Old

A Year Or So Ago

Folder: 
Personal

"It's been over a year. 

I realize, 

eyes playing about on dates

of the calender.

 

Suddenly thinking

back to a year before, 

days exactly 364.

So, less than a year, 

 

by hours. When the

lips that pressed were ours.

When our fingers intertwined, 

when we felt each others' bodies, 

 

souls, mind. 

So wrong, so forbidden, 

it felt right.

Written into passing,

 

the scripts and screenplay

of night-time stays, 

never staying until morning. 

Visits, 

 

door left unlocked, 

just in case.

Offered, often heard, 

only once utilized. 

 

She always said she would. 

 

Eventually. 

She did, 

softly cooing my name, 

pulling me out of my slumber, 

 

and instantly hopping into my bed, 

my arms, pulling her close. 

My warm bare skin

 

juxtaposed to her cold clothing. 

We soon matched. 

There was no lack

of mutual attraction, 

 

no shortage of constant communication, 

trips, adventures, 

ridiculous confessions 

and straight-forward denial. 

 

I denied I did wrong, 

to myself. 

Who knows how she felt.

All I know 

 

is that she felt good, 

she felt like home, 

like I belonged. 

Longing for her scent, 

 

I still remember

how it drove me wild.

Past-tense, 

as she liked to point out.

 

It's a lie, 

there is nothing passed. 

Though, once she asked

if she was hurting me.

 

I, misunderstanding, 

replied, 'why, no, 

it's my other shoulder 

that's broken.'

 

She grinned, 

leaning into my arms, 

'no,' she said, 

'this. Us.'

 

It hurt, 

seeing her dog I grew to adore

slowly separate us on the couch 

a year or so ago. 

 

It hurts still

thinking of some details. 

Fond memories, 

so vivid, full of her laughter. 

 

Haunted by scorn, 

the scorn of several people, 

over all that transpired. 

You'd think a year

 

would wash it all away, 

but nothing is past-tense. 

Hence, 

 

the dreams. 

Thoughts I can't deny, 

lying that they're gone.

They aren't.  

 

I was told it was trouble,  

I was warned. 

But still I got in her car, 

she got in mine. 

 

She's a phone call away;

I don't have the heart

to dial, 

knowing damn well

 

I'd immediately answer if she called. 

Does she read my poetry? 

Does she think of me?

Love me like I love her still? 

 

I should have not turned my cheek.

I should have came to her rescue 

against canine off-leash. 

But I didn't. 

 

And I wish I had.

Instead, all I have

is a book with edits, 

another that's a gift

 

belonging to her, 

one of her favorites. 

We even shared a quote, 

'Never lend a book.'

 

An act of affection instead, 

one of several.

She never said the words, 

but she gave me many gifts. 

 

It started with a cold can.

That's how she loved me.

I wish I had realized it

a year or so ago."

Author's Notes/Comments: 

A poem I was too scared to post for a long time. Funny how time heals. 

My father´s radio

I remember when I was young I was with my dad in our ranch, and he had set up a contraption on the table. At the time I didn’t know what it was, I just knew that it was a big box with some knobs and needles to indicate something, and while I was looking at that contraption my dad was wrapping some copper wire to a slim but big square of wood. Afterwards, he told me what he was doing, he was making an antenna for the contraption, which was like a radio, at first I remember not understanding because I hadn´t seen that kind of radios in my life, he then told me how that was a long distance radio that could pick up signals from really far away. The next day I noticed how he always liked to listen to the radio, in total he has 3 high quality radios that he uses, although he used to have four, one of them was accidentally destroyed by me when I was a little kid, he usually uses his radio to hear some soccer games, but once in a while he uses part of his time to listen to other stations from around the world. He has told me that when he was a student, he heard the news from other countries and learned how radios work, it is quite fascinating. I believe that his love for radios started since he was a child and he bought a HAM radio kit and he assembled it, then when he was a teen he worked on summer break and what he decided to do during that vacation was to buy something for his dad. So he bought a radio that was expensive at the time, and that is when he really got a passion for them, at the beginning I didn’t understand why he liked to use them so much, but then I understood that it was because he has used them all his life and he does not need to see an image to imagine what is happening, that is why he can easily hear a soccer match or a college football game without losing focus. This love for radios made my dad a great listener, he can listen to people for hours, and that is something I was not aware until now.

Author's Notes/Comments: 

this was a prose poem created for a school project

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Headquarters

Folder: 
Personal

"The coffee shop,

where in the middle of the block,

it had started;

where they met.

 

Their headquarters,

where they rested

over iced drinks

after a long skate.

 

Old friends,

young men,

two, not the same blood

or kin

 

shake hands 

and embrace the others grin,

a tight squeeze

given to each. 

 

Brothers,

such a tight bond

with so little time,

sealed the deal

 

of interlocking

storylines,

adventures and shared 

scrapes.

 

Escaping near death,

falling off boards onto wrists,

downhill descent

screaming past parked cars,

 

wherein that itself

is a rare occurance

when once was daily.

Temperature varied,

 

as did the places they'd

hunker down,

sweating,

stopping to have a drink.

 

Seperated by little,

attached at the hip,

it seemed. Until

life happened,

 

having sent the older 

away for summmer,

the younger away for the rest,

testing himself and his brain.

 

Drumming away,

marching on by,

the two had lives 

blur on by, 

 

spiraling in different directions,

story arcs and sidequests,

conquests coloring the night,

but by and by, 

 

when guest apperances

would transpire,

everything dropped

to meet one another,

 

the bond was made stronger

with the short time

it had to cure.

Not to say

 

neither were lost,

but both stepped in confidence.

Always looking ahead,

but once they were together,

 

unspoken,

to each love was gave.

Brotherly love,

concrete waves."

Author's Notes/Comments: 

Always good to see an old friend you rarely talk to, but as soon as you're together you're as close as ever.

Lost

I opened my eyes another day seeing only

the same endless ocean. This beautiful,

disheartening endless ocean.

 

A ship with the possibilities to be seen for

many miles. Yet, the oceans waves taunt me

with its excessive, dramatic waves.

 

Concealing me from the eyes of others.

 

This ocean; my best friend, my enemy. The

reason I have discovered the woes of

isolation.

 

Daily I wake up with a heart's desire to see

land, to move onward in my life's journey.

 

The oceans jealousy believes its memories

will be lost, but never. I vow! Caring

nothing for my hearts desire, yet it

mocks me with possibilities. Possibilities

that I might one day feel and experience what is now only memories.

 

my months spent crying, pleading, full of

hateful anger changed nothing. As I awoke

my eyes each morning was locked on the

same blue ocean floor. Deep waves, cool

breezes, moving deep sea passer-bys of the unknown.


I potentially die from the thought of

marriage to this mountain of beautiful

misery.

 

Years of plotting my escape proved to b

e act of a dreamer, not a doer.

 

My heart has grown numb and in my numbness, its torture lacks the effect it once had. I scream to all, my voice stripped and dry, barely heard by even the wind.

 

the silence of my unheard words replaced with the crashes of ocean waves; I will never submit.

Even while my knees have bent and come closer and closer to the panels of stained wood

 

I seemingly lose the courage to keep with my

vow to never submit, yet my vow to leave

this prison of cumbersome water has

engulfed me in disillusion.

 

In my lucid thoughts, I mumble of its

devilish games. The games that I will never willingly accept.

 

I listen to its illustrious melody. I am its mistress, a

the battle that seems impossible.

I am lost...

I am weak...

I will FIGHT till death approaches me.

Kenopsia

Folder: 
To Be Illustrated

"Almost tiring,

the bump of the shoulders passing by,

the hallways so full of students, mean, 

their intentions unknown to what they vie. 

 

But the Janitor, 

mop handle twisting in wrists, 

cleans the bustling halls, murder

of the sparkling floors committed with fervor.

 

Moreover, the students don't care!

But no matter, the Janitor smiles as he cleans,

leaning on his swab bucket, no flair

for how unfair redoing the swab job is.

 

But now it is after five,

the older gentleman is working his way up and down,

the passageways now empty, 

all the students long gone home. 

 

Quite the opposite scene,

from when the school was full,

a loud and swarming event, specifcally

during the lunch periods. 

 

And during those times? While constantly 

going back and forth, picking up spills

and keeping the floor clean,

he even feels grumpy.

 

But only now at this momement,

a longing, a forlorn feeling wraps itself

over the un-bumped shoulders of the man,

alone, doing his job.

 

The sudden wish the students were there,

to fill the empty space he cleans, 

the abandoned place to fill up soon,

but not a moment too late, he steams.

 

All the moments that he's spent,

breaking up a fight between two boys,

frankly taking both collars in each hand

and talking to them sharply, they listened.

 

The time he talked to the crying girl,

leaning on the mop handle, wise counsel

spewed at a comforting rate to the young one

who had her first broken heart. 

 

Or the time he tutored the troubled youth,

not in math or english but in life,

the boy sticking around while he cleaned. 

alone, his only brother having been knifed. 

 

Every smile he evoked,

with silly, word-play jokes,

every time he snapped at young students passing by, 

keeping the rowdy in line. 

 

The old man now smiled himself,

finishing up the entire school,

looking forward to the bustle to come,

the lockers that will slam, voices, loud.

 

The end of this feeling, eerie,

sudden, and no more farther then

when he will grumble, with a slight smile,

of the busy hallways where he will be bumped again."

Author's Notes/Comments: 

A imagined scene of an old man janitor that we may or may not all remember or think back to.

Calling From The Winter

In my heart, loneliness is brewing

Winter rain is greeting my backyard

Something from the past is calling

 

All the thought, memory, seems to fade

You did shed sunlight in my heart

Days by days of my life, I have wasted

 

Still, I am here, the same man

Empty hand, waiting for its old warmth

 

A man doesn’t last, but his feelings do

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Life’s Journey For Mr. Crow

Poor old Mr. Crow slowly walking down the road
you can’t use your wings because you’ve gotten too old

    You got blisters on your feet and it gives you the blues
 never understood why birds had no shoes
   
Cars and trucks keep passing you by
 throwing dust in your face and making you cry

You hold your head low with broken pride
 if only you had thumbs you could hitch a ride

 

    Just hang in there old friend
Life’s journey is  just around the  bend

You’ll make it to heaven and life will be complete
with a new pair of wings and clouds for those old tired  feet
John Gabriel ©

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Old Man Charlie

Folder: 
Experience

Old man Charlie weeps

Drowns in sorrow he keeps

As old as hops brewed ale

Charlie of old gale

 

Old man Charlie seeks

Stability in seat

As old as hound who sleeps

Charlie of loose teeth

 

Old man Charlie finds

In due time, a divine

As old as church bell rings

Charlie of deep sleep

Author's Notes/Comments: 

please comment and give insights! thank you

Growing Up

Reminiscing about the past,

How it tends to last,

The memories of our days,

Spent living them away.

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