DRYERS ARE EVIL

I had to post this poem I wrote last night in the hopes to tickle your funny bone one last time this year. My kids and I were having a conversation about dryers and when it was all said and done, I sat down and penned this. Enjoy your last couple of days of  2013!

EVA

Dryers are evil

They conspire

And get clothes lost

They force worn out sock

To early retire

 

Dryers are thieves

They watch you sweat

They watch you roll up your sleeves

I have seen whole shirts disappear

Into thin air

Indeed, dryers are thieves

If you’re a pair of pants

A skirt

A dress

Or a blouse

You should live in fear!

 

Dryers destroy

Turning nice silky panties

Into ugly granny panties

Seemingly over night

Panties that once thrilled your boy toy

Now full of holes

As if attacked by a labour of moles

Dryers are evil!

 

EVA SANTIAGO copyright 2013

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Write Something Terrible and Feel Great!

Let the poem write itself

Let the words flow through your pen

Open your mind

Let your thoughts come out to play

 

Let the story write itself

The plot is there

The characters already live

Just pluck them from thin air

 

Let the wound heal itself

Give it attention

Give it great care

Let it breathe in fresh air

 

Let the puzzle sort itself

Don’t pick up the pieces

You’ll just make a mess

Don’t worry, time sorts out all puzzles

 

Let the song compose itself

Words have wings

Marry your words to the harmony

Words don’t always need music to sing

 

Be a canvas to the whole world

Let children fill in the emptiness with their vivid imaginations

Let amateur painters blot out the darkest corners with their unlearned brush strokes

Let seasoned artists mold,shape, create

Something from nothing

Definition out of thin air

 

Write something terrible and feel great about it

The best art

Comes from many attempts

So at first when you grab the pen, the paper

The paint brush, the canvas

Don’t worry if you’re gonna fuck up

Truth is, you will

But don’t let that keep you

 

How did we learn to walk?

By first falling flat on our faces

Well, go on then!

Write something terrible and feel great!

Sing and hit the wrong note

And don’t yourself hate

Paint,paint,paint

The canvas doesn’t ever worry

Whether you’ll make a mistake

The stage doesn’t care that you tapped out the wrong beat

Or that once, you had two left feet

The blank pages in the book don’t care about grammatical errors

They trust the writer knows what to delete

So, what are you waiting for?!

Eva Santiago copyright 2013

 

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His Guitar Menagerie

He picked her up

He ran his sinewy hands on her curvy body

He touched all of her contours deliberately

Every finger he placed on her neck was calculated

Her long neck he studied inch by inch

His rough hands traveled further south

Until he reached her opening

He had been looking for a certain sound

He’d been at this search of his for quite some time now

He knew the price of a good instrument

Searched high and low for The One

A trained musician was he

Willing to pay top dollar for her

And one day he found me….

 

He saw me and knew what he’d found

He ran his  rough hands on my curvy body

He touched all of my contours deliberately

Every finger he placed on my neck was calculated

My long neck he studied inch by inch

His hands traveled further south

Until he reached my opening

I was that sound he’d been looking for

And since he claimed to be an expert musician,I let him in

Only to find out soon enough, I’d be treated like he treated his prized guitars

 

I thought with me he’d be different

I was after all, his highest commodity

His most valued of all his possessions

I could not have been more wrong

For you see, he was deaf all along

And he’d never planned on hearing my song

 

From day one he’d said

“My guitar is my other woman.”

I should have known with him

I’d be good as dead

With him I’d grow old

And become one of his old unsung hymns

But I thought I’d give him a try

C’mon someone had to break and get in right?

It damn near cost me my sanity

It damn near cost me my life

It damn near cost me my sight

He treated me like one of his fucking guitars

 

Year in and year out

On my heart

He placed a dark mark

Pretty soon he put me in a corner

Right next to his cherry red Strat

Right next to his rosewood Gibson

Below was his onyx colored Fender

Above me, the queen of us all: His 12 string

We all were there collecting dust

Over the years he’d grow dissatisfied and he’d trade one of us in

To him this trade-off was no big thing

 

Living with an insane guitarist

I became the outsider

Looking in on his guitar museum

Like a lone drifter, like a wandering tourist

And that’s how it came to be

He treated me like one of his fucking guitars

All of his moves although as smooth as can be

Were lacking of passion: Cold,rehearsed and calculated

And day by day

I felt as if I was going insane

And night by night

I gave up and I never again sang

 

Until the day came

When I found my dignity

And I decided to vacate the premises

Of his mad guitar museum

I said good-bye to his Strat

I told her to stop being a spoiled brat

I kissed Gibson on the cheek

And told her to stop being so weak

He’s been done with you-last time he touched you was more than a week

Then I saluted the queen-the 12 string

And she looked at me

With a little envy

She knew like all the rest

I was leaving for good

 

He soon found out I was done

And he was suddenly alarmed

Even asked me with his voice trembling,

” Why do you seek to bring me harm?”

I told him, ” I’m not yours. I never was. I can never compete with your other woman

That’s right, stay with your precious guitars

I am not made of wood

I am not made of metal

You never planned to make me your number one

You never cared. You never could

I refuse to be part of your guitar menagerie

You’ve brought me great misery

I have been in great agony

Why I stayed for so long

Is truly a grave mystery

It has even killed my song

I have to go find it again

Take care. So Long!

 

And I walked out the front door

And suddenly I heard a crashing noise

Behind me there, on the red tile floor

He’d smashed his queen-the 12 string

She lay there in bits

By then it was too late

I was out of there…I had found my wings

EVA SANTIAGO copyright 2013

guitar menagerie

 

 

PAINT!

PAINT!

The canvas doesn’t lie

So don’t be a pesky ‘lil fly

The canvas is my friend

On it my frustrations die

 

The paints on my brush

They quiet and they hush

My ever aching soul

My ever aching heart

 

Wet paint is my balm

To smooth out all the wrinkles

To soothe and calm my soul

The paints oh how they calm!

 

My canvas can be anything I choose:

Cotton,linen,paper,rock

This is where I never lose

Rock-paper-scissors

 

The canvas is better than a lover

I can be me

I can discover

I can fly

I can swim

I can sink

I can fling paint angrily

Or I can use paint sparingly

 

The canvas is my silent partner

My accomplice

Together we conspire

It knows my long-held desire

It knows who lights my fire

It senses when conditions are dire

It directs me as when to retire

 

The canvas is my date

It never stands me up

It never arrives late

It is quite the perfect play mate

It never keeps me waiting

It never says it’ll call

And then it doesn’t

it never looks for an excuse

I’d rather paint than be out dating:

An idiot

A moron

A clown

A buffoon

Better to paint

So my heart won’t faint

 

So whether you use:

Brushes

Knives

Even your 10 fingers

Your cat’s very tail

Yeah, that’s how they got 9 lives!

 

Paint your troubles away

When you feel lonely

PAINT!

When you feel”

bad,mad,sad:

PAINT!

When you feel misunderstood:

PAINT!

When you hear,” You should…”

Don’t should on yourself:

PAINT!

When chaos is your daily bread:

PAINT!

When you feel as good as dead:

PAINT!

 

Identify your pain in the paint

Look pain in the eye

Use it to your advantage

Then lose your pain in the paint

 

Paint and grow wings

Those wings will cause your to soar

You’ll leave normal behind

You’ll not be the same for ever more

PAINT!

EVA SANTIAGO copyright 2013

 

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MY VOICE

Who cares about applause. Why care about what people think of my thoughts. I don’t write them to pass their approval. I didn’t write this to get their thumbs up. I didn’t write this to get people to nod their heads in agreement. Whatever you think,whether you like it or not,I’ll always keep laying out my thoughts and putting them in full view for the whole world to see. For heaven to know I worked hard at relaying their message. And when hell hears my words,the darkness is pushed way back and their tormenting shrills hushed.

 

Shut up?! Not now! Not ever. As a child they shut me up but for a very short season. For my mind,though it was young,knew what it wanted to say.  It wasn’t the time yet.When I was a child I spoke as a child. Now the time has come to boldly declare what would have been deemed inappropriate because after all,I was  a young Latina. That was the strike held against me.

 

Alas, that was then, this is now. The old is done and the new is in. So yeah, this voice will not be drowned. It will continue long after  I’m gone because my children and their children’s children will hear it and know this warrior fought and prayed for them;even before they came into existence. Before they were even an inkling of a thought in anyone’s mind.

EVA SANTIAGO copyright 2013applause

Busy Mind #23

R.E.V.O.L.U.T.I.O.N.

Encounter in Illinois

Footsteps

WATCH OUT!!

Look where you’re going

Invisible man with a monkey’s paw

In the August heat

Nobody prepares you for this stage of life

When your own blood shoots you dead

Right there, in the wilderness

It’s science fiction and fantasy

The lines are blurred

Where does fantasy begin?

Where does reality end?

It’s a fine line

Betwixt  religion and hypocrisy

 

We’re at war

Science fiction and fantasy

The blood of the martyrs

Will once again spill into the streets

When a visit to grandma’s

May save your own soul

Where you’ll sit on the old rocking horse

And know you’re a winner

 

The lottery is fixed

The outcome is fixed

And the young ones will sing

The ballad of the harp-weaver

A ballad from hell-will be the antidote

To break the wicked spell.

 

This time next year

The raven will come

To dance with the skater of ghost lake

As the young ones sing

The ballad of the harp-weaver

 

This time next year

Reality will face off with fantasy

We’ll all be at war

We are the people

We are the mob

We fixed the lottery

We fixed the outcome

We are the bloodied martyrs

On whose blood covered streets

Our own blood we’re spilling

 

We are the people

We are the mob

Together unstoppable

Together invincible

They can’t shut us up

We sing the ballad  of the harp-weaver

We broke hell’s spell

Our children arise

Arise from the ashes

Our children the stars shining brightly

Get ready people

Freedom is here

There’s nothing left to fear!

EVA SANTIAGO copyright 2013

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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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