(Originally written in 2012, edited today.)
It’s in every home, apartment and even in garages—the fridge. For some, the fridge and in particular the fridge door, is transformed into the family bulletin board with: doctor’s reminders; kids’ arts and crafts; report cards of a “job well done!” and photos. However for me, the fridge door has had a different purpose: A cemetery of an imperfect past and an altar to perfect illusions.
The morning wakes us
Amplified casting above
Yesterday's winter
Like a distant shore
Snow's last fall plays with our hearts
Few birds chirp away
White drops dance outside
No missteps on others toes
Partners lift and fall
And snow has no smell
But breezes that freeze with calm
Stillness then spring buds
The winter blush fallsA fast dance slows for the eye
No wrong steps in flight
“It’s truncated like a haiku – mundane observations that reveal everything. ” – Paul Butler
winter air chills
birds sing faithful tomorrow
the sun warms anew
By Destiny J.
it is here
that I once laid
face down
in the sweetest fruit
until the tree that bore it
lept, and left roots
like clipped wings in the balance of two Springs
and I found that on the nights I wept
the moon must have
sunken from the depths of the universe
to brush the nectar
from my thirst
and first, I dreamt of
drowning tides beneath my tears
for dark dreams, are still dreams
and centuries are like fond memories
to the birds of paradise
who flock beneath my feet
and brave crimson clouds until
I am no longer weak, and
it is here
that I awake
with the sun in my face
and the moon dimly shining
onto my nape
and the chirping beneath me
whispers hello to love, and goodbye to love, and hello
About the poem: I have a girlfriend whose actual name is Destiny. One night I told her about heartache, dreams with red clouds and a documentary I saw on the Birds of Paradise. I marvelled at the birds’ ability to hold court despite rejection. The courage it takes to fight for love and receive love. She wrote a poem the next day and gave it to me. It’s been on my wall ever since.
by Jumah Chaguan
He gazes upon the plane and wears dust on his face. Old and in the middle of the end, he can’t take another step. Worn out soles let the gravel pierce the skin of his swollen feet. The gentleman stands on the side, in a forgotten road where Anahuacs don’t bother tread, the margin of the Sierra Madre Oriental.
He left without provisions. To travel with them is like heavy chains that anchor his weak wrists. Luggage-free was the only way to make the journey to his final destination, the vanishing point.
The gentleman’s suspiro is only heard by ants too preoccupied with their own roads. So he takes rest on a stone made smooth by winds. An invitation to pause, after all, he’s walked for three days.
Now the crepúsculo vespertino transforms into a museum of undiscovered paintings. He never pays admission fees. Money was long gone and spent on obscure books and numbing drinks.
The gentleman can recite passages from “The Futile Life of Pito Perez.” However, in his polyester’s pocket he holds the tattered copy “I Am Emperor.” How he came to possess it, is really a futile attempt to forget the long ago.
Inside his father’s kitchen and on the table was the copy. His hands reached for it but gripped crimson instead. The recollection is scratched vinyl. The endless marathon began that day.
Sixty years later in this sierra, he now closes one eye and tilts his head. The right finger draws silhouettes with the best palette, mountain peaks and pinkish skies. With Alderaban he adorns the unreachable hips. Clouds are borrowed for manes. A feminine company up above.
The wind shows mercy and scatters hunger and aches. The ladies up above are gone too. With no trees and only thirsty patches of desert grass, the expanse has no obstructions. A chill enters his back. He gasps. It’s like drowning without water.
At the end of the long road, where it appears to cut through the distant mountain, the flicker of light appears. Perhaps it’s the thirst that makes the best dreams. A constant runner has found his holy grail.
Decades before, while he was a jornalero that laid railroad tracks on Oklahoma soil, he thought he glimpsed it. But as he swung the mallet to pound a nail, there it was, the light that attracts moths. Now eyes blinded with light, his mallet was charged.
Cracking bones woke others from the blazing stupor. A worker howled on the ground while a mallet was left without owner.
To always run without pay. To flee cities with railroads and blinding lights. The only thing he knows is that he never recalls arrivals into new places.
Scratched vinyl. Light. Stop.
The realization comes. He ran too long. A place in the far distance grows bright. The invitation he’ll courageously accept and without running.
jumahchaguan 