Poetry; Luis Cuauhtémoc Berriozábal

Luis Cuauhtémoc Berriozábal

Born in Mexico, Luis Cuauhtémoc Berriozábal, lives in California and works in the mental health field in Los Angeles. His poetry book and chapbooks have been published by Pygmy Forest Press, Deadbeat Press, New Polish Beat, Propaganda Press/Alternating Current Press, Kendra Steiner Editions, and Rogue Wolf Press. His poems have been published online and in print at Blue Collar Review, Borderless Journal, Mad Swirl, Setu, and Unlikely Stories.

---

And the Sky Was Blue

I drew a red house without windows,

painted yellow and green beak-less birds 

without wings, and the sky was blue.

I painted skeleton-men with uneven bones.

I painted a flower with pink and gold petals.

I painted a complete city without trees,

a burning sun with a half-opened eye,

and the sky was blue.

***

Jealous of My Coat

I stand, a ghost at my burial,

the coat I wear fancies flight,

and off it soars above the clouds.

The coffin is lowered, and I feel

so cold. I look away and see

nothing unique about this rite.

The sun took a sick day because

it is nowhere in sight. I feel a

soft caress from the wind and

rain. I cannot deny I am jealous

of my coat. The spring rain seems

endless this gray afternoon.

I shed tears for the last time.

I am waiting for night and my coat.

***

The End of Time

Here lies my time.

It is up before

I take a step. I

need to get away

to when I was young.

It only gets worse.

I live a nightmare

life in a sea of sharks.

We are on this ship

sailing away to

the end of time. We

navigate confusion

with anxious minds.

We fall apart as

we mirror each other

as tomorrow ends.

***

Feeling Nothing

Feeling nothing,

I find myself happier,

without pain,

alive even,

without affliction.

Nothing affects me,

not the dread of fear,

not even one night

of terror sneaks

into my dream life.

I hardly feel

the sun on my flesh.

I slide into

my tomb headed

to a place I do not know.

***

Quiet the Voice

Quiet the voice

of

this nonsense

that seems to grab

you by the throat,

this flat voice

that wants to kill you

while the sun shines

down your throat.

The voice is on

a mission to

destroy your day

early in the morning.

The voice

is nothing like rain.

It is wrapped in sunlight.

***

---

Setu, November 2022

Poetry: Luis Cuauhtémoc Berriozábal

Born in Mexico, Luis, lives in California and works in the mental health field in Los Angeles, CA. His poetry, poetry books, and poetry chapbooks have appeared in Blue Collar Review, Borderless Journal, Deadbeat Press, Fearless, Kendra Steiner Editions, New Polish Beat, Poet’s Democracy, Propaganda Press, Pygmy Forest Press, Ten Pages Press, Unlikely Stories. His latest poetry book, Make the Water Laugh, was published by Rogue Wolf Press.

---

Luis Cuauhtémoc Berriozábal

Days and nights

The days and nights do not slow down.

The sun and moon race each other.

They do not want to lose the race.

They are as quick as lightning.

Each are like a rabbit on Adderall.

Each are like breeze too fast to contain.

The days and nights are like frenetic trains.

The moon cannot keep up.

The sun drops like an anchor.

The days and nights do not slow down.

My anxiety builds as I fight sleep.

All I want is a moment of rest.

Time is not on my side.

Time has not ever been my friend.

***

The road without end

I can feel the heft.

The smallest monument

in my hand; a stone,

a rock, a pebble, a

grain of sand light

as a feather.

It blinds me. The sun.

The scorching light in

my eyes; a flame,

a lit match, the flash

from a camera

late at night.

My back is against 

it. The wall behind me 

and the sword in front;

a blade sharp as a

killer’s wit, thrusting

it with such glee.

I am almost there.

The road without end;

my shoes without soles,

blistered feet walking

on glass and fire,

dripping blood. 

***

Darkness in light

There is darkness 

in light and 

in between 

dusk and dawn.

There is suffering 

in death and

also in life.

I have seen it.

Winter and spring,

summer and fall,

darkness comes

together.

There is man,

woman, and child

linked to 

darkness and light.

Our time comes

to an end

mercilessly 

as the candle

blows out. It 

could be the wind

or our very

own breath that

brings darkness 

to light. This

suffering,

too must end.

***

Shadow and light

After Jean Genet

I stand between shadow and light 

and in darkness some of the time.

When I am in the light I feel exposed. 

I try to stay away from the light as 

much as possible. A lot of darkness 

is another thing. I prefer the shadows.

In the shadows there is a bit of light 

and a bit of shade. I like being there.

If I could be a shadow, that would 

be something else, if just for an hour.

When that time comes, I hope I am

half-shadow and half-life. It is the

darkness I fear, where I have become 

half-man and half-wolf in nightmares.

***

Like clockwork

Take a close look at your heart,

like clockwork, its beat is steady,

it runs at all hours, and sometimes

it needs a little jolting to start.

It feels all the pain in the world.

I have felt it. Haven’t you? I can

feel the pain after it has gone

away once I think about it in my

mind. The pain lingers even if I

feign wellness. Sometimes I feel

this will be my last day. I have the

heart of a poet who feels and feigns.

***

---

Setu, December 2021

Poetry: Luis Cuauhtémoc Berriozábal

Luis Cuauhtémoc Berriozábal

Born in Mexico, Luis lives in California and works in the mental health field in Los Angeles. His poems have been published by Blue Collar Review, Kendra Steiner Editions, Mad Swirl, Red Fez Publications, Unlikely Stories, and Yellow Mama Magazine.

---

DREAMLAND

Back in bed
I go back
to dreamland.

It takes too
long sometimes.
Frustrated,

I read a
book that will
knock me out.

I read a
book about
the cosmos.

I get lost
in space till
I am deep

in dreamland
doing things
I could not

do in real
life.
***


LISTENING TO THE RAIN

I become distracted
listening to the rain.
The water gets into my brain
and I become light-headed.

The rain at night is not
like the rain in the daytime.
At night the rain takes my mind.
It becomes mist in the fog.

I watch the rain bend as it falls
and twist into odd figurations.
Listening to it is an obsession.
It has me bouncing off the walls.

The rain takes hold of my senses.
It haunts me while I sleep.
I feel it become a part of me.
When I weep the rain listens.
***


CONSUMED BY THE MOMENT

Consumed by
the moment,
it was clear,
the running
clock like flesh
burning slow,
in quicksand
I slipped in.
That woman,
her gaze and
her eyes, had
me burning.
In her depths
is where I
lied. At first,
it felt great.
A love bloomed.
I took flight.
In truth, I
closed my eyes.
That woman
and her spell.
That woman
is splendor.
***


THE WORD

Don’t let the word
take a back seat
to doubt. Bring it
forth in whispers
until it starts
to twist and shout.

Say it like it
wants to be said.
Raise your voice. Wake
the dead. Say it
without regret.
Just go ahead.

If it sinks, it
will rise. It will
catch its breath. If
it swims, the sharks
will learn that words
are sharp as well.
***


THIS IS ALL

Say nothing.
Laugh inside.
Make silence.
Search dreams.
Sleep deep.
Open your mind.

Break the stone.
Be the shadow.
Color the sky.
Unbind your hands.
This is it.
This is all.
***

Setu, April 2020

Poetry: Luis Cuauhtémoc Berriozábal

* Author of the Month *

Breakfast with Lorca

Tuesday morning,
blueberries, banana
slices, fresh strawberries
from the farmer’s market.

Poet in Spain, new
translations of Lorca
rests on my kitchen
table, a spinach omelet,

a half cup of coffee.
Andalusian horses
gallop in the pages.
Taking the reins,

horsemen in blue and
green suits. I taste
the fruit on my plate,
as Lorca’s guitar sobs.

I turn the page and find
the colors, red, blue,
green, and yellow in
the poems and on my plate.

Shadow Birds

Where feathers fall
shadows are born
and magical birds
are formed from
those fallen feathers.

Somewhat identical
to the birds that
lost their feathers,
these birds are different.
They are born from shadows.

Blue Sea

In a blue sea, blood,
streams of it,
leaps with the waves.
I tried to reach you tonight.
You were away.
Woman, is this your blood?

Apparently, you
are a mermaid
or a siren,
some otherness, who knows.

In a blue sea, on
the shore, within view
of all that pass,
I walk by you.

I gaze at your blood,
streams of it,
a metallic blade
in the back of your
neck, and I tried so hard.
I tried to reach you tonight.

Carry Your Head

After E. E. Cummings

Carry your head
around before
the birds swoop in
and take it where
you can’t find it
ever again.

Carry your small
head in your hands
before the birds
fly away with
it and drop it
in the ocean.

Carry your small
miniscule head
in your pocket
before the birds
come for it and

drop it into
the ocean where
the fish will feast
on it. I know
it cannot swim.

Like Animals

We are not like animals.
We are much worse.
The day we learned to kill

it was all over.
We are always up to same
old tricks and mayhem.

We are not like animals.
We need everything
never thinking we will run out.

We want it all. The grass
is always greener at
the other side in our mind.

---

Bio: Luis Cuauhtémoc Berriozábal, born in Mexico, lives in California and works in the mental health field in Los Angeles. His first book of poetry, Raw Materials, was published by Pygmy Forest Press. His latest chapbook, Make the Light Mine, was published by Kendra Steiner Editions. His poetry has appeared in Bold Monkey, Kritya Poetry Journal, and 2River View.

Setu, March 2019