I'm going to try something new, and have it be more of a "creativity blog" where I can post poems and things that I create, instead of just blabbing about my day. But that's fun too. I don't know if anyone will read it and I don't care too much, but it just feels cool to have a blog.
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