Tag Archives: poetry about writing

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.

Poem for poetry

Someone commented that,

“poetry is dead”

I wrote back,

“do you have any words left in your head?”

They then said,

“no, they’re all born in my mouth”

I wrote back,

“that’s what poetry’s about.”

Copyright © henry toromoreno, 2013. All rights reserved

Why I Hate Cleaning

I don’t like cleaning –

and not just for the obvious reasons

like taking away from

all the nothing else I might be doing


it’s because cleaning reminds me

of how awfully endless the simplest

nastiest tiniest specks of the universe

are falling forever and finally landing

all over everything I own


even me, I am falling apart, all over

my apartment, flaking away little bits

of my skin, leaving my oils and my

stink like my cousins who live in the jungles

traces of hair and my preference for beer


and cleaning can take on a strength

all its own and possess me for stretches

where I’m looking for hours behind doors

meant to cover all the clutter that’s gathered

and quietly planning to take over my home


worst of all, cleaning can lead me,

and does now more than before,

to collections that have had real time

to marinate in the taste of forgotten


pictures and letters and buttons and

faded ribbons pinned to nothing

boxes that might have meant something

were I Pepys or Strong


Copyright © henry toromoreno, 2010. All rights reserved.

Robot inventory in the middle of serious writing

 In comes Alexander,

5, uninvited to my

office where I write

and where he’s

supposed to knock

instead of storming in

like his namesake would.


Want to hear about

my robots”, he asks

spilling a half dozen

mini sculptures made

of multi-colored legos.


Not right now, I said

and firmer than it sounds

on paper.


But he goes on

explaining that the

first one with wheels

is a rover meant

to explore the surface

and it sends back

information to

the second one with

panels that is an

orbiter which always

stays in space and

it, in turn, beams

down instructions

to the third robot,

a long spindly thing

that is a tower for sending

out directions to the

two battlebots,

clunky pieces that

look like squares with

blasters mounted.


I didn’t want to know

but now I’ve been taken in.


He animates the ones

he’s talked about

pretending that there

is some mission underway.

I can’t help but ask

what the last undefined

robot does or is.

Alex picks it up, the

most elaborate of the

bunch, it is made of

flat pieces with gold

extensions and tiny

white caps, resembling

an alien artifact and

asks me if I really like it

before explaining

that it’s art and it

does nothing at all.

Copyright © henry toromoreno, 2009. All rights reserved.


the gods in hiding

at the parade of angels

held at an undisclosed location,

deep inside a bunker,

far from hell and heaven,

every winged creation

that had manifested in dream

or imagination

arrived to testify before the court of lords

on the state of our affairs

here on earth … 

… and as each word

spilled from their mouths,

like water covering fields

extending to the horizons

in every known direction,

the hunger that the stories told,

of our desires to understand

the plans of those who organized

the whole event,

from every point and line that was attended to,

had broken down and drowned us

in such confusion;

that there was very little hope

the secret meeting place

could remain the same and

undetected too much longer.

Copyright © henry toromoreno, 2009. All rights reserved.

How poetry fuels the world

I found a note

reminding myself

to pick up jalapeños,

cilantro and lemons

to make picante sauce

for one of your

family’s parties.


It was written

on the back

of a torn out page

from a book of poetry

that you gave me for

Valentine’s Day our

first year of dating.


I already had the book.

I kept the page

           You wrote.

I recycled the page

and the picante was delicious.


This proves that poetry

          is a renewable energy.


Copyright © henry toromoreno, 2009. All rights reserved.


on the page

     where i am god


i breath life

into the bodies

of the words

as they appear


i give them form

against the


around them


and promise them space

without the invasion

of capitalization

or the oppression of punctuation


i ask them to gather

in ways that pay honor

to that which came before


and warn them against

the sins of plagiarism

and the vices of being cliché


and i threaten them

that they can be

ripped into letters

left to mean nothing.


Copyright © henry toromoreno, 2009. All rights reserved.

looking for an apple

I think the laws

of mathematics

     went awry when

     I thought this was a song.

I think I found a dozen

angels disguised as

     half-priced vegetables

     that I brought home.

I think I’m popping in

and out of existence

     more often nowadays

     when I am left alone.

I went looking

for an apple yesterday

     and came home

     thinking of this poem.

© 2008 henry toromoreno

for fear of copyright infringement

for fear of copyright infringement

i can no longer read

anything that might be good

i know my best ideas are stolen

and the lesser ones are poor imitations

or hateful versions of something

someone else created

imagine how it hurts for me to know

that i must abandon all those

words i’ve tried so hard arranging

i’ve seen so many times the names

of streets and things that once belonged to me

mentioned in the lines I read

that I must therefore close my eyes to see

some novel combination

© 2008 henry toromoreno