Sunday, April 28, 2024

Meant To Be A Dreamer

 —Poetry, Artwork and Photos by
Luis Cuauhtemoc Berriozábal,
West Covina, CA


Wind marries rain
on the avenue 

on the corner across
the street where
evening and ice split up
and went down
running into the ground.

It was just a wedding
and no ring.
It was over
by rush hour.

In this city
I have seen many things.
The poet in me

believes this is paradise.


I hear the crows sing.
Their song stretches
past the branches and
trees. How am I to tell
them, I am trying to
sleep? The night was

long. Let me dream as
I lay in my bed. Is it
wrong to tell the crows
to stop their song? I
need a little sleep. I
need a lot of dreams.

But the crows do not
stop and I just cannot
sleep now. I think I was
meant to be a dreamer.
But no one believes me.


I come to you
with a heart raised
in winter and
a bird for you
on each finger.
They cannot fly
but I find their
songs whimsical
even in flight
far from their nests.
I come to you
with open arms
and an open
heart. The frost is
thawing and these birds
are singing new
songs as winter
gives way to spring.

Nightbirds are the ghosts
in the shrubbery. We hear
the hollering like La Llorona
with voices that are music
for the dead. I see them 

flying out of the bushes
and flying back in. They
seem to be on the hunt
for lonesome prey.
But I am often wrong in

my guesses. In the orange
tree the nightbirds make
their nests. The branches
are thin and break. A blue
moon shines above as

the nightbirds take off
singing. There is something
dark and sinister in their
harmonies and black wings.
Their songs burst apart

in deep sorrow. Am I
sky high, hallucinating?
Am I sky high, like the one
night at the bar where
I had to leave my car?
I followed a comet home.
I could not find my street.

After Pedro Mir

I imagine your
words a bouquet
of roses nourishing
the birds and bees of spring.
They fill me with warmth
from my head to my belly.
My blood circulates.
Your words are oxygen.
I feel them in my teeth.
They are the nutrients
and my salvation.
They take out the salt
from my wounds.
What can I give in return?
My heart?
My love?
My time?

Anything you want,
and anything you need,
a bouquet of roses
to acknowledge your importance.
You have saved me
from death without love.


Why did the black cat cross my path?
Why did the black coffee burn my lip?
I have grown not to believe in bad luck.
The hurricane will come whether
I am in Florida or not. I flip the page of
my story and keep pushing forward
until I cannot go forward anymore.
My hand falls asleep when I sleep.
It goes too limp to hold a hammer.

In my dreams there is no talk of politics
or religion. I am just a child that plays
the games I no longer play. I do not
get nervous when my dream girl talks
to me. We kick the soccer ball back
and forth until the dream is over.
We go to a concert in another dream.


Today’s LittleNip:

—Luis Cuauhtemoc Berriozábal

Blackbirds walk
without shoes.
Between blades of
grass, they
leave slight
imprints, which
only the
most acute
eye can see.


—Medusa, with thanks to Luis Berriozábal for his fine poetry and visuals today!
 —Photo by Luis Cuauhtemoc Berriozábal

A reminder that today is a busy day
in NorCal poetry, starting at 10am
with the Arts And Nature Festival in
Georgetown; First Church of Poetry at noon
in Sacramento; then a conversation
between Juan Felipe and Maceo Montoya
and Terezita Romo at 1pm at
Sacramento City College;
Voices of JUST-Is in Sacramento
at 4pm; Thompson Peak Writers’ Workshop
featuring Lara Gularte, Dianna Henning,
 and June Sanders in Janesville, 4pm;
and LabRats Music & Poetry Jam
tonight in Sacramento, 8pm.
For more info about these and other
poetry happenings in
Northern California and otherwheres,
click on
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.

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LittleSnake’s version of
L.A. Wedding