Hill
Hill in peace
As night draws near
Nestled in as star begin
Light shoot by
In winged flight
Dance amoung
The winged sprite
hour 13 Don’t do this
Don’t do this and don’t don’t do that, you can play outside but don’t swing that bat
You can ride you bike but not too fast, you can have 5 dollars but make it last
Stay off the fence it’s just not safe, so for an hour in a half y swing frome the gate
Don’t speak to loud don’t make a fuss, I will wash out you mouth if I hear you cuss
Don’t bite your nails, don’t cross those lines don’t eat those grapes up on the vines
So don’t do this and don’t do that, it’s now time for bed so hang up that hat
Two Roads
Two roads
Such a difficult decision
One should make
A war between
The unknown
And the one
Familiar with your heart
Two roads
Look quite alike
The only difference…
One you will take on
Immense pain
And the other
A profound joy
Which should you choose
The road
Whose ending
You are aware of
Or the road
You have no clue
Two roads
A decision one should
Make
The time is ticking
So choose before
All time is out
And the universe will choose
Your fate
-Angelica Villarruel
Perspective
Perspective
Virginia Carraway Stark
An ant crawling
Up the side of a cottonwood tree
Doesn’t mind Me
I should feel big staring at him
But I feel as small as this ant
The sky is a bowl
Of vastness
The clouds are mountains
Towering above me
How vast can this world be
Even this cottonwood towers over what is see
I am a mote
And the horizon
Is large as the sea
Not Another Love Poem
Yet again here we are, words which met love on a page.
I turn to you and grin, whisper words which only you hear,
and your groan, swatting me away. “Not another,” you grumble,
and with your eyes I see it. Potential. Pain. Pleasure, the
vulnerability that is us, the fragile link of communion, which
ended in an exclamation.
When you were gone,
ohgodohfuckwhythehellwasIgiventhisblessinganditwastorn,
and you go to Heaven,
and take my words too.
Afterlife (9:00 PM)
She was a stunning one, wasn’t she?
Her skin just dripped of glory.
Behind her steps she left a trail of
many men adoring.
Her milky hands were as
fragile as tears,
she handled them like lace.
Her smile was radiant,
her laugh was contagious,
a sound that can’t be replaced.
But she kept to herself,
that graceful girl,
the lady who died in white.
In life she possessed such
unmatched beauty
even death to her is kind.
poem #10 in the beginning
In the very beginning there weren’t words.
There was the swirl of constellations without names.
There was fire and ice and the elemental signatures of metals.
There was no one to notice or care.
Somewhere time comes into it, although no one can explain it.
When does time start? Is it back w/ the very beginning? Before the words?
Is it after the clash of gases?
When does what never was become what is?
And time passes, because now we have time.
We have a thread w/ the pearls of moments hung upon it
and we call that pastpresentfuture.
And there is still no one to notice or to care.
But later (as time goes, much later) the people
w/ their troublesome words and names come.
And that may be when it all begins, really. With people.
Troublesome words and names. And time.
Hour Eleven
You see, life has no guarantees
Wishes aren’t granted
And dreams seldom come true
But then how does that explain me and you?
Hour 12: Half Marathon Complete!
She peeks into my room
afraid to disturb my writing….
Mom, can I show you what
I’m packing for Chicago?
Sure, I say, and sadly she is surprised that
I’ll actually stop and look right now.
Shirts, skirts, shorts, leggings all laid out,
alongside her plans, hopes, and dreams.
Does this look ok? Will I look older? Did I choose the right things?
It’s been a long time since I’ve been there.
Leaning in, I see her worry unfolded, wanting to be sure of choosing correctly;
part of me thinks it’s not just about clothes.
I say your choices are great – are they a comfortable fit for you, do they make you happy?
I hope she hears I’m talking about more than clothes.
Just remember, dear one, take your dreams with you too,
don’t toss them into the pile of rejected sweaters.
He is every spoken word and every belief that he said he was against. A monster consumed with what can be bought, consumed with what shines in the light and is unseen and unheard of in the dark. He is everything I’ve loved and everything I now despise. No recollection of responsibility or meaning or means other than self-indulgence runs through his veins. He is cold, he is here and he is my biggest fear and regret, my purpose and my need all at the same time. He will never know what my words mean, how I cry out of fear of walking away to live happily without him. He will never know what it means, what anything meant. He will never know how I felt, how I feel, why I fight, why I cry…. He will never know because it can’t be bought. There is no price on my thoughts, no bartering on my heart and no trade on my feelings. He will never know whether I am here or I am gone.