Monday, April 18, 2011

Three poems by Luis Cuauhtemoc Berriozabal


December creeps in the wind.
It takes a long breath.
It rests on the backs of trees.
It tires of autumn.

For days December plots.
Its secrets are many.
Small birds feel its chill.
They long for summer’s warmth.

December’s dreams are cold.
A blackbird seeks shelter.
The earth is wet and soft.
The stones remain hard.

December wants to take
everything it can’t have.
It will strip branches bare.
It seeks a snowy homeland.

When the new year draws near
December’s heart is frozen.
It waited all year to come
seeking to sing its song.



The cadaver buried in the garden
always sang songs from the grave.
He sang of lost love and heartache.
Fumbling for the right words,
his song came out mute. He
saw the birds singing in the trees
as he walked through the garden in
his dead dreams and nightmares.



It’s always there
from the time you’re born,
year after year,
a worm in its eye.
Its cold body
there in the shadows,
connoisseur of darkness,
the paparazzi of death.

Author bio:

Luis lives in Southern California and works in the mental health field in Los Angeles, CA. His poems have appeared in The American Dissident, Blue Collar Review, and Pemmican Press. His recent chapbook Digging A Grave was published by Kendra Steiner Editions. Luis was born in Mexico.

No comments: