City of Writers: A Weekly Newsletter
He wouldn't want me to cry. Any of us. My daddy died today. Nothing Can If I were in a better state of mind, I would tell you Prepare You That your life will fracture at the moment For the Inevitable You realize that your father is dead, a cold husk Season of Grief Of a man who gave you his DNA. til it happens to you.
This chaos that maneuvers the electrical impulses in the confines of my simian brain Overanticipate things I cannot hope to control So I spend my days, wondering where my time went because it so happens that I have found a burst of unrecognizable energy to get things done - today of all days though it comes at a cost of time / space / that multiversal feeling that smacks of guilt - knowing that you should be doing something else you could be, but you don't. guilliean wearing a hello kitty headband Guilliean Pacheco POET
I decided to shake up the limitations of NaPoWriMo and share some of the first poems I ever wrote in between the fresh original material that I'll be generating this month. What a lovely throwback to the poet I used to be. She was a little mixed up about her feelings and working to find her place in the world. I hope that she's happy with how I've tried so hard to make her proud over the years. I wish I could go back in time and tell her the journey that waits for her as a writer and poet.…
And the child born on the Sabbath day / is bonny and blithe, good and gay. I was born on a gloomy Sunday morning in Oakland, California. you'd think with the grace of being born on a sunday, that the scaries that plague that sacred day would temper themselves for me. the anticipation of a new week keeps me awake / bright-eyed / bushy-tailed / anxious / restless / intuitive about what I need to start / and god forbid / finish / living for the weekend / four-day work weeks are optimal / but y'all not ready for that…
my cheeks blush / from my cherry crush i love vegas in the springtime. that's a lie though. i hate it. a desert chill to wreck my bones. the sunlight crisping up my skin, feet planted firmly on the ground. fans on, windows open. the pollen. OH. the pollen. SO. the pollen. DEAD LY. i may become a poet yet. but the jury continues to deliberate. i like this format. the visual poetry. builds a pretty grave for these scattered words. poetry cannot be taught. it can be shaped. molded. whittled. put together. these patient words are manageable. there is…
It's the first day of the rest of my life, and I wonder where I will go from here. It's a simple question, asking to partake in a bond phenomenon that can only take place in print. I didn't forget you. You're always here, aren't you? Inquiring / genuflecting / cleaving. There are no effortless responses to these questions that you can't ask me. Media trained flash in the pan but I'll never understand how it feels to be broken by the weight of your perception of me.
cherry blossoms in black & white you don't need to tame me, because i already am flip the switch snap your fingers and I'll come a-runnin' it is my nature to silence myself snuff out my light so you shine bright This toxic trait, a shield a broken record, Damascus steel in the miasma of my personal failings, a display of / my fractured identity. The detonation of authority... and I Crawl Into Myself Again Muttering under your breath / gets under my skin / and I / cower. The daily bouts of casual anger Pepper a bruised mind Struggled…
Photo by Eddy Billard on Unsplash give me your heart, for i am owed i demand of you the thing that i deserve the most i promise you that i will keep it close tenderly, gently, softly no one else will protect you as i can, from the peaks and valleys of this lovely journey that i'm prepared to join but you are beholden to me so long as you let me hold you closer than you ever have before the beating of the heart that's in your chest will be in my hands warm and unfleeting pulsing and strong…
my life reads like the classifieds pages of what's for sale My prompt today is an exercise In making words sound pretty On this page here I'm not so old to forget About classified ads But they remind me of One of the best years ever william beckett of the academy is on the honda civic tour in 2007 in las vegas what's on the auction block I was knee-deep in my mid-2000s pop-punk era Emo, they liked to call it Except the purists would tell you otherwise she's got a decent voice Music saved my life, and I taught…
Playing around with visual poetry today. Enjoy! heartache in verse Trade we go marching one by one into this world of man's creation who demands that we trade our time for cash but not to support our hopes, dreams no, no don't take the pennies from him, he earned it, not you simply by being on top Photo by Visual Stories || Micheile on Unsplash Photo by Annie Spratt on Unsplash Photo by Lukas Blazek on Unsplash that house you dream of sits waiting for capital a mortgage so you can say it's yours but you're drowning under paper from…
You feel like home to me / when I feel invisible / when I have nothing left to give I would do anything / to strengthen your smile / let me carry you Embrace you, my sweet / we can take on the world / they ain't ready Wish I knew you / when i was young / shenanigans we'd perpetrate From New York / to San Francisco / and back again.
Perfect timing Blank spots Blink, blink Sorrowful pound Downtown underground Flounder Bloodstream Outside meaning Tip-tap Cold snap Closing time Appropriate manner Centered verse Mystery spot Embraceable you Expungeable me Hummingbird breath Morpheme Express yourself