Categories
Poetry

Poems by Luis Cuauhtémoc Berriozábal

A Moment of Rest

I feel for those
who do not get
a moment of
rest. I have been
in that place so
often I do
not know if rest
will only come
when I am dead.
Those you love who
do not love you
back will put you
deep in your grave
while they keep up
their bad habits.


Rainfall

I take refuge in the falling rain.
It falls only for me.
The raindrops fall on my head.
I find comfort in rainfall.

In the absence of rain, I take joy
in solitude.  I walk
softly and quietly like the dead.
I find comfort in anonymity.

I rely on luck and decent health to 
keep me carrying on.
I hope to remain standing.
I can’t stand for falling.

I find power in the word or words
that save me from a life
I do not intend to live.
I go back to the rain.
 

Do You Really Want to Talk to Me?

Before we get to conversing
and you begin sermonising
you need to know that I have
died for your sins and that
I am followed by the sun.

That means the sun is always
the shadow behind my back.
Do not look into my eyes
because I have the devil in
my eyes and I can take your soul.

Before you begin to speak
take all my words under deep
contemplation and ask yourself
do you really want to talk to me?

I can do anything I want is all
you need to know. I do not want
to see you or to go to court to
talk to some judge about my mind.

Luis Cuauhtémoc Berriozábal is a Mexican-born author, who resides in California and works in the mental health field in Los Angeles. His poems have appeared in Blue Collar Review, Kendra Steiner Editions, and Unlikely Stories.

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PLEASE NOTE: ARTICLES CAN ONLY BE REPRODUCED IN OTHER SITES WITH DUE ACKNOWLEDGEMENT TO BORDERLESS JOURNAL

Categories
Poetry

Quest to Relive

Poems by Luis Cuauhtémoc Berriozábal

Off the I:10

Off the I-10 I am guided
by memory in my quest
to relive the past. The
ghost of my father’s shop
remains. The name has
changed. I hear the sound
of sewing machines, of
scissors cutting fabric, and
the hammer and staple gun
of the carpenter. In his 70’s
in the 80’s, I am certain he
is dead and buried like my
father. The past has come
and gone and all I have is
a memory of ancient days.
It is getting too late to stay
around. It makes me sad
being in these streets.
I drive back to the house
that my father and mother
bought, where I feel the
sadness come and go as
well until I drift off to sleep.


Waiting Around

Waiting around
like always,
the story of
my life: whether
it is for food,
love, or a
better job,
the wait is
always a part
of it. It is the hardest
part if you
listen to Tom
Petty.  Sometimes
It is worth it
and sometimes
it is not. It is
best to walk
away sometimes
and leave
the waiting for
someone else.


The Last Cold

Here it is, the last cold
of all the colds I have
had in the whole of this
life. Soon I will have a
last sneeze once and for all.
I might not blow my nose.
My head will ache worse than
ever and this so-called
condition will be an
afterthought. This poet
has seen much better days.

This is the last goodbye.
I cannot face the sun
lying on this bed. I
will turn all the lights down.

Here it is, the last cold.
It is a physical
thing. Keep the aspirin.

Luis Cuauhtémoc Berriozábal is a Mexican-born author, who resides in California and works in the mental health field in Los Angeles. His poems have appeared in Blue Collar Review, Kendra Steiner Editions, and Unlikely Stories.

.

PLEASE NOTE: ARTICLES CAN ONLY BE REPRODUCED IN OTHER SITES WITH DUE ACKNOWLEDGEMENT TO BORDERLESS JOURNAL