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It is exactly as the title claims: I am NOT a writer! But I love to write. When I write, it is because I was inspired by a word or a phrase, a song or a picture or an image or emotion! And I wish to save that in the only way I know how..by writing it down.

I have no formal training, whether in the arts or schooling. I have been fascinated with the English language since my arrival to the U.S. in 1963. It started when I first made friends with some white kids ( I swear to this day they were albino, but what does a 7 yr old know about skin color at that age? lol). I don’t recall ever not understanding them but I do recall wanting to learn English to better communicate with them and of course, as it is with all children, I learned from them. School further honed my desire to learn English when a teacher read us a story ( I write about that, as well, somewhere) and I was so taken by her reading that I took up reading as much as I could on the subject with which she caught me.

What is the point of this little history, you may ask? Well, I remember my nephew asking me about writing because I believe he had a notion to take up writing poetry and so sent me a writing of his to see what I thought. As I told you, I am not a writer so giving my opinion on someone elses writing is not something I wish to do as I am very harsh in my opinion. Or perhaps I just know what I like.

I read a poem by a young woman named Hope Martinez called A Black Boy’s Mother on Vocal.media, and it was/is one of THE most powerful poems(it read like a spoken word poem!) I have ever had the pleasure of reading. THAT is what I look for! I like POWER! I like EMOTION! I like to FEEL what that person is feeling! That, to me, is poetry!

If what you write makes you FEEL, then it is worth sharing! PEACE!

I struggle,
In this realm of words,
Admire them so,
Line them up in sets and chords.
Paint these thoughts,
In different hues,
Images stark..
All black in blues!
Pensamientios, sentidos..
In lyrics which I choose.
Hay veces..sometimes,
Bitter they bite,
Annoy and slight.
Pero poco mas,
They lift and sway like a swing on a tree,
My heart and soul,
In full view to see.
Adelante, my friends, enter..
Let us dance..
On the floor of wood, the limbs they whip and swirl,
While Alex talks to his favorite girl..
And the conversations lift into night,
With tongue in cheek we’ll spar and fight,
A bards romance of words is where we’ll meet,
Our worlds collide in friendly banter..
And what difference there may be..well..
Let us agree to disagree,
Set it aside,
Lift a toast to the waning tide..cuentame!
Tell me a story for the night is sweet,
And tomorrow..
Just leave for tomorrow!
Your words,
They fill my night..

ONE TIN SOLDIER (lignum memoriam)

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Cars and trucks line the sidewalk.
Testament to the work ethic of any where industries.
I slowly make my way down the packed road,
Surrounded by the industrial might latent…
Waiting for the slumber of muscle to waken, once..
Plans for the day are finalized and..
Disseminated to the waiting concrete soldiers with their tools of creation dug up from soil, earth and rocks,
loam and water..
The blood and soul of our world..
Crafted in oh so many ingenious ways to use in building…
…and destroying..
We are stumbling gnats,
Painting our Madonna with stiff brushes,
In garish hues..
In our wee little minds we are the Colossus awakened,
Remaking the world in our image,
Tearing down walls of green,
Replace them with walls of gray!
And we pat ourselves and…
Give away awards to honor the most beautiful gray walls ever erected!
We are proud in our accomplishments as the air..
It too, turns gray to match the world we have envisioned…
…have created…
I drive slowly past the file of somnolent metal conveyances in wonder at that I see..
and in the middle of it all..
stands one lone tree!

“what matters most is how well you walk through the fire.” a book review..

A BOOK REVIEW ABOUT CHARLES BUKOWSKI’S BOOK OF POETRY. Disclaimer: this review contains a link that will earn me a small commission if clicked on or purchased.

I found “what matters most is how well you walk through the fire” one day after having finished the book this aquaintence had lent me and he was pressing me for its return without trying to sound like he was pressing, if ya know what I mean..lol

He is also known as Chinaski. Nicknamed Hank and he writes poetry the way most people want to live life. A aquaintence of mine lent me one of his books one day and I found a kindred spirit in his writings. The difference is, he actually knows how to write while I struggle to put together a few words to make a sentence, much less a poem.

Bukowski touches on all subjects..reverently..then irreverently destroys that same reverence..take for example this excerpt of one poem:

“women go to men who are pigs

women go to men with dead souls

women go to men who fuck badly

women go to shadows of men

women go


because they must go

in the order of


Like most men, Chinaski loved women, but in the same way he loved booze and writing. They were life to him and that is what he wrote about in his poetry: life!

Not everything rhymes and life is not always serendipitous and that’s how Charles Bukowski writes, with the wondrous uncertainty of life.

A friend once told me, “I’m not afraid of the dark, it’s what’s in the dark that I’m scared of!” LOL..made a lot of sense to me and still does to this day. I love inspiration like that that comes out of nowhere. He was pretty intelligent so he had a lot to teach me. I lt’s kinda the same way I came up with this lil ditty, just a line to form a poem around. Also, the idea that Halloween was coming added to it. Funny thing, though; this wasn’t the original one I had written. I accidentally pasted over the original one and I was so upset that I rewrote another one with kind of the original line and this is what came out..

DARK: A MUSING Bleak and moonless is the night,
Never differential..
Always exponential in it’s dark imaginings.
It is what we hope,
Is it not?
When we walk the dark and lonely road..
The only light in this forsaken path is the wisp of memory of feet that have been here before and remember each step..
steps…which we try to shush by stepping lightly as in your ears you hear a baneful wail..of..
Tis the thing that ought not rise,
Imagination is not fit for regurgitation..
Not now! When every little thing,
every little whisper and sound reminds you of that story round..
grandfa’s feet..when you were but a babe..
In the middle of nowhere,
In the darkest night..is when the tales that you deemed just stories, take new meaning…and you hear a chuckle in your heart..
Quick you turn I know there was something to my left walk faster..Yes you feel the rise of bile from the fright..
Surely they were just old man’s musings..
Just amusings..for a doddering old fool at least that is what you tell yourself sooner or later that should strengthen your heart and slow the beating to a normal walking pace..
To your left you feel more than see a darkest shadow though you know it but your ill-borne thinking shake your head, forget the dread sneaking up your spine and hope to God all is fine!
!a small snick and you quicken pace while the shadow it stays with you.
Yet the darkness seems to grow, spreads round you as you go and your feet remember you stepped here not much more than just one hour ago..
while the chuckle grows much louder…