—Poetry by Luis Cuauhtemoc Berriozabal, West Covina, CA
—Artwork/Photos Courtesy of Public Domain
GOOD MORNING
You greet me good morning
and that greeting
it stays with me for a while.
I got nothing to do
but sit around
waiting for the muse to come.
I think of your eyes
and see the rise
of the sun, just beautiful.
I evaporate
in those eyes, and
the sun, it is blinding.
The crows on the wire
are holding my place
without smiles but with song,
no gold record will come of it.
The leaves fall from
the trees, and I drown out
the crow song singing
my own little song.
You greet me good morning
and that greeting
it stays with me for a while.
I got nothing to do
but sit around
waiting for the muse to come.
I think of your eyes
and see the rise
of the sun, just beautiful.
I evaporate
in those eyes, and
the sun, it is blinding.
The crows on the wire
are holding my place
without smiles but with song,
no gold record will come of it.
The leaves fall from
the trees, and I drown out
the crow song singing
my own little song.
GOOD CONSCIENCE
I give you air and
all the things you want.
I give you air and
then I leave you alone.
I come bearing a
heart in good conscience.
I seem content to
watch the setting sun.
A cloud brings me hope.
The sky’s gray colors
and great big raindrops
flowing with my tears.
The sky’s high window
catching my eyes, the
best thing I have seen.
I give you air and
all the things you want.
I give you air and
then I leave you alone.
I come bearing a
heart in good conscience.
I seem content to
watch the setting sun.
A cloud brings me hope.
The sky’s gray colors
and great big raindrops
flowing with my tears.
The sky’s high window
catching my eyes, the
best thing I have seen.
I WAS LISTENING TO THE SMITHS
WHEN I WROTE THIS
Inspired by the dead,
reading their wise
and not-so-wise words,
long after they penned
their last poem.
I wonder who if anyone
will read my words
long after my bones
and flesh have been
boxed up or turned
to ash? I can go at
anytime. I have little
control of that in
these trying times.
Waiting for a bus
in the dark this really
could be the last time.
WHEN I WROTE THIS
Inspired by the dead,
reading their wise
and not-so-wise words,
long after they penned
their last poem.
I wonder who if anyone
will read my words
long after my bones
and flesh have been
boxed up or turned
to ash? I can go at
anytime. I have little
control of that in
these trying times.
Waiting for a bus
in the dark this really
could be the last time.
LOOK BACK
I look back
long and hard
to my first seven years.
Those were the
best years of my life.
I long to
return there.
I do not
know what day
I will go back.
It might just be a lark.
I look back
long and hard
to my first seven years.
Those were the
best years of my life.
I long to
return there.
I do not
know what day
I will go back.
It might just be a lark.
I AM THE VOICE
Who can relate
with this sorrow
as night drops its
veil over my
eyes? Weeping, I
walk and walk for
miles. Burdened, I
talk with the voice
in my head. The
voice is sadness
and I am the
voice that cries out.
Who can relate
with this sorrow
as night drops its
veil over my
eyes? Weeping, I
walk and walk for
miles. Burdened, I
talk with the voice
in my head. The
voice is sadness
and I am the
voice that cries out.
CONVERSATION WITH SORROW
Take a seat, sorrow,
you always come to
town when I feel down.
I worry about you.
Do you feel pleasure
when I carry a
heavy heart? Sorrow,
you serve no useful
purpose. Come here as
day begins dying.
Look at the heavens
where the dark sky is
being born. The light
is not from the sun,
but the stars of night.
Sleep sorrow, sleep tight.
_______________________
Today’s LittleNip:
NOTHING
—Luis Cuauhtemoc Berriozabal
I labor at doing nothing.
It is harder than doing anything.
I don’t want to be something
or anything more than me.
I have nothing to prove
to the world, nothing at all.
________________________
—Medusa, with a welcome back and thanks to Luis Beriozabal for today’s poetry and art piece!
Take a seat, sorrow,
you always come to
town when I feel down.
I worry about you.
Do you feel pleasure
when I carry a
heavy heart? Sorrow,
you serve no useful
purpose. Come here as
day begins dying.
Look at the heavens
where the dark sky is
being born. The light
is not from the sun,
but the stars of night.
Sleep sorrow, sleep tight.
_______________________
Today’s LittleNip:
NOTHING
—Luis Cuauhtemoc Berriozabal
I labor at doing nothing.
It is harder than doing anything.
I don’t want to be something
or anything more than me.
I have nothing to prove
to the world, nothing at all.
________________________
—Medusa, with a welcome back and thanks to Luis Beriozabal for today’s poetry and art piece!
—Artwork by Luis Cuauhtemoc Berriozabal
Photos in this column can be enlarged by
clicking on them once, then clicking on the x
in the top right corner to come back to Medusa.
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