i try to sit and ponder
all about the great big yonder
i can no longer wander
but the only tree i can see
is on the TV
i would like to hug and see
a free green tree
This is just a fun poem I wrote. I hope you like it.
If I knew what I wanted
I would go for it
I’d make plans
I would go to the shop and buy lots of different coloured pens
I would make lists on lined paper
I would write my name clearly and underline it
I might even put the date on the corner
I would look at it and cross out some things
I would think about bullet points
And when I typed it up I would choose an awesome font
If I knew what I wanted
They opened with a broken truth
Hoping I would bite
The jab, the poke of a misbegotten word
I reply as usual, with my trite regards of, it’s not that bad etc etc etc
Oceans have travelled under that bridge
I collect my steps and aim to you
Wondering if it’s too late to take up Buddhism
To angry to change and to lazy to care
Need isn’t for the lighthearted
The festival of the patios starts today.
Is it the way she tilts or head or how she says cafe?
I wonder what her day has been like
Imaging a joke she laughed at and a guy she snubbed
Her hair moves with the breeze from the opened door
She sees me staring and a flashes me a smile that doesn’t reach her eyes
So I look away and pickup my phone and check for messages.
My ma had ta
Fly high, cry why
Me see he flee
Knew you who
Could’ve would’ve should’ve
She holds her thoughts in your hand
Plucking splinters from the days
Slowly, without warning, she smiles
Tip of my tongue
This can be fixed, if I find the word
It’s just one word
To pick it up
The whispering, silent moment
A visit to a gallery
The shy smile from a long dead girl
Standing still and trying not to shiver
The wary look of someone old before her time
Her world filled with smells of paint and the painter’s voice
¡No se mueva! ¡Mantén esa pose!
Is she thinking about the people who will be inspired by her painted stare?
Is she dreaming of what to spend the money on, for posing for the painter?
Did she have kids and grandkids? Did she tell them stories about the painter?
What did her friends call her and what was her favourite tapas?
Was she proud of her migas? Did her fingers ache in the winter?
A hundred years have passed and I missed the chance to talk to her.
Painting by Julio Romero De Torres
No puedo ir a casa. Estoy de vuelta en Córdoba y otra navidad.
Mi casa es en el otro dirección. Voy a norte.