Tag: poetry
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On still nights I can hear
On still nights I can hear the wind in solitude breathing, roaming in habitual journey. It goes through cycles with murmurs and tantrums. I remember that in a dimmed sunlight the wind envelopes my sides. My scarf and blue ribbon sway at large, flowing and spreading out, wings if only I learned to pull at…
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Words are not stable
Oh, no, words are not stable. in a fleeing flutter, they can easily pass me by. When they settle, it’s at their own pace. They are happy to run into each other, to intermingle, and still, I try to build with them permanent monuments: to host the history of my memories and visitors to my curiosities… when given a chance.
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some granny or grandpa better love this one:
Grandma & Grandpa or Grandma & Grandma or Grandpa & Grandpa it really doesn’t matter, what I know about love is that it really isn’t blind. It simply chooses to see what others don’t, like the way sunlight highlights eyes and strands of hair, and turns lips into promises.
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Hanging hope
You are my favorite most crumbled love poem. I place you against prison bars made from the clenched fists inside my chest… bailing you out with second chances. Someday, you’ll come through… teach me how to breathe again.
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skin
la piel es especial, the skin is special, not skin by itself, skin that has known other skin, skin that can perceive kindness ……………………………. .in a handclasp like when two people meet for the first time: a moment that joins their separate history, ………………………….ignites a recognition …………….of company’s rhythm. Because such skin feels and imprints the sense of having lived.
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On friendship and living
The things that happen when I’m away: I’ve got friends working 8 hour shifts, who have learned to tackle work and class schedules without forgetting how to breathe. I’ve got friends with marriage plans, promising to pause on the baby-raising. I’ve got friends who made no such promises, and are raising babies on their own.…
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To the Daughter I May or May Not Have Some Day
Every curve on your body reads like unpublished poetry, understand, the public isn’t ready for your static electricity, a transient spark of beauty of which Death’s envy destroys by violence in your prime. In spite of the crimes against you, you must never forget, you are sublime.
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city sights
we keep building highways between our homes, rearranging entrances and exits. the noise of those honking machines are getting to my head. I picture cars going through the motions of ant armies, ants carrying on their back automatic people, who ask “how are you?” and move on the automatic people are blind they can’t see:…
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the memory of second homes
I am thinking about the night you were away, how I began repapering the walls, trying to find a stitched pattern to ditch order, to find peace with the unaligned corners you kept. I am thinking about your patience in accepting me with my insanities included and forgiven; you never collected all the hugs I…
Claudia Rojas 