I count down the days,
till I can taste you again.
How can you be so refreshing?
Pair so well at every meal?
I see you every night,
your green stripes, red core, and black seeds
are the stars of all my dreams.
Oh watermelon, when will I see you again?
Dear Gingerbread House
Dear Gingerbread House,
You are the best part of Christmas. You bring families together. I remember how every Christmas, the moment you came out of the oven, we fought over you, trying to get our hands on you.
Dear Gingerbread House,
Every time I see royal icing, I remember you. Every time I see gummies and candy canes and all kinds of Christmas candy, I remember you. Even now, every time I walk past you in the Target aisle, I stop and reminisce.
Dear Gingerbread House,
You may be inedible, but I still love you with all my heart.
An Ode to Strawberries
Glistening green leaves,
the gentle hum of bees.
Tiny green buds,
and quiet gush of wind.
Blooming white flowers,
your pale cheeks blush pink,
and you show your youthful smile,
with every compliment made.
Pretty little strawberry,
please do not be a tease.
PSL
Waiting with bated breath,
lurking on Starbucks’ Instagram page,
multiple times a day,
just to catch a glimpse of it.
Murmurs are heard –
“it’s coming back in August?”
And then one day, it is seen.
The Pumpkin Spice Latte is back,
bringing with it all things
pumpkin spice, and the advent of fall.
Schematics
***
We stand there,
golden rays casting its hues through the green foliage,
our faces a moving canvas for a painting woven from shadow and light.
The barks of a dog in the distance,
the excited chatter of children down the street,
the drone of cars zipping past us.
This is it, our new home.
Our green van sits at the end of the driveway, parked.
Through its window I can see –
us, frantically weaving through traffic to get to the house faster
us, camping out in the trunk because it’s bear country and we’re too scared to use the tent
us, carefully laid out on the sunroof as we try to count the stars
us, singing off-kilter as we race down the freeway with the radio on blast.
It’s beautiful isn’t it, the history of us.
We turn to face each other,
and in his eyes I catch brief flashes –
of me, slinging off my heels before collapsing in a huff on our new couch
of me, cradling an ever-so-slight baby bump while softly humming lullabies
of me, sitting cross-legged with our grandkids as we streak chalk all over the driveway.
It wells up inside me, this bittersweet feeling of what is yet to come.
At night, I like to look up at the sky,
where the constellations unravel a pathway of lifetimes before me –
a young woman hunched over while picking tea leaves, a baby strapped to her back
an old man on his deathbed, his sons and daughters on their knees praying at his side
a toddler with his first pair of glasses, finally able to see the smile that adorns his mother’s face.
It makes me wonder about the schematics of life.
What does it mean to be human?
Is it our capacity to love, to experience heartbreak, to cherish and to mourn,
or is it our will to live, the fight for survival in a cruel world, the desire for power, for stability.
Along the way there’s moments of unseeming gentleness,
a tender touch here and there, a warm caress and a soothing voice.
We dream about the glory of dead men, aspire to fly high like an eagle, to live as pure as snow.
Yet we eat like animals, sleep like animals, desire like animals,
slaving away merely to exist on this earth.
How are we any different?
We stay standing,
taking in the hot breeze as we stare down the driveway,
catching another glimpse into our now-empty green van,
a minefield of cardboard boxes haphazardly littering the porch behind us.
Between us is a flurry of little moments waiting to be experienced,
culminating on the lines of time –
the past, the present, the future,
blending into one, converging at this very moment.
Key in hand, we turn and unlock the door,
crossing the threshold into our new life.
The Lost Old Man by Kyla Warner
Room 10, Bed 14
Once a father, once a friend
Now he lays alone
The nurses pass through
And many doctors do too.
“Two months” they remark.
The man asks again
His memories slipping through.
“Where is my wife, Marge?”
But no one answers.
The alzheimer’s whisper
Silent echoes fade
The hospital halls
bustle, but he was stuck in
those four walls, alone.
They never said hi.
just “relax, more drugs, more rest”.
Room 10, Bed 14
His body is gone
His gown drapes across the bed.
That’s all they would see;
just another hospital gown in Room 10, Bed 14.
Defrosting, Drip, Drip
Melting plastic on fingers
Chemicals in gut
Looks and taste like poo
Delicate process or death
La vaca, ¡mu! ¡mu!
Slimming and moving
Cough, Cough, white round gem is stuck
Ocean breeze in mouth
Me llamo Dora
Can you all say pupusa
Boots, why don’t you try
Charcuterie yum
Wine and cheese, oh me oh my
Red or White wine, sir?
A filet mignon
Buttery, juicy and warm
With some potatoes
Busy tables, full bar
Flames crackling, chairs screeching
Appetizers, yes?
Grease all around me
Mr. Clean to my rescue
Lavadar for days
A cilantro breeze
Onions weep, their tearful sweat
Salt, pepper unite
Eternal storage
Avalanche of pots must go
It’s time for preheat
Golden crust crackles
Layered apples, a delight
A drop of ice cream
When will I see you again?
I count down the days,
till I can taste you again.
How can you be so refreshing?
Pair so well at every meal?
I see you every night,
your green stripes, red core, and black seeds
are the stars of all my dreams.
Oh watermelon, when will I see you again?
Dear Gingerbread House
Dear Gingerbread House,
You are the best part of Christmas. You bring families together. I remember how every Christmas, the moment you came out of the oven, we fought over you, trying to get our hands on you.
Dear Gingerbread House,
Every time I see royal icing, I remember you. Every time I see gummies and candy canes and all kinds of Christmas candy, I remember you. Even now, every time I walk past you in the Target aisle, I stop and reminisce.
Dear Gingerbread House,
You may be inedible, but I still love you with all my heart.
An Ode to Strawberries
Glistening green leaves,
the gentle hum of bees.
Tiny green buds,
and quiet gush of wind.
Blooming white flowers,
your pale cheeks blush pink,
and you show your youthful smile,
with every compliment made.
Pretty little strawberry,
please do not be a tease.
PSL
Waiting with bated breath,
lurking on Starbucks’ Instagram page,
multiple times a day,
just to catch a glimpse of it.
Murmurs are heard –
“it’s coming back in August?”
And then one day, it is seen.
The Pumpkin Spice Latte is back,
bringing with it all things
pumpkin spice, and the advent of fall.
Schematics
***
We stand there,
golden rays casting its hues through the green foliage,
our faces a moving canvas for a painting woven from shadow and light.
The barks of a dog in the distance,
the excited chatter of children down the street,
the drone of cars zipping past us.
This is it, our new home.
Our green van sits at the end of the driveway, parked.
Through its window I can see –
us, frantically weaving through traffic to get to the house faster
us, camping out in the trunk because it’s bear country and we’re too scared to use the tent
us, carefully laid out on the sunroof as we try to count the stars
us, singing off-kilter as we race down the freeway with the radio on blast.
It’s beautiful isn’t it, the history of us.
We turn to face each other,
and in his eyes I catch brief flashes –
of me, slinging off my heels before collapsing in a huff on our new couch
of me, cradling an ever-so-slight baby bump while softly humming lullabies
of me, sitting cross-legged with our grandkids as we streak chalk all over the driveway.
It wells up inside me, this bittersweet feeling of what is yet to come.
At night, I like to look up at the sky,
where the constellations unravel a pathway of lifetimes before me –
a young woman hunched over while picking tea leaves, a baby strapped to her back
an old man on his deathbed, his sons and daughters on their knees praying at his side
a toddler with his first pair of glasses, finally able to see the smile that adorns his mother’s face.
It makes me wonder about the schematics of life.
What does it mean to be human?
Is it our capacity to love, to experience heartbreak, to cherish and to mourn,
or is it our will to live, the fight for survival in a cruel world, the desire for power, for stability.
Along the way there’s moments of unseeming gentleness,
a tender touch here and there, a warm caress and a soothing voice.
We dream about the glory of dead men, aspire to fly high like an eagle, to live as pure as snow.
Yet we eat like animals, sleep like animals, desire like animals,
slaving away merely to exist on this earth.
How are we any different?
We stay standing,
taking in the hot breeze as we stare down the driveway,
catching another glimpse into our now-empty green van,
a minefield of cardboard boxes haphazardly littering the porch behind us.
Between us is a flurry of little moments waiting to be experienced,
culminating on the lines of time –
the past, the present, the future,
blending into one, converging at this very moment.
Key in hand, we turn and unlock the door,
crossing the threshold into our new life.
The Lost Old Man by Kyla Warner
Room 10, Bed 14
Once a father, once a friend
Now he lays alone
The nurses pass through
And many doctors do too.
“Two months” they remark.
The man asks again
His memories slipping through.
“Where is my wife, Marge?”
But no one answers.
The alzheimer’s whisper
Silent echoes fade
The hospital halls
bustle, but he was stuck in
those four walls, alone.
They never said hi.
just “relax, more drugs, more rest”.
Room 10, Bed 14
His body is gone
His gown drapes across the bed.
That’s all they would see;
just another hospital gown in Room 10, Bed 14.
Defrosting, Drip, Drip
Melting plastic on fingers
Chemicals in gut
Looks and taste like poo
Delicate process or death
La vaca, ¡mu! ¡mu!
Slimming and moving
Cough, Cough, white round gem is stuck
Ocean breeze in mouth
Me llamo Dora
Can you all say pupusa
Boots, why don’t you try
Charcuterie yum
Wine and cheese, oh me oh my
Red or White wine, sir?
A filet mignon
Buttery, juicy and warm
With some potatoes
Busy tables, full bar
Flames crackling, chairs screeching
Appetizers, yes?
Grease all around me
Mr. Clean to my rescue
Lavadar for days
A cilantro breeze
Onions weep, their tearful sweat
Salt, pepper unite
Eternal storage
Avalanche of pots must go
It’s time for preheat
Golden crust crackles
Layered apples, a delight
A drop of ice cream