Bloodstone 

     When do we ever stop looking
for a father or mother—especially
when craving for a sweet home?

     What a pity if born without both;
it’s so sad when they die; if in reach,
yet never present, a chilling tragedy.

     I never knew my father; my mother
would only say he was a drunk who split
right before I was born. She simply left

     one day, so went dead to me. Now
heard she’s truly gone. No goodbyes.
Of course, she’d say, I abandoned her!   

    No. No tears. They’re staying where
they will keep—deep inside of me.
I need only look out for karma now.

     

 

 

*Latest revision 9/23/2019 

 

 

A Boy’s Reflection in a Hobby Shop Window

Is this really my voice?
I see my mouth moving—
stringing consonants, vowels,
words into a black cast-iron
Lionel train—that goes round
and round, through a fuzzy
green papier-mâché mountain,
through a Main Street, USA,
past itty-bitty hand-painted
people standing at a bus stop,
a red light, a railroad station,
waving—I’ll be damned if not
smiling. The train goes round
and round again, never ending, 
behind a Hobby Shop window, 
until closing time, when lights 
out, who I am, left in darkness.

 

 

Until next time,
keep writing.

Peace,
Andrés Castro