I’d given up on finding him,
my helpmeet, but I went out on a limb.
I gave my number to a friend
who insisted again and again and again
that his best friend would really like me,
“You’ll hit it off for sure, you’ll see.”
A few weeks later, on the fourth of July,
you messaged me and I replied.
You enticed me with your intelligence,
you even set a new precedence
for what I desire most in relationship;
deep, honest, spiritual fellowship.
I’m thankful for every moment with you;
no one has loved me quite like you do.
You are the Adam to my Eve;
I’ve felt our spirits interweave.
It feels like you’ve always been mine.
Where have you been this whole time?
Never will I let you go
and I’ll fight for us when feelings plateau.
We’ve helped each other learn and grow,
and everyday I overflow
with the love I feel inside my bones.
I know we’ll survive all unknowns.
A Joyful Song/Smile
The smell of rain before the storm
upon the thirsty desert floor,
The brightest blue sky in late July
after the monsoon’s strong downpour.
played by brilliant string quartets,
My little girl singing through her tears
when she’s feeling upset.
Remembering the sound of my
abuelito’s belly laughs,
Forgiving those who hurt me
and learning from the past.
The path that brought me to the point where life would start again,
The thought of where I am today
when I reflect on where I’ve been.
Dreams of healing many
through the words given to me,
Writing with a purpose,
commissioned by divine decree.
An old soul in a young outer shell,
Some days a blessing, some days hell.
Solitude, my closest friend,
Mostly welcome, though I do contend
with wanting escape from my cozy cave
which sometimes feels more like a grave.
I long to connect with other souls
but how do I weed out all the trolls?
In this world of selfies and auto-correct,
artificial everything and looking #instaperfect,
it seems I don’t really belong
but then again, I could be wrong.
#poetry #oldsoul #solitude
We allowed the smoke to envelop us, as was tradition, while undertaking the sacred duty of starting the fire. It was a sort of rite of passage for my cousin, David and me as the firstborn grandchildren. Our job was to help my abuelito gather the wood as he cut it from a dead tree in his back yard.
When we were a bit older, we were eventually allowed to help cut the wood down to size for the repurposed oil drum turned wood-burning grill my papi made. We called it “el tambo.” It had a wide hinge like opening near the middle where you put the firewood and the top of the drum had a custom grill, not to mention the 4’ exhaust pipe my papi made so the smoke would disperse above us but the sudden bursts of wind those chilly autumn evenings brought rebelled against his brilliant chicanada.
My abuelito’s house is out in the counties, in between miles of fields in the winter lettuce capital of the world. Every weekend of my childhood and adolescence was spent at my abuelito’s house and starting around October, almost every one of those weekends was spent making carne asada around “el tambo” until it got too cold. Even then, my papi and abuelito often braved the cold desert winters in order to make elotes cocidos or a giant hoya de menudo atop “el tambo.”
As I breathed in the deliciously smoky air like a sweet incense offering, I watched the flames dance seductively and listened to the crackling of the fire while its warmth embraced me like an old friend; its smoke purifying and cleansing me. It was then I invited the smoky essence to permeate to the very depths of my soul; that’s why woodsmoke still reminds me of my abuelito and why now, after a bonfire or barbecue, I don’t immediately wash my jacket because I want to be near him again, if only in a memory . . .