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My father’s safety helmet

I have a lot of memories since I was a child from my father’s safety helmet from his work. He has always use one. Since arriving from work to eat in home, until get in his car and saw there the safety helmet and playing with it in the car. I can remember when I used to be a child to play with it, and pretended to be an engineer just as him.


That safety helmet has been always the same color, but I don’t think it’s the same one, he has been working in the same place for 25 years, so I think they give him a different one, but I know it’s going to be always a white one, with a sticker on it with his name. It’s really strange not to see my father without his helmet or if it’s missing on his car, because it is always there.

One memory I have of something related with this, is the moment when I had a photoshoot for my XV años, my dad didn’t have time for being with me during that hours, and I really wanted to have a photo with him, so we decided to go to his work and take a simple photo of both of us, so we went to his work, my mother made a phone call to told him we we’re already there, so he just came out of his office to take the picture out there, and in the photo we can saw he’s holding with one hand the safety helmet and with the other one he’s hugging me. It was an epic moment and funny, I remembered saying my mom he was holding two of the things he really love, his job and his daughter, just in one picture, and everyone who saw that photo that knows my dad say the same thing.

I’ve always wondered why he has his helmet in the car and why he don’t just leave in his office, so one day I decided to ask him, just to leave it there, and he told me, he has two, just in case of something. But then I discovered they were not only two, one in the office and the other one infront the car. I found it was another one, in the trunk of his car. I just wondered why he needs so many safety helmets if he only needs to used it in his work, not every time he goes out.

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Absolute Heaven

Folder: 
Simple Thoughts

"Again, 

again, it's been so long, 

yet the feeling still runs 

deep inside. 

 

As though not a second 

separated this and the last, 

my heart racing 

my fingers fluttering. 

 

To spin a tale, 

weave a rhyme, 

picking up a rhythm 

lost to time. 

 

The reason? 

Inconsequential, 

or unimportant, 

rather. 

 

It's been so long, 

it seems, 

but currently at ease 

letting flow out 

 

what some call the soul, 

others call just words, 

or poetry. 

The goal 

 

in the end is to spark a flame, 

light up a mind 

with imagery. 

Personified, 

 

the thousand miles 

traveled, 

just to have another light 

come into my life. 

 

Again, 

the slow boil of the machine 

turning over to toil 

and burn and smoke 

 

and chug along the engine 

of mine, 

the mind 

that writes. 

 

Taking corners too fast, 

imagery still spinning 

left and right, 

picking up speed 

 

and becoming a runaway, 

such mass and inertia 

turning energy 

into nothing less than unstoppable. 

 

To write again, 

to sing, or dance, 

to do what you have done 

because it is who you are, 

 

it's every fiber of your body, 

every sliver of your soul... 

is intoxicating, 

gratifying. 

 

It's heaven, 

absolute heaven. 

 

When you're below the beloved Ocean 

of Life, 

it's waves and currents 

holding you underneath. 

 

That moment you see the surface, 

the ballet above 

of the light dancing 

and beckoning you up for air. 

 

That moment you swim up, 

the sun becoming brighter as you draw closer, 

the cold water becoming clear,

you're so near, 

 

the warmth of the top 

felt through, 

but you're not quite there yet. 

Swim! 

 

Swim harder, 

reach for the surface, 

because that exact moment 

you burst through, 

 

inhaling that open, 

sweet, succulent air 

of inspiration... 

filling lungs, body, 

 

mind and soul... 

it is 

absolute heaven; 

to be inspired again. Gorgeous."

Author's Notes/Comments: 

It is great to write again. To be taken serious again.

Here We Go

Here we go,


Right here,


Right now,


Can you hear?


 

I am talking to you,


Let’s not strangle time,


Let’s work as the world does,


Let’s utilise our epoch, prime.


 

Let’s do something before death,

 

Before the last breath.

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tags:

Morning

I crawl crack cower 

In the morning white 

With my eyes lips skin 

Cracked. White. 

I stand dormant 

While steam pervades

My self. My wall. My grime.

And thought does it matter 

In this or that time

But I can't think on that now 

I've got to go to work. 

 

Author's Notes/Comments: 

Constructive criticism encouraged. 

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Brash

Folder: 
Personal

"This is it,

the last time.

Not my last time,

for there will be many more,

 

but before I go,

take a second.

Or two.

As though leaving a humble abode

 

for the last time.

Or realistically,

one to be proud of,

one no need for humility.

 

A tendency to be crass, 

the one-stop coffeeshop 

that was the first building

foot stepped in,

 

the exact final destination

of a journey

across from

one Ocean to the next.

 

First impressions,

wild differences between

vernacular and tone,

'shaka brah', 

 

and an immediate inquiry

as to where the hell

I come from.

Brash,

 

but immediately warm

the very first contact

turned out to be,

only to observe

 

more than a year of stumbles,

pieces scribbled,

baristas in and out,

one to be a brother

 

calling this location

headquarters,

locomotives blaring by

in a flash of red

 

everyday.

Bicentennial

the count not of years,

but of poetic conveyance,

 

written in the soft glow

of this shop,

this shop the subject

times so often giving

 

detail to who,

what, where,

and how that one girl,

that one time,

 

smelt as she walked by.

Edited,

the time spent 

since the Spring,

 

but some things never change,

and that's how at home

I feel in this booth.

Bottoms up,

 

here's to you,

one last brew,

one last time. 

No more lines

 

to be written

here,

skate to the next place,

though it won't be the same."

Author's Notes/Comments: 

Home, closed down... I'll be wandering around town on a longboard for awhile. Two books written here at Brash Coffee, the local coffee shop I walked in the first hour of being in Chattanooga.

 

Cheers, Brash.

Parsimonious

Folder: 
Personal

"So hot headed,

but heavy is the hand

that is kept from raising.

Which,

 

being how soft

the surface below 

it would fall upon,

it is al and well

 

no hand was raised,

indeed,

but there is no praise 

for such common sense.

 

Uncommon men

and situations

make for comics 

and comical accusations,

 

life's a joke

so sometimes I laugh at it,

but this time around

I keep frowning.

 

So here it is,

laid on the table

the meal made,

with much forethought.

 

And in the end,

all it causes is heat,

feet stomping,

no use for a cooler,

 

all around fire is sprayed

and it keeps trying

to catch, 

skin not lit.

 

Whatever the reason,

be it power or to tower above,

stepping in increases rage,

decreases range.

 

Within striking distance,

add more fuel to the fire

burning deep inside,

taught to never lay a finger

 

on the fairer sex,

but the moment tests all control,

reveal, resist,

total consequence in the rearview.

 

SLew of words,

which hold meaning

spoken out of love or anger,

babble dipping into ears

 

is all tuned out;

been inside my head for hours

already.

So you go,

 

but not before raising your own hand,

no pain felt with the blow,

no weight to it.

But damned if the point isn't realized,

 

asked to leave 

only to come once I'm gone,

leaving my abode vandalized.

How dissapointing.

 

An anger so roasting

kept cool with a conversation

with a friend, 

longboarder, car hoarder,

 

keeps one in check

before diving into a bitter 

back-and-forth.

The bitter look

 

thrown with an intense glare

with one more pass,

feeling sick to the stomach,

but if one wants,

 

just ask.

I can be more specific.

Penurious of kindness,

parsimonious of respect."

Author's Notes/Comments: 

Parsimonious, not to insult anyone's intelligence, is to be stingy; to be witholding (usually of money). Something that you have, but decide not to give, or spend, or show. Being parsimonious is a common reaction to many a great painful events in our lives. But maybe it shouldn't be. For once.

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.

Chimes

Folder: 
Simple Thoughts
"Wind chimes,
dazzling across the room
sweet sounds of wood
drumming against wood. 
 
Bamboo shafts,
making soft thuds
float to me,
the soft breeze
 
picking up
to send me
an epiphany of noise,
a realization of music
 
played by no one.
Absent, 
the musician who plays me this rhyme,
the symphony 
 
of the Ocean waves,
crashing onto the beach
played by the rustling,
green leaves
 
with each tree,
swaying back and forth
in dance.
In step,
 
waltzing across the dancefloor
of my mind
a orchestra of noise
turned into high tunes,
 
afternoon desires
grow like blossoming petals;
slow to open.
Though,
 
a sight to see,
smell when finished,
the flower 
of all the sounds surrounding me
 
this southern Summer Saturday
comes together
to soothe me away
into a lull,
 
a state of mind
I wish to hold on to,
while I can.
Before Monday."
Author's Notes/Comments: 

Windchimes are wild.

Clumsy

Folder: 
Simple Thoughts

"A visit at my table, 

a very welcome visitor,

has a cup of coffee

set down,

 

but not before

the friend has seated herself

does the surface 

of the brew spill over,

 

splashing quietly 

as as she bumps the table with her knee.

Such a detail,

the dark, dark liquid

 

spread across the light brown

wood of where I write,

threatening to soil

the art being drawn.

 

The spillings

of the latest happenings,

the earnest devouring

of each others stories

 

lead to reading,

of depicting the next best thing

in lives still be finished,

download in progress.

 

A spiral

from one image to the next

from the warm-lit coffee shop

to digital acquisition.

 

Like this poem,

the conversation goes,

topics spiraling.

Not out of control,

 

but wildly different

in varient,

from the new job

made of dreams

 

to the steaming progress

of artwork creativity.

Reading,

the visitor stirring

 

with silent smiles

and sparkling eyes,

asking how and why

my poetry winds

 

into art so quickly,

but my answer is clumsy,

the failing of conveying

a real reason

 

for words written.

Awkward in handling it,

and unable still

to write out the soul

 

in one sentence,

stanza,

poem,

book, even. 

 

So let's write three,

I tell her,

and glee is sounded,

rounding back to her departure,

 

bumping coffee again.

But it's wiped away,

no evidence

of the one who sat across.

 

Nothing lost.

Meaning, rather.

No theme,

but a underlying feeling." 

Author's Notes/Comments: 

When someone gets more excited about you're work than you do, you should:

- keep writing

- get more excited about your own writing

- question why you're not already.

 

Don't be scared to be hyped about your own art!