Five Poems by Luis Cuauhtemoc Berriozabal

 

THE OTHER SIDE

 

Here, I cross the road

with the chickens,

to there, to the other side.

 

Geese came along too,

and one curious dog.

 

We made it across.

There was no cloud in the sky.

 

I always remember that day.

It is always on my mind.

I always add another animal

 

when I remember that day.

I can vaguely remember 

if it ever really happened.

 

SOMETIMES I STOP

Sometimes I stop at Starbucks inside Ralph’s supermarket on 3rd Street and Vermont. I am a creature of habit. The young barista knows my order every time, Pike Coffee, vente, with heavy cream and a dash of cinnamon. My good friend ordered her coffee like that, and I copied her. I liked it. So, I continue to order it this way. Sometimes I stop at the donut shop on State and Cesar Chavez Ave across from White Memorial Hospital. They make good salsa, which I pour liberally over my breakfast burrito. For a donut shop they make decent Mexican food. The donuts are not bad either. It is always dark when I order my coffee and food at these establishments. I usually get to the office at 6am. Sometimes when I feel like having more substantial it is the huevos albañil at La Imperial Tortilleria on First Street. It comes with rice and beans and homemade tortillas. The spicy salsa over the eggs hits the spot. I get the green and red salsa and make sure they do not get me the huevos divorciados, which does not have the spicy salsa. I am a creature of habit. Each place I go to, I make sure to take some photographs of the area, the sun coming up or the moon fading away, the murals on the walls in the area. Sometimes as I sit in my car waiting for my phone order at La Tortilleria Imperial I will write a short poem. This is the first time I have written about these three places, which I frequent the most. I noticed that places I stopped frequenting over the years have gone out of business.

 

THE DOORMAN

I carry change 

in my pocket

for the homeless 

doorman at

Tastio Donuts.

Sometimes it is

a couple of

dollars and a

few quarters as

a way of thanks.

I sit there with

my coffee and

egg breakfast and

I notice over

two dozen patrons

coming in and

no one offers him

a dime or even

acknowledge his

presence. He does

not beg or ask

for anything. The

only thing he will

say to you is

good morning as

he opens the door.

I cannot give

him too much money

but I can give him 

the change I have.

If other people

gave him a quarter

or even a dime

each, he could be 

eating something good.

I do not bother

to think if this is

just a scam. If
he is hungry,
I’d like to help.

THE FOREST OF MY YOUTH

 

The year is 2024.

The year might as well be 1984.

Along my way to the kitchen

I soak it in.

The cigarette smell is everywhere.

I feel blinded

from sunrise to nightfall.

I am back in the forest 

of my youth.

From the bars back to the house.

The sound of music blastin

getting in the way of my studying.

I can’t stay focused for the final.

What can I do 

but try to stay calm

over the incessant noise.

As it gets louder

the focus becomes more difficult

in the forest of youth.

I learn to accept barriers,

to accept disappointment.

I’m not confrontational.

Things will work out

is what I say to myself.

The year is 1994.

I go on 

in the maze of days.

The root is entrenched.

FIELDS OF JOY

I tread on fields

that roar with laughter

where fresh air blows

and poetry births
the light of day.

There is not one

castle here but green

carpets of grass

you can roll in and

slide in without

bruising your bones.

When it rains or

snows you can sigh when

you find it is

just light rainfall

and snowflakes as

transparent as ghosts.

In these fields of joy

melancholia
fades away and
spring is eternal

as sonorous birds

lull you to sleep.

In the morning

you will find it was

all just a dream,

where you were given

wings to fly.

Luis Cuauhtemoc Berriozabal - Born in Mexico, Luis lives in California and works in Los Angeles. His poetry and poetry books have appeared in Blue Collar Review, Escape Into Life, Kendra Steiner Editions, Lothlorien Poetry Journal, Pygmy Forest Press, and Unlikely Stories.