How It All Began

 —Poetry and Visuals by
Luis Cuauhtémoc Berriozábal, West Covina, CA 

BIRDS IN MY RINGTONE

I prefer quiet.

I let the phone ring and ring.
I walk away from it.
I have no desire to speak to spammers.

There are birds in my ring tone.
I have nothing but love for birds.
I let my phone ring and ring
until it is silent. I breathe easy
when the calls have stopped.

I prefer quiet,
especially in the afternoon.
I take a nap
in the middle of the day.
I sleep until
I smother my anxiety with dreams.

 

 

 

SO MUCH DISTANCE

There is
so much distance
to the front door.
I cannot
open the door for you.
I  cannot
let disorder
into my life.
Distance protects me
from you. It makes me
feel good knowing
I can decide to keep you
away. You dress as
one thing but I know
you’re another.

 

 

 

 

HOW IT ALL BEGAN

I wrote poems on the margins
of old newspapers, bubble gum
wrappers, and Mean Street magazines;
on paper napkins, receipts from
supermarkets and fast food joints,
junk mail envelopes and hotel
stationary. Much of them
were drivel and rhymed like song
lyrics. That’s how it all started.
That’s how it all began. With time
and life experiences, the words
evolved. I read the words of the
masters, stayed away from work-
shops, got myself a library card,
read everything I could get my
hands on, researched the writers
that interested me, and some I
found by luck. I continued the act
of writing it all down and doing it
again, again, and again.

 

 

 

THERE ARE DAYS

There are days
blood fills the sky
red roses wilt
the sky’s entrails split open

There are days
the butt of jokes
are all we
become as we’re tossed aside

There are times
we tire of this life
assigned to us

There are times
we feel paralyzed

Why bother taking
another step?

Settle in, settle down, wait.

 

 

 

THE NEW NORM

I grimace as I lose my memory
of tender thoughts that have
become the new norm of absurdity.
Horses become dogs as I am taken
away kicking and screaming.

I cease to know my past. Faces
become like dust and ash. I cannot
recall when I was young or youthful.
I curse my eyes that can only look
but cannot see the flames in front
of me. Roads diverge. For only one
night did I dream about being young.
I douse my memory with sweet wine.
There are thorns at my side seeking
a forest of full-grown trees and flowers.
It only hurts if I pull them out.

I have mastered the art of forgetting.
I almost feel worthless as I walk
like a blind man. Things were not like
this when I was young. Then again
it was always hard to speak without
sticking my foot in my mouth. The

old me was young once. These days
I do not feel so well. I come across
like a lost man. The softness in my
brain feels night approaching, like
dark clouds rolling in slowly.

 

 

 

 

NAMES

I assign the name Shadow to my pain
and the same name to my sorrow.

Much of my joy, named Light, has
been reduced to darkness. I believe

Light will return to me. Without it
the seeds of Love will dry up. Love

is the name I give to my calm heart.
With a calm heart I keep anxiety at

bay. It is not easy to live with Shadow.
I find solace living with Light and Love.

____________________

Today’s LittleNip:

RESTORE
—Luis Cuauhtémoc Berriozábal

Restore my mind
before it withers.
Caress my mind
before I die. Hear
the murmurs in
my mind’s complaints
of the lack of
harmony in my thoughts.

_____________________

—Medusa, with thanks to Luis Berriozábal for today’s fine poems and pix!

 

 

 

 —Photo by Luis Cuauhtémoc Berriozábal

 

 

 

 

 

A reminder that
the Tahoe Literary Festival
continues today; and
Mosaic of Voices
meets in Lodi at 2pm, with
Danny Romero and Cathy Arellano.
For info about these and other
future 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
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Would you like to be a SnakePal?
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send poetry and/or photos and artwork
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Just remember:
the snakes of Medusa are always hungry—
for poetry, of course!

 

 Poetry with fangs~!