Tag: Poetry

Busy Mind #22

Midnight’s End

A small crimson velvet pouch

With jewelry from his mother

His only connection to her

He opens it slowly,carefully, apprehensively

His heart pounding inside his chest

Drops of sweat dotting his upper lip

The silent ghost now attempting to speak:

An oval, Art Deco gold locket,

An amethyst ring,

A silver key

His stubby,clumsy fingers stumbling to open the locket

The tiny door to the past flies open

Cradling a curly lock the color of midnight’s end

Holds it to his nose and closes his eyes

Trying to breathe in her spirit

Puts it back in its cradle with utmost care

So as not to disturb the ghost in the grave

 

Picks up the amethyst ring

Reads the inscription: “Para mi esposa preciosa”

He knows his mother’s language; not the author behind the words

A tear trickles down his left cheek; mixing with nervous sweat

The ornately carved ring-resembles his intricate life

The multifaceted stone-his many faces

 

Picks up the silver key-it’s not dainty

Something a man would carry

Holds on to it tightly- takes it to the locked chest

Will it open it?

What’s in the chest?

Are all the rumors true?

With knees knocking,stoops down, inserts the silver key

It slides in,finding its long lost home

He opens the cedar chest

A scent of tobacco and Chanel No. 5 escape

At the bottom of the chest, a hand written note

A woman’s dainty cursive rests on yellowed,wrinkled stationary:

A rose in pre-bloom

But that time did not  wither

A Promise of love

A love that wasn’t-but that still lives on.

 

Her picture falls out,he flips it over

A bloody finger print stamped in back

Are the rumors true?

Did she suffer violence?

Is the finger print hers?

Or does it belong to her killer?

Too many damned clues-waiting to be solved

He puts it all back

Curiosity has vanished like a mist into the pre-dawn

Stuffs her picture-a young woman with a pained smile

in his coat pocket,next to his heart

Leaves the mystery in the chest

Reads the note-eulogizing her.

Closes the chest

Walks away

Never looking back

EVA SANTIAGO copyright 2013

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Busy Mind #21

Previous Condition

I woke up shaking

Alone in my room

The gray sheet-a twisted rope

Breathing as if from running

Motionless-for the longest while

Laying on my back-spread-eagle

Staring up at the spackled ceiling

With ear in tune to other sounds from the house:

A teapot whistling

A smoker’s sputum  filled, hacking cough

A long drawn out yawn

My dog barking at the approaching mail man

Ma’s bacon sizzling on the cast iron griddle

In the shower, a girly voice singing Taylor Swift‘s “Mean”

The  soft hum of the 5 blade fan over my bed

 

I had been dreaming

I woke up trembling-not sure why

The dream’s detail’s eluded me

I was certain I was running

This was recurrent

A previous condition

For a prolonged time; no dreams would come

Then with out notice, they’d return

A whole flood of them- a torrent even

I’d put off going to bed ’til I’d succumb to my restlessness

R.E.M. would kick in-to suck me into the vortex

I’d fall asleep frightened-to awaken terrified

I’d calm myself by listening to Ludwig’s “Moonlight Sonata

Watching the smoke from a neglected pipe rise to my spackle ceiling.

 

I’d run away all of my life

At 16 I ran from my ma

Left her a note in chicken scratch

Told her not to worry

When I was 22, she died

Then the runaway returned

To her still, cold body waiting for me in a pine box

The old place-resembled a macabre masterpiece by Goya

The house stood naked, paint pealing-like a harlot in need of a manicure

An old rain coat stuffed in the front bay window

Bright yellow police taped blared at me:

“STAY THE HELL OUT VAGRANTS AND RUNAWAYS!”

That’s what my eyes read

My eyes red-from stinging tears

Once again,returned all of my fears

I stared at my reflection

In the old cracked oval gold leaf mirror

Left outside on the porch

Why did I run?

Where did I go?

Did nothing change?

I was still the same man…

That guy with a previous condition.

EVA SANTIAGO copyright 2013

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Altered Book: Exploring Literature/Lynn Altenbernd

Busy Mind #20

Allan Dow

At 17

Funny-looking

A sardonic smile

Captive to a hope

Found flight appealing

Cynically attempted to exploit both-flight and hope

He fought her

Not that he wanted to

But because he couldn’t leave her alone.

At 17

A students

Disfigured by A’s as if by acne

He walked with her

Suddenly she kissed him-long and arduously

Til his back ached from bowing

The 2 parted into the black night

Now Allan Dow knew

How to bury a humiliation-in the body of a woman

This puzzled him

Allan Dow tossed restlessly

Eva Santiago copyright 2013

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Altered Book: Exploring Literature/Lynn Altenbernd

Busy Mind #18

Pretty Mouth and Green Eyes

Pretty mouth and green eyes

Why sit and stew?

The greatest living underdeveloped,

Undiscovered actress,

Novelist, psychoanalyst,

Unappreciated-celebrity,

Genius-takes a course in TV appreciation

Men are all “terribly  attractive” to her

We’re just mismatched as hell

I’m too damn weak for her

She doesn’t respect me

She doesn’t even love me

I don’t love her anymore-

That’s the last analysis

I wrote her a poem

When we first met

Pretty mouth and green eyes…

She doesn’t have green eyes-they’re more like seashells

What’s the use?

I’m losing my mind

She has some nice traits

She’s a helluva nice girl

I’m too weak for her-I have to keep trying.

EVA SANTIAGO copyright 2013

 

Altered Book: Nine Stories/J.D. Salinger

 

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Busy Mind#17

Ramona

Empty glasses in her hands

Some old monogrammed ice pick

It’s icy out

She comes forward with more drinks

With each downed drink-she gets hard as nails

Pauses to drink-raises her glass to think

She slides off her couch

And onto her knees

Looking under the table for her keys

Front door suddenly flies open

Wake up! Wake up!

“Ramona?”

“Mama?”

Ramona is awake!

“I was a nice girl,” she pleads,” Wasn’t I?”

EVA SANTIAGO copyright 2013

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Altered Book: Nine Stories/J.D.Salinger

Busy Mind #14

SHADY VALLEY

She checked her map again

Excitement coursed through her

Where is Shady Valley-the place of the shadow of death?

Maybe this wasn’t the right way

Discouragement fatigued her

She took one wrong turn

She was glimpsing a new world

The vision faded

She took a deep breath

She kicked at a rock

Fighting to keep her balance

Tomorrow would tell

If she lived or died

Her soul too strong

To die in her fragile flesh.

EVA SANTIAGO copyright 2013

 

Altered Book: Family Secrets/Cheryl Zach

 

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Busy Mind #11

I came upon this great site to help stimulate my muse. I will share the poems I come up with. This is fun to do and gets my creative juices flowing. Happy hunting, poetry really IS everywhere, you just have to pay attention :)

 

Older Anguish

All these thoughts rushed together

To make make a thorough search

No storm ensued

They joined

They questioned

No doubt that she suffered

Perhaps they hoped

Perhaps they thought

She remembered that night

Pain renewed an older anguish

Sadness that years later she was still reluctant to talk about.

EVA SANTIAGO copyright 2013

Altered Book: ELENA by Judith Egan

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Cut the bindings off  books found at a used book store. Find poems in the pages by the process of obliteration. Put pages in the mail and send them all around the world. Lather, rinse, repeat.

http://www.stumbleupon.com/su/2uRi6r/www.logolalia.com/alteredbooks/

BUSY MIND #5

Roam if you want to.
Go where you want to.
Feel what you want, or don’t.
See what you want or, don’t.
Say what you want,or don’t.
Laugh only if it’s funny to you.
Cry only if it moves you.
Own yourself and be proud of yourself.
Hug if you want to or don’t.
Kiss if you feel like it or don’t.
Dance in the rain or don’t.

Walk when you feel like walking and don’t let anyone make you run if you don’t want to.

Share only if you want to because sometimes there are things that only belong to you.

Say no when you want to.
Say yes only when you want to.
Say, “ I love you.” Only when you want to and not because it was expected of you.

Be shy when you want to and when you want to be bold do it.
Be true only to you and own your truth.
Dance with someone or alone-but do it anyway.
Go where there are people or stay in alone.
Look at the sunset or don’t.
Write a love letter and keep it forever or not.
Write a love story and share or take it to your grave.
Compose a love song and sing it or not.
Whatever you do, do it for you!

EVA SANTIAGO copyright 2013

April is National Poetry Month: Day 30

Well friends, April draws to a close and so does National Poetry Month. I went to a poetry event last Friday where I participated as a judge in a poetry contest for seniors at the Heritage Senior Park, here in Henderson. As a guest poet, I had the opportunity to read excerpts from my new book, Salsa! The Taste of Life. Other guest poets in attendance were, Jo Wilkins, Andres Fragoso Jr, and Toni Pacini. We picked the following poem as the winner .  Lorraine Anderson is 85 years old, she has been writing poetry all of her life and this was her first time sharing her work with a group. Congratulations Lorraine!!!

The Changing Times

 

I think of days that have gone by when mother baked her bread.

Back in those days one didn’t buy, but made such things instead.

I could smell the rich aroma from the oven that was hot.

And I’ll not forget the homemade bread that Dad and I once got.

There was something in its flavor, in its added bit of zest.

That made you feel, beyond a doubt that homemade bread was best.

 

But times have changed, the women folk no longer seem to bake.

They buy from the stores that stock the things commercial bakers make.

The cakes and pies and other things no longer have the touch.

Of homemade things that man once said he liked so much.

Those good old days when homemade bread was wholesome, fresh and plain,

Will forever outlive those things today all wrapped in cellophane.

 

Yes, times have changed and in a way I think that it is best.

The woman who once baked her bread has now more time to rest.

She need not watch an oven with an ever watchful eye.

All this has passed and now belongs to days that have gone by.

But I, for one, remember and more than often said,

The better days were back in the days when men had homemade bread!

-Lorraine Anderson copyright 2013

 

 

 

 

 

I am including this poem, that came in the top 3 picks; I enjoyed it so much when I first read it because of its universal theme of  how we evolve in our lives.

 

And The Mountain Moved

I am the little child full of love and laughter and family

And the mountain was huge and scary and far away

I am the teenager scared and scarred

And the mountain is still huge and far away

I am the young adult with stars in my eyes, love in my life,marriage and children.

And the mountain seems remote and far away from my life.

I am the middle aged woman who worked all of her married life, her children are gone,  and it’s time to find out who she is.

And the mountain appears closer.

I am the wise old woman who knows who she is and where she belongs and what her legacy is.

And the mountain is within me.

-Helene Moore copyright 2013

April is National Poetry Month: Day 29

And that was then…
When the past was dark and never to be seen again
All your dreams written in pen,
Because they wouldn’t listen.
This is now…
You have to survive a war to stand out
Do stunts that they won’t allow
You cannot have doubt
You won’t survive now..
Then
It was Death knocking at your door
Now
The sails of freedom come to shore
And then it was the sound of being condemned
Now we fight till the end
Because that was their time
But it is ours to shine
That was then..
and this,
This is now —

-Esther Star copyright 2013