The Obsolete King

He sits in his mighty chair
Thinking he is fair.
To infinity he stares,
Waiting for a queen, he says.
He looks around his lair,
Never goes outside for air,
And solitude doesn’t care;
Queens don’t visit hidden dens.
He opens his eyes
But believes in his lies.
In silence, he cries.
His throne is a fantasy,
His crown made of plastic,
But he thinks looks fantastic,
And I’m not being sarcastic.
The obsolete king patiently awaits,
For the queen with his wanted traits,
His life he happily complicates.
Queens are far and few,
Their titles hold zero power.
I rather be like a sunflower,
And live my life by the hour.
Oh! king sitting complacent alone
In a beautifully painted gold throne.
Your odds of company are close to none,
In a kingdom made of simple women.
Imperfect creatures that don’t need crowns.
Who have fought to not vow down.
Who without fear will give you a frown.
If you must name us, we are goddesses not queens.

B. Meza (C) 1/2017

 

Naked Body in the Mirror

I see myself naked in the mirror.
I have scars on my knees,
One breast bigger than the other,
A flaccid stomach, and uneven eyes.
I usually think my nose is too big,
And my face is simply not pretty.
And I think, I don’t amount to much.
I look in the mirror, and I can’t see my brain,
But I think how dumb I really am.
Then I realize, how cold is the world.
Two things matter, brains and looks.
And I see how numb I have also become.
Insecurities crept, cuts became too deep,
Pain too much of a burden to bear,
And the years started to build up.
I see myself eye to eye in the mirror,
And I hug my naked body,
As I try to regain my beauty,
That which makes me, me.
And I try to warm my ice-cold soul.
How did I let the world turn me this way?
I look at my hands, embracing my chest,
And start believing slightly in hope,
I think there’s time to again turn on my light,
And maybe, I can start by forgiving myself.
And perhaps then, I’ll see the beauty of my brain
My hands my breasts my hair my eyes my legs…
And I might start to see the good in the world.

B. Meza (c) 12/21/2016

A Poem of Nothingness

This is a poem full of nothingness,

Because nothingness is what I see.

Moving through the crowds, zombie-like,

There is nothingness around me.

There is no revelation for me to awaken.

A child complaining, a mother frustrated,

A lover kissing his lover, the spouse waiting home,

A person laughing of another person’s blunder,

You running late to buy that present you don’t care to buy,

The nothingness we proudly or sadly call our lives.

A broken pencil, a dying flower in a base,

A painter with no muse, a clown crying inside,

The late missed opportunity; the one that doesn’t come,

The nothingness that kills us before our turn to die.

We walk we sit we laugh we cry,  we roam around.

Our sadness invades us, and our happiness liberates us.

Our hearts turned to ice, our brains ready to fight,

Our fear for the dark, and our love for the light,

The light full of lies, the dark that comforts us.

The beauty of life, the certainty of having to die,

The nothingness we know we will all become…

B. Meza  (C) 12/08/16

 

 

 

Love Enough

I’ll love you enough to let you be you,
Even if we may have all things in common.
I’ll love you enough to hold your hand tight,
But give you the freedom and courage to let go.
I’ll love you enough to let you laugh,
Even if I can’t laugh with you.
I’ll love you enough to tell you that life is beautiful,
Even if I stopped existing unexpectedly.
I’ll love you enough so that you realize I’m not indispensable,
And that the sun lights up even if I’m absent.
I’ll love you enough so you can love me enough,
For whatever time we may have.
Wherever you are, I’ll love you enough…
B. Meza © 10/18/2016

Los Abrazos de mi Padre/ My Father’s Embraces

Los Abrazos de mi Padre

Mi carro es consumido por el hielo en invierno.
El aún se levanta antes que yo para desaparecer el hielo.
Así aún son los abrazos de mi padre en días fríos.

Él trabaja a la intemperie; descansa en los días lluviosos.
La lluvia nunca mojo mi cabeza rumbo a casa de la escuela.
Así fueron los abrazos de mi padre en días lluviosos en mi niñez .

Mi padre, un hombre bruto que lee a nivel de niño de primaria,
Se enseñó a sí mismo a abrazar con simples hechos,
Y al fin comprendí que por eso son así los abrazos de mi padre.

El laboro por años en los campos agachado todo el día,
Mi padre, un hombre rudo que se conmueve al verme triste,
Y me da una palmada en la espalda como consuelo.

Mi padre, al que yo acuse mil veces de no comprenderme,
Se mató trabajando  casi toda su vida para que yo tuviera opciones.
Este sería un poema en blanco si no fuera por mi padre.

Mi padre me ah abrazado toda la vida, aun sin yo darme cuenta,
Y hasta hoy he comprendido el amor en los abrazos de mi padre

B. Meza ©09/25/2016

Translation

 My father’s Embraces

My car is consumed by ice during winter.
He still wakes up before I do to disappear the ice.
Those are the embraces of my father in cold days.

He works outdoor and rests during rainy days.
The rain never touched my head going home from school.
Those were the embraces of my father in rainy days in my childhood.

My father, a brute man that reads at elementary level
Taught himself how to embrace with his simple deeds.
I finally understood why the embraces of my father are how they are.

He worked for years in fields crouching down all day.
My father, a rough man that gets moved when he sees me sad
And gives me a pat on the back to console me.

My father, whom I accused a thousand times of not understanding me,
Killed himself working for years so that I could have options.
This would be a blank poem, if it wasn’t for my father.

My father embraced me all my life, even when I didn’t notice.
And I finally understand all the love in the embraces of my father.

 

 

Not Scared

I’m not scared by the shadows of the night,
I’m scared of your enchanting dark brown eyes.
I’m not scared of the thunder and the lightning,
I’m scared of the noise of steps that bring you closer.

I’m not scared of the powerful current of the river,
I’m scared that my body trembles when you touch me.
I’m not scared of how the fire fiercely burns its path,
I’m scared of the burning desire you have left in me.

I am not scared of the silence that is loneliness,
But I’m scared that the silence means you are gone.
I am not scared that most people do not love me,
I’m just sad because I know, I’ll never be loved by you.

B. Meza © 08/29/2016