Somber Nights & Golden Fields

 —Poetry by Luis Cuauhtémoc Berriozábal,
West Covina, CA
—Original Art and Photos by Luis Berriozábal 

GOLDEN FIELDS

In golden fields
I walk in silence.
It is hard work.

The sky above
brings heat and a
pesky fly that

bites on my legs
that leaves red stains
and an itch that

won’t go away.
In this place the
fields talk to me.

It is the fly.
It never stops
flying around.
A pesky fly
on a mission.

I swat at it
as it bites me
as if I was
tasty or it
did not like me
to be around.

 

 

 

IN ONE DAY

I lived my life
in one day. I
flew to the sun
blindfolded with
hope. The day was
done when my tail
caught fire. Its heat
singed my wings. Its
heat made me ash.

 

 

 

 

GOOD TIME

The cats are having a good time.
I hear them at night.
It sounds like ten of them.
But I am sure it is just two cats.
They flood my room with sound.
They don’t let me sleep.
By the time I fall asleep
the good time is over.

 

 

 

 

THE BLINDNESS

You’re far from feeling swell.
This evening, the witches and
their noisy shrieks, spells, and brew,
wobbled you and you can’t walk.

You’re far from doing well.
There’s something in your eyes.
It’s the wind and dust of the world
giving you the blindness.

Will you make out alright?
The somber night haunts you.
You’ve become a faltering star.
A tiny fraction of light.

Will you make it to June?
What blurs you will kill you.
Don’t wander to the deep blue sea.
A creature there awaits you.

 

 

 

INTO THE WASTEBASKET

Out to the wastebasket you will go.
I fear you are not ready. I have to
stop in the middle because you are
going nowhere. It is over for you.
I would have to be mad to share you
with the world. Of all the words I
have written, you are the worst.
There is no heart, no blood in you.
You are asleep. You are mere shadow.
You are immobile, moribund. I feel
a deep sorrow for the end of you.
You are too green to be brought out
into the world. You are more song
than poem. If I let you see the light
of day, the world with laugh in disgust.
I need to cut you into pieces and place
you into the wastebasket, where you
will remain mute. I had seen better
lines on leaves. I understand that not
everything you write down should see
the light of day. Perhaps I was too tired
that night I tried to bring you life.

 

 

 

 

HOW MANY HOURS

How many hours do you spend wasting?
So many, I cannot count.
I spend most of them trying to forget.

I doubt I will ever stop wasting time.
I take as many breaks as I can.
I walk past buildings wishing I worked there.
I wish I won the lottery.
I hear the children play and I wish I could

be a child. They do not know their future.
For all of us there is a coffin in the end.
I want one big enough for my shoulders

to stretch out. I will be a wreck, not ever
hearing the birds again. I will miss
the morning sun when I wake up.

These are life’s gift we can’t take with us.
How long will it take for my blood to dry out?
So slowly, the years will pass.

So many hours I wasted of this life.
I am certain I will miss them one day.

 

____________________

Today’s LittleNip:

ORANGE CATERPILLAR
—Luis Cuauhtémoc Berriozábal

After the poetry reading
an orange caterpillar
resting on a leaf
waiting on the rain
on a Saturday afternoon.

____________________

—Medusa, with thanks to Luis Berriozábal for today’s fine poetry and visuals!

 

 

 

 The somber night haunts you…
—Photo by Luis Cuauhtémoc Berriozábal

 

 

 

 

 

A reminder that
The Poets Club of Lincoln
presents Bethanie Humphreys
and Heather Judy today, 3pm.
For info about this and other
future poetry happenings in
Northern California and otherwheres,
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