Poetry Showcase by Luis Cuauhtemoc Berriozabal : Grave Concerns

bokeh photography of person carrying soil

photo by Gabriel Jimenez

Grave Concerns

I have grave concerns
as I dig up my past
a thousand miles below
and all I find is more dirt.
I say this with a grain of
salt and sweat like rain
thicker than morning dew.
I have no uplifting tales
to tell. Birds in flight do
not sing for me. Stars do
not shine for me. My grave
does not want me to die.


Rules and Regulations

I feel much more
comfortable at
skid row. No one
tries to shove pills
down my throat
I never asked for.
 
I can choose all
the things I want
to put in my body.
I never been one
for rules or silly
regulations. I do
 
not need a room
or a roommate.
At skid row I can
sleep in a tent or
a box or just lay
on the sidewalk.
 
If they say I am
mentally ill, I am
probably the most
sane mentally ill
person in here in
comparison to
 
every person in
here, including
the doctors, nurses,
and social workers.
Best believe me.

Good Boy

These chicken wings
 look like cockroaches
with wings. I rather
dig through the trash
and find something
much more appealing.
 
You would not believe
the things people toss
in the trash. There are
treasures there. No
diamonds or pearls
mind you. But what if?
 
Look, all that really
interests me about
this place is the poetry
in which the patients
speak. I want to stay
just to listen to them.
 
The voices I hear are
far from beautiful. They
are not kind at all.  I
am a good boy when
they are not getting me
in all sorts of trouble.

The Longest Day

The longest day never ends.
 
Everything is a grind.
The miles are longer than usual.
There is no right way to go.
Suddenly, day becomes night.
The beautiful moon shines.
and a woman catches your eye.
The scattered stars twinkle
and the woman disappears.
The night drags on.
This is your life’s longest day.
The stars will not fade away.
The moon is full like never before.
Tomorrow seems so distant.
The moon is betting against
the sun never shining again.


An Ode

We are the readers of word-makers.
We read their dreams.
We wander where they wander.
We make time for their words
And worlds they bring to life.
We take voyages to desolate lands.
We get our feet wet.
We sing and die,

With every flip of the page
We go forth searching
Finding our way through
A wilderness of words
And of the imagination.
We learn new songs.
We search for the truth
Between every line.

We look to the past, where word-makers
Howled, wept, and walked
Alone. Many lonely days
And lonely nights they wove
Their tales of woe and wonder.
We are the readers of word-makers.
We share their dreams.



*An Ode appeared in the defunct "remark."
in Issue 35, July 2005. "remark." was a
poetry journal founded by Justin Barrett.
This issue was edited by Kathleen Paul-Flanagan*

Bio: Born in Mexico, Luis lives in Southern California and works in Los Angeles. His most recent book, Make the Water Laugh, was published by Rogue Wolf Press. His work has appeared in Blue Collar Review, Kendra Steiner Editions, Mad Swirl, and Unlikely Stories.



By davidlonan1

David writes poetry, short stories, and writings that'll make you think or laugh, provoking you to examine images in your mind. To submit poetry, photography, art, please send to feversofthemind@gmail.com. Twitter: @davidLOnan1 + @feversof Facebook: DavidLONan1

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