Assignment 17: The Writer's Block Poem

I broke the rule about writing what you know, but between New York, San Diego, and Guate, I think this place could exist.

Border Town

Border Town.  El Pueblo Frontera.
A place divided since they built the fence.
My family has lived here our whole history,
On this land, rich, red, and Rio river-fed.
Were we lucky when they decided our Mexican farm
Belonged to the great state of Texas? Been
American ever since.  

I came back from college, rode the train,
caught a bus, found a taxi to drop me off at the edge
of town by San Ignacio. Worn wood and peeling paint, but
Stone steps gleaming, washed clean under the Sisters’ care.  
Walk past El Mercado, eye tacky tourists from the city,
come to buy cheap huraches, fake silver bangles,
bright factory woven bags.

Cross the plaza, walk towards Tia Juanita’s tiny stall.  
Find my cousin behind the counter,  get a warm hug
And a seat, a plate of chilaquiles, all crunch and spice,
Two tamales, rice and beans, which I shovel in my mouth.
Close my eyes and savor every bite, lick my fork shiny.
They don’t make food like this up north.
Good chiles can’t grow in the snow.  

Assignment 16: Write a Villanelle

Broke Heart Morning 1.2

I awake to a morning so gray and dreary.
The pain in my heart too strong to be fake.
Work hasn't begun and I am already weary.

Splash water on my face, but my eyes are still bleary.
Puffy from crying, my tears form a lake.
Awake on a morning very gray and dreary.

If only I had seen your soul more clearly
Would I be greeting the day with heartache?
Work hasn't begun and I am already weary.

If my sadness were rage, you'd have reason to fear me.
How was my innocence yours to take?
Awake on a morning so terribly gray and dreary.

This pain burns hot; from inside it seers me.
No sense of this deception can I make.
Work hasn't begun and I am so very weary.

Of future loves may I be more leery
Never again will I be taken for cake.
Awake on a morning so grey and dreary,
Work hasn't begun and I am already weary.

Assignment 15: Sign up for an online poetry class

 This is a revised version of my first assignment:

Tea

My mind swims with thoughts of disappearing dreams,
fading sleep films that slip away as I lift my head from the pillow.
Last night's obsessions, worries, and hopes grow dim
as I stumble into the kitchen,
bleary eyes blinking away the glare of the streetlamp
still streaming through the front window
even as the dawn begins to break.
I open the cupboard and search for my favorite mug,
find it dirty in the dishwasher,
yesterday's lipstains and fingerprints still clinging to the glass.
A glob of soap, a swish of water and I wash them clean,
preparing the cup for our new day.
Cold water from the Brita heats quickly in the microwave.
The sweet smelling bag filled with crushed chamomile,
apple bits, and crumbles of cinnamon is put to steep.
Clear water slowly clouds, steam hits my nose, 
I burn my tongue and begin to wake.

Harlem Serenade

On a sticky afternoon
he stopped underneath her window, open wide to catch
the faintest of summer breezes.
"Ay, yo!"
He waited for her to appear, spitting on the sidewalk,
moving over to let an old lady and her cart go by.
Her pink curlers emerged first,
followed by a cigarette, from which she took a long drag
and then flicked onto the brim of his fitted cap. 
He brushed off the ashes and squinted up.
"Why you ain't call me last night, shorty?"
A second figure comes to the window, bronze skin
glistening underneath a dingy wifebeater,
arms rippling as they pull his love away.
The cigarette, disgarded, lands beside immaculate sneakers,
freshly wiped clean that morning.
Have received his answer,  Romeo turns and walks away.

Truth

“We don't read and write poetry because it's cute. We read and write poetry because we are members of the human race. And the human race is filled with passion.And medicine, law, business, engineering - these are noble pursuits and necessary to sustain life. But poetry, beauty, romance, love - these are what we stay alive for.”

 

The Dead Poets Society

More

Jesslynn was a girl who had never believed in fairies. Or Santa. Or genies. Or happy endings. At 13 she had already seen too much of the real world to pretend anything good or beautiful or lucky lay beyond the cesspool that was her life.

Certainly not everything was bad.  Breath still flowed in and out.  A heart still beat.  She was not dumb or ill enough to believe she was better off dead.  Though her father had failed her and her mother betrayed her, though house was not home, and safe was not certain, a glimmer of hope still existed.  Leaving town would only be the beginning of a new life.  She was certain the road would be smoother once she was in the driver's seat.

Mary

Down the block
In front of the church
Mary stands in a bed of flowers
Not so tall, but certainly stoic
Our Lady of El Barrio.

There is a woman who comes
often, to stand in front of her.
So casually leaning
So adoringly gazing
upward at her face.

What does she ask for?
What does she wish?
Has her faith been tested, revived, renewed?
What blessing will be bestowed?
What peace given?

That a bosom so hard, so unyielding, so exposed
Should provide such comfort
Puts us all to shame.

Here is a revision I did for Poetry Class, playing around with the line breaks:

Madre

Down the block, in front of the church
Mary stands in a bed of flowers.
Not so tall, but certainly stoic.
Our Lady of El Barrio.

There is a woman who comes often
to stand in front of her, hands clasped.
So casually leaning, so adoringly gazing,
upward at her face.

What does she ask for, what does she
wish? Has her faith been tested, revived,
renewed? What blessing will be
bestowed? What peace given?

That a bosom so hard, so unyielding, so exposed
should provide such comfort
is a wonderous thing
indeed.