Daily Archives: December 12, 2007


“How To Pay All Your Bills” by Rene F. Cardenas

Stop wishing and listen
to the screen; forgive the exclamation
points. In the hotbed of economic
democracy, all are equally
guilty, you especially;
therefore expect no reprieve.

When you are understood
is when there is the most
danger; so with promises,
skidoo pal, hit the tracks,
Flip the finger and don't look back.

Next, you want to lose
your tendencies, have no
relatives-the moochers-
that includes your spouse.

Inspect the phial, check out
the aphasia. Work some weekends.
The main point is to think
of debt as a mansion,
and you have to enter the foyer.

Comprendes, Mendez?
Or give it all up
and walk down to the Beach,
try to walk on the surface
of the sea, out to where
the moonlight dances.

“In the Cosina” by Rene F. Cardenas

It's very hard to make tamales without lard,
you can substitute peanut butter and act the gourmand,
but the taste will betray.
Ices are a special problem and you can always
open a can or hie down to the local
but it'll never approximate the one from the guy
on the corner, making with the raspa
and the colored bottles. And you can eat
imported seaweed and organic lichen,
coat your tongue with soy and curds
but your Mexican memory will ask for enchiliated tacos,
the feast of a brothy menudo,
the sound of mom banging in the kitchen
many years ago. She used to make chocolate,
palming the stirrer between her hands,
twirling until just right.
And then buñeulos--to save my soul.
If the priest came by he would bless us,
but he came for the meal. My mom would stand back,
eyes shining at the eating, sighing to herself;
satisfaction, mission accomplished.

“Keepng Up with Keeping Up” by Rene F. Cardenas

How do we stand, where is the world going?
I read the newspapers, try to sleep,

Thump the pillow, think of clocks not ticking
It is the hour of our demise,

The year of boomeranging reckoning
And we've lost the key to the door.

How to we stand and where is the air we breathe,
When do we pet the puppies again,

Revel in the freshness of just-washed sheets?
My mother crooned, as I lay feverish.

The morning opened full of her life,
Bustling in the kitchen.

Where do we stand in this old world
Measured by the pill, moved

By memories,
Neglected by belief.

“Garnet” by Rebecca Hines

The holder of blood
That was lost without mercy
From ones who fought to protect our country.
Tainting the ground beneath.
No longer seen.
The crimson red states
A stained remembrance that still remains.
Of those who cared, those who lived
And those who died.
For our sakes.

“True Dreamers” by Rebecca Hines

For the sun sets and,
The day ends once again.
Reality closes her eyes
As she falls into a deep slumber.
For it is their time as the calling begins
As the darkness of the night starts
To slowly take the land as it gives in
Disguising it from Lady Day.
Outside the cool window
You hear the call as it begins to persuade,
Grasping your attention,
As you fall into fiction.
For you cannot resist.
Your heart longs for it as all you can do
Is answer the call, for you are a pure dreamer,
One within the soul
A poet at heart.
We roam the land for it ours
To live in;
Our land to act out the stories within.
For the sky above becomes the richest on earth
Because of all of the diamonds in her possession.
The coolness from the pale moon light becomes inviting,
As we play in the playground of the dark shadows in the night.
For the shadows are more, than just an element
For fear to play on.
For we are true dreamers
Ones who dream at day, and ones
Who play out the untold story's at night,
Ones who see the deeper meaning of everything.
On both the outside and within.
For the night is our day, and we must live
Live the stories we are dying to tell.
The fantasies that we wish to live.

“Reflections” by Rebecca Hines

Through any reflecting glass
Or water that is unmoving,
An image begins to appear.
One staring right back at me.
It must be funny what she
May see when she looks at me,
A dreamer girl lost in reality.
Yet through my eyes I see,
A girl trapped in glass
For all eternity.
For she's only a girl
Who lives in a different world,
Even though life still thrives
On the other side.
Somehow she happens to
Belong to me,
Only a mere image
Of what I'm meant to be.

“What Time Has Left For Us” by Rebecca Hines

Time has left many things
Bright smiles,
Glistening tears of
Sadness, anger, or joy.
It has left invisible scars
And ones that can be seen by our eyes.
Ones to the heart and
Ones to the outside.
Yet life is still sweet to us
Good times, or bad.
We still find the joy in living it.
Sometimes our fear tries to take over,
But we stand and fight it.
However hard it may be.
We find things in this world
So beautiful in the outside, but yet
What is within?
We tend to find simple scenes breathtaking
Like the endless blue sky by day,
And the diamond filled sky by night.
The rose that is dotted with
Fragile beads of glass
Or the rain that falls upon the land beneath.
What about the sunset and the colors
That it paints across the sky.
Look around at what time has left for us.
Not just a reality, but a world of dream.
To those who are a dreamer at heart.
For those who can see past the surface.
Time can't help but to lead us
On a path in which
Will bring us face to face with destiny,
Your meaning of existence.
Life will also have you run into
Someone unexpected.
You will never know until the
Feelings begin to show.
Yet you can't help but to fall in love.
Look what time has left for us.
Past are our memories,
Future is our story untold,
Now is what we must decide;
How we are to spend the time in which
It has left for us, nor should not be left to waste.
But to live life to the fullest is
Never to be a forgotten dream.

“Touching the Moon” by Nora M. Burton

She flees away from him
hoping to free her mind of misery.
She wants to feel alive out by the sea,
she closes her eyes and envisions
herself leaping into the sky.
Flying within the gust of wind,
she reaches above the fog
to stroke the moon.
She jumps and leaps around the bend.
Her grasp slips,
she falls into depths of crashing waves.
Her hurt and pain has gone too far.
Opening her eyes, she foresees
her friends gathering by her grave.

“Josh” by Nora M. Burton

Tugging on my sweaty hand,
you usher me into your house.
We walk past your mother
in her tattered housecoat,
oblivious to the world.

Behind your closed door,
my heart races around your room.
You take my hand and
while I ramble on about the Green Day posters,
you kiss my forehead,
I stop and smile.
As you lean closer to me, your ponytail tickles my neck.
I could taste the watermelon gum on your lips.

“A Forbidden Kiss” by Nora M. Burton

I know you're here.
I'm the one who hid you.
A secret hiding in his own home,
I hope my husband will not find out.
I have not forgotten you,
I haven't been able to sneak away.
Together again, I can't help myself
but to rip your golden robe
off your silky brown skin.
As my tongue caresses you,
guilt sweeps over me.
As you disappear, he walks in.
I am caught with a smudge on my lips.
All that remains is the sweet chocolaty aroma.

“The Visitor” by Rene F. Cardenas

In a different country,
a visitor stops by the door
Face obscured by a hat,
or turban, kepi,
or felt rag.
He is bearing coupons of terror
Admission free,
the cost unthinkable.

We theorize, constructs abound
Corollaries fail us,
The candle gutters
as we wait and sweat.


I've paid my dues; no child was ever hurt.
I always liked those in charge,
I sympathized with the resistance.
I said my holy prayers, I dreamt my
Life away in pieces, by candlelight,
in hopes of lifelong peace.


There is a knock at the door.
It is late.
The moon itself is shamed.
Who is it? Who is it not?

I am in my bed;
I am not ready to answer.
No one is ready to answer.
Not in this house.

Not in this world.

“Roadside Bomb” by Heys Wolfenden

Like an explosion of consciousness
The bomb awakes the scene:
Like an animal in the throes of distress,
Like a bad and awful dream,
Like a child snatched in the night
To feed somebody's porn,
Like a kid killed in a fight,
Like a baby delivered still-born.

Then comes the screaming
Of the boy who's lost his legs,
His eyes all streaming:
His feet such shattered dregs,
His blood flowing like a river,
A surging river of hectic red.
Think of his mother. What will they give her
When they tell her that he's dead?