Lights

Will I be light again?

I asked if I burned out the current.

You gave no answer.

Have you had enough of the sun?

It is always there, you know.

I don’t know what streaks of light reach you

where you like to go,

if they cut through the blue

like devoted arms seeking you

deep in another world.

I imagine if I reminisce,

my bones could become stone,

polished with sharpened grief, fortified,

my heavy skeleton a tomb you don’t visit.

Do you ever think of me?

And if you do, If I knew

I would want to be

the quiet glow in the street lamps

when the day ends where you like to go,

far away in another world.
*******************************

Eh, I tried.

I have not been writing.

I have not felt an urge to write, to document, to comment, to revise, to confess… I have not wished for anything in my head to be realized in print, in words. I suppose I’ve been secretive? Maybe. But I’ve been constructive lately. I’ve been sewing.
I need a way as always to lose myself in a creative outlet and process. So I’ve been sewing. I’ve made some home decor and some clothing for my daughter. I feel good about it. I like that I can focus hours on this activity the way I could with a pen and paper.

I just haven’t felt pressed to write. This happens to me every now and then but I’m sure I’ll be updating this site again in the future. I just wanted to inform anyone that does subscribe to this wordpress blog that I’ll return someday and post more.

A few little flash poems from the past week…

***************

I didn’t notice the little marks you left

on my shoulder until the next morning.

These scarlet bursts above the collar,

the tempered collection under the skin

like debris of the remorseful heart, of my words.

Like little traces of dotted rosebuds for my penance.

**********

When you date a painter

Your complexion is a blend of mars violet,
yellow ochre and zinc white.

When he first caressed your hand
like brush strokes he said raw umber.

Your eyes, he saw, were olive
on the late metro ride out of the city.

Not the burnished hazel they cloak
themselves with so no one ever notices the green.

************

Blues

Yesterday I found out someone from my past is unattached now and I awkwardly got through a little catch-up with him when at the surface I really wanted to say that he looked nice. Just under the surface of my pretense I wanted to mention that I was relieved he entertained my questions. And, oh how I wanted to lace my fingers with his but I did not let the thought lead me. At my core I was murmuring about how I missed him and how I wanted a little more of his time. A dim lit room. Blues. But the conversation ended with all this left in the dark.

The Pecan Grove

I assigned myself a little project that I don’t want to let go unfinished.  As it turns out it was just a little over a year ago that I decided I should write more about my experiences as a Latina/Chicana growing up in the Westside of San Antonio: http://redpetals04.wordpress.com/2010/06/01/summer-linens/

Please consider this poem my second in this series. It still needs some finessing though and so it may change a bit over the week. The first in my project was “What You Can Count On” in Xicano Poetry Daily.

“The Pecan Grove”

What I first knew of risk I learned picking
pecans – harvesting with my father in

the Fall. We’d walk along with fallen branch
and plastic bag in hand. Our eyes watching

the tree tops for the right gesture – a cloud
shielding above perfect clusters of shells.

My father would aim, fling a broken branch
up to spark cascades of fruit* to our feet.

The autumns were coated with pecans – warm,
stirred like leche quemada made at home.

There were visitors too. Who’d sit with my
father with a handful of unshelled nuts.

With each crack and bite, the more relaxed the
exchange of their words. Truths upon more truths.

Shelled selfs – cascading, plucked and opening -
Picking up words – those in tact, the rancid too.

Pecan shells on the table at parent's house (2010)

Pecan grove I visited as a kid.

* Pecans belong to the fruit type “Drupe” http://waynesword.palomar.edu/fruitid1.htm#drupe

Not technically classified as a “nut”

Thanks!

My poem “Stilettos” published in New Wave Vomit

Awww hell yeah

I’m so lazy about logging onto wordpress. It was published a few days ago and only just sharing now.

I’m second to last, but hey at least I made it!

Check it out.