Luis Cuauhtémoc Berriozábal,
West Covina, CA
WHEN DEATH ASKS ME HOW I WANT TO DIE
I cannot decide.
There are too many choices.
Let me decide in the future.
I cannot decide.
For years I have lived.
So much time has passed.
I will only have one death.
When the time comes to decide
I will ask for another day.
There are so many ways to go.
The decision will not be easy.
Let me decide in the future.
I cannot decide.
Because I have not done
this or that, I need more time.
Let it ruminate in my mind.
That’s all I ask.
Let me savor my youth a while longer.
How long do I have?
I will only have one death.
Let me decide in the future.
I need to make amends.
I will ask for one more day and another.
I will only have one death.
I cannot decide.
There are too many choices.
Let me decide in the future.
I cannot decide.
For years I have lived.
So much time has passed.
I will only have one death.
When the time comes to decide
I will ask for another day.
There are so many ways to go.
The decision will not be easy.
Let me decide in the future.
I cannot decide.
Because I have not done
this or that, I need more time.
Let it ruminate in my mind.
That’s all I ask.
Let me savor my youth a while longer.
How long do I have?
I will only have one death.
Let me decide in the future.
I need to make amends.
I will ask for one more day and another.
I will only have one death.
THINKING OF TOMORROW
I go to sleep
thinking
of tomorrow
and all the work
waiting
at my desk. I
curse tomorrow
but I
will not call out
sick. I reserve
those days
for holidays,
where I can stretch
a day
off into two
or maybe three
days where
I sleep without
a thought of what’s
waiting
at my desk. I
just hope I don’t
have a
dream about work.
I DON’T KNOW
I don’t know
if I can blow
the candles out.
I just don’t know.
But I’ll try
my strongest sigh.
It might just work
or maybe not.
The years come
cursed and often.
These days I block
the door with bricks
and things to
keep the years out.
I roll my eyes
or gaze inward.
I don’t know why.
BORDERS DISAPPEAR
Borders disappear
into low skies.
Space becomes aloof
with no point of view.
The forest is inhabited
by white cows that
sleep under a bridge
most of the day.
On the other side of
the bridge an old troll
helps itself to one cow.
It likes red meat.
It will talk with its mouthful
about it. Before day
turns to night, there
is a moment when the
sun turns black and
there is nothing that
explains it. At the end of
the forest, life withdraws,
and nothing matters.
MAKE A LIFE
After Vincenzo Cardarelli
Here it makes its nest.
Here it seeks out peace.
I am like that bird with
thoughts always in flight.
I make a life with
water, food, and work. I
seek the quietness
of that bird at sea.
To live in the air—
that would be the life.
________________
WITH YOUR WORDS
After Oscar Cerruto
Lift me up
with your words
of kindness.
Caress me
like a new-
born baby.
Dress me up
with warmth and
brand new duds.
Kiss me all
over with
your sweet words.
Please do not
devour me
with those words.
LEAVING MY SENSES
I am leaving
my senses.
My senses leave
my sick mind.
How strange do I
turn sometimes.
My mind goes numb
with screws loose.
I want to move
away to
a place where my
mind is free.
There must be a
place for me.
I am leaving
my senses
before my mind
leaves me.
___________________
Today’s LittleNip:
Life can only be understood backwards; but it must be lived forwards.
― Søren Kierkegaard
___________________
—Medusa, thanking Luis Berriozábal for his fine art and poetry this morning!
I am leaving
my senses.
My senses leave
my sick mind.
How strange do I
turn sometimes.
My mind goes numb
with screws loose.
I want to move
away to
a place where my
mind is free.
There must be a
place for me.
I am leaving
my senses
before my mind
leaves me.
___________________
Today’s LittleNip:
Life can only be understood backwards; but it must be lived forwards.
― Søren Kierkegaard
___________________
—Medusa, thanking Luis Berriozábal for his fine art and poetry this morning!
—Sketch by Luis Cuauhtémoc Berriozábal
For upcoming poetry happenings in
Northern California and otherwheres,
click on
UPCOMING NORCAL EVENTS
(http://medusaskitchen.blogspot.com/p/wtf.html)
in the links at the top of this page—
and keep an eye on this link and on
the daily Kitchen for happenings
that might pop up
—or get changed!—
during the week.
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.
Find previous four-or-so posts by scrolling down
under today; or there's an "Older Posts" button
at the bottom of this column; or find previous poets
by typing the name of the poet or poem
into the little beige box at the top
left-hand side of today’s post; or go to
Medusa’s Rapsheet at the bottom of
the blue column at the right
to find the date you want.
Would you like to be a SnakePal?
All you have to do is send poetry and/or
photos and artwork to
kathykieth@hotmail.com. We post
work from all over the world—including
that which was previously published—
and collaborations are welcome.
Just remember:
the snakes of Medusa are always hungry—
for poetry, of course!
Northern California and otherwheres,
click on
UPCOMING NORCAL EVENTS
(http://medusaskitchen.blogspot.com/p/wtf.html)
in the links at the top of this page—
and keep an eye on this link and on
the daily Kitchen for happenings
that might pop up
—or get changed!—
during the week.
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.
Find previous four-or-so posts by scrolling down
under today; or there's an "Older Posts" button
at the bottom of this column; or find previous poets
by typing the name of the poet or poem
into the little beige box at the top
left-hand side of today’s post; or go to
Medusa’s Rapsheet at the bottom of
the blue column at the right
to find the date you want.
Would you like to be a SnakePal?
All you have to do is send poetry and/or
photos and artwork to
kathykieth@hotmail.com. We post
work from all over the world—including
that which was previously published—
and collaborations are welcome.
Just remember:
the snakes of Medusa are always hungry—
for poetry, of course!
