BAKED MOUNTAINS
Mountains are baked
into the earth,
caked with mud, green
grass, rocks and dirt.
Somewhere between
trees and brushes,
howling wolves belt
out nature’s blues.
Blades of grass, smooth,
and rough pebbles,
lead to the edge
of the mountain’s
peak. In the fog,
in the pines, a
lone wolf keeps to
itself as birds
sing all day long,
far from the towns,
cities, in the
baked mountainside.
FINEST PAINTBRUSH
Unfold your finest paintbrush
to night’s blackboard,
with gentle strokes fill the darkness
with starlit skies. In the morning
clean your paintbrush,
dip it in orange, red, and yellow
colors to paint the blue skies
for the amusement of lovers
and friends, even strangers.
Do not languish in apathy.
Bring that paintbrush around
and cover every square inch
of the canvas that surrounds us.
Unleash your Leonardo, your
Michaelangelo, and your Vincent.
Splash the skies like Jackson,
spread out like Diego and Frida.
Make the roses blush and open.
PULL THE BLINDS
Pull the blinds,
outside our illusions
live as birds,
their monotonous song
fill the skies.
I love them.
They are fragile.
With their wings they are safe.
I pull the blinds.
It is like taking masks off.
For days I close the blinds.
For days I leave them open.
For all I know, I just pretend
there are no blinds.
I do not care
about what happens
outside in the light or darkness.
I pull the blinds
for the last time.
Born in Mexico, Luis Cuauhtémoc Berriozábal lives in California and works in the mental health field in Los Angeles. His poetry has been featured in Blue Collar Review, Borderless Journal, Mad Swirl, Rusty Truck, and Unlikely Stories.
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