Categories
Poetry

Languages Lost & Found

By Luis Cuauhtémoc Berriozabal 

TWO LANGUAGES 

Long ago I spoke only
one language. Then,
in another country,
I learned to speak another.

Honest, it is as if I learned 
overnight. I was afraid in
a week I would speak more
of the new language
because I had to keep up.

It was easy at seven years 
old. For weeks I did not tell
anyone. It was not right
to keep the secret. One day
I laughed at a joke in the new
language and I was found out.

The years went by and I
learned big words I seldom 
use. I have learned to have
a short memory.  The more
you keep inside, the better.

I was American in both countries.
Some people do not know that.


GO ON PRETENDING 

I go on pretending 
I have one more day
promised. I close my
eyes imagining this
heart will never falter.

I do not plan to lose
or fall short on my
bets. Like the fountain 
of youth lying beyond.
It is not far from reach.

I go on pretending 
there will be a next chance.
Lying on my deathbed 
I am far from concerned.
I do not let death in.


YOU ARE ZERO 

Does it have to get so personal?
Stop coming around to my location.
I completed my sentence. You do
not own my undivided attention.

I have real plans that includes just me.
My status is lone wolf if you need to
know. Do I have to repeat myself?
I will mail you a copy of my emancipation.

Take my name out of your mind and mouth.
I do not care to share my time with you.
I do not want to get into it. You are not
a part of my life anymore. You are zero.

If none of this resonates, you must be
a bigger head case than you ever been.
I need to be getting on and this is where
I get off. You get on with your life as well.

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

Categories
Poetry

Poetry by Luis Cuauhtémoc Berriozábal

By Luis Cuauhtémoc Berriozábal

GIVE NIGHT

Give night
my purest blessings 

and sky

my deepest thanks,
a solemn sigh,
the lost words
of a child that has
grown too fast.

It is not easy
to watch morning fade.
My eyes fixate on the sun
and the sound of nature
when I close my eyes.
The smell of your
absent scent 

is a smell I miss.
Between you and I,
I dread summer
and its heat
which finds joy

in my suffering. A
day does not go by
where sleeping soothes
these tears.
Suddenly,
the fiery sun
and the smell of you

not being here
reminds me how far
away you are. Funeral 
processions
fill my thoughts. The dead
go to the light.

In this state of being
it is hard to think.

The cool breeze fills the room
as I shake the sheets.
My soft pillow awaits
to take me to a new land.
I open my mind
and give in to sleep.

Give night
my dark blessings
and let the sleeping begin.

TAKEN DOWN

Taken down
by the huge
security guards
at the break
of dawn. This
village is
not for all
of us. I 
feel like First
Blood Rambo.
I just want
a place where
I could sleep
till five in
the a.m.
I will get
off the floor 
at five or
four forty-
five. No one 
is working
here until
six or so.
I was slammed
on my face.
I am not
so pretty.
I look worse
now than I 
did last night.

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

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.

.

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