Tag Archives: life poetry

Expanding on my mother’s favorite saying

No hay mal que dure cien anos

me decia mi mama

Ni cuerpo que lo sostenga

todo tiene que acabar

 

Pero hijo no te rindas,

     lo que sufres, va pasar.

Siempre carga tu cancion

     como arma, pa’ amar.

 

 

* Translation

There is no evil/ wrong that lasts a hundred years

my mom used to tell me

Nor a body to withstand it

everything has an end

 

But son, don’t give up,

     what you suffer will happen/ pass.

Always load/ carry your song

     As a weapon, to love.

Copyright © henry toromoreno, 2020. All rights reserved

COVID Poem 413

If there is a God

and you are made

in her image …

then there is nothing

wrong with you.

You are a perfect

aspect of his light,

the infallible pitch

of her voice;

you are

the exact measure

and cut, made from

original stuff.

Don’t let any man

or mob of men,

any book or verse,

or anything disguised

as coming from god

tell you otherwise.

Copyright © henry toromoreno, 2020. All rights reserved

On Aging

Lately,

I’ve been coming loose;

untethered.

 

Spiraling from my orbit,

and heading out

into forever.

 

How can this be,

.    I wonder?

That there

will come an instant

clapping me asunder.

 

And I will be no more …

Unwhole.

 

Everything that made me

will remain

But I

 

I will never be the same.

 

Copyright © henry toromoreno, 2019. All rights reserved

The dead in windowsills

I don’t like finding the dead bodies of insects

anywhere ‘round my house.

Don’t get me wrong, I smash and swat and kill

the little buggers when they trespass on my space.

They are disgusting after all, and especially to me;

when I consider how alien they seem,

but still share my ancestry.

 

How I hate thinking that they still foment

within their genetic recipe

the blueprints for my symmetry.

 

No, my distaste for finding the leftover husks

of dried out insects comes from the deep

realization that I share that fate with them.

 

That their grotesque beauty should be

so fragile in the end, and so easily extinguished,

left without ceremony, to be collected in a dustpan.

 

Copyright © henry toromoreno, 2016. All rights reserved.

hot air pairings

the greens and blues,

 

with mes and yous

 

these things are true …

 

the wheres, the whose,

 

the whats, left clues;

 

time can’t undo,

 

what’s laid, what grew.

 

the dusks, the dews,

 

the lights, the hues.

 

the sun, the moon,

 

with you seemed new.

 

the songs, the tunes,

 

the ocean’s bloom …

 

let’s both escape

 

on this balloon.

 

 

Copyright © henry toromoreno, 2014. All rights reserved.

Invitation to Entropy

I don’t understand why you aren’t

as famous as your cousin gravity.

Your work in closed systems,

while leading to breakdowns,

doesn’t always mean calamity.

The way you use heat and light

to translate what is now

to what is possible,

is a testament to your creativity.

What you need is a better agent …

and since we’ve known each other

my whole life, I was thinking,

why don’t you start working for me?

Copyright © henry toromoreno, 2010. All rights reserved.

The Road Away

I tried to walk the streets,

I tread when I was young;

stopping time and again,

reviewing what’s been done.

Remembered where and when,

the dreams I keep were born;

and began to comprehend,

where yesterday had gone.

 

I’d not remained to watch,

the changes going on;

and now on my return,

there was emptiness, not song.

The roads had all diverged,

and taken everything along;

and I was just one traveler now,

and very far from home.

.

 Copyright © henry toromoreno, 2010. All rights reserved.

Dress Code

 “What?”, asks the principal,

forgetting that I take

my role as an educator seriously …

.

“You don’t like looking at that?”,

when I mention

that the short shorts

are too too short –

and that it is hot

and about to get hotter.

.

“They’re children”, I remind him

and he laughs

and retorts the way he does,

by saying, “have you seen,

how some of the teachers dress”?

.

“That’s you’re job too”, I say

… but everything seems funny

I guess, when you’re a clown.

.

Copyright © henry toromoreno, 2010. All rights reserved.

Hic sunt monstra *

just as the water

dances up to the land

to form a coast

and the way

the sky and earth

pretend to meet

at the horizon –

every love

has its own geography.

.

a landscape mapped across months

outlining open fields

that stay in full bloom

where laughter calls out

from the crown canopy

shading the brambled edges

that are meant to be wild

and forgotten …

.

these borders,

the imaginary lines

that mark the province,

are boundaries

that shrink and expand

with the love.

.

a territory always in flux –

a country threatened by coup

and surrounded by dragons.

.

* Latin for “here are monsters” … a phrase supposedly found on old maps marking unknown or dangerous places

.

Copyright © henry toromoreno, 2010. All rights reserved.

Lovestruck

“All I wanted”,  

she says licking tears

that taste like the spray

of a tropical storm,

“was for him to love me”.

.

Hiccuping breaths,

she lowers her eyes

to keep from sailing

back to her memories;

but her swollen lids

press into her face –

and remind her of his hands …

so she cries some more.

.

“I know”, 

she says,

“he loved me,

but he had to break me too”,

and that was the wave

that washed her up on my shores.

.

Copyright © henry toromoreno, 2010. All rights reserved.