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Connie Pachecho Poem
A Look Back at Eighteen Months Here-The Show is Over
When your poems reside in a shoe,
like mine,
pounding the pavement to nowhere.
The onset of blisters isn't imagined.
Those blisters take roots,
hindering your motivation
to move-
and to continue to write.
It hurts.
Seeing those poems take residence
in pity.
Sans the
comfort of
leather and lace,
shine and sole,
all of which would have been nice.
But all my eyes see are my poems,
tucked away in worn loafers,
unpolished,
unnoticed.
Not exactly eye candy.
But eyesores ...judging by the lack of views, here.
And undoubtedly my shoes made of synthetics
and sneakers
to the purveyors of good poetry
and good shoeshine.
I look down for good reason,
defacto
and stigmatized,
no contest wins,
no poems ever in the top 100 (new) list,
no scent of roses (or views),
nothing.
Nothing.
An abyss of sublimity,
save for the white bird
that chirps
to nobodies ears.
To wit.
For he who signs up for this site
got a handful of mixed emotions,
confetti less tomorrows,
a begotten rah, rah,
a ladle of spiel,
poems published ...
and in my case alone footnote
that I was a member
sans the shoe shine.
I really have to admit,
writing here,
eighteen months now,
has taken its toe.
I have no one to blame but myself.
Kind Regards,
connie pachecho
4/26/2018
The proprietor of the show has decided to call it quits, citing mental health issues here. The posse of black bears got to me. The guises, pretense, and hate towards me eroded my spirit. Tell her she can play with my insanity but not my spirit. To my readers, I really appreciate your patronage during this journey here even though the crops are bare and the barn fronts a blank stare.
The cows fight with the pigs, and bacon went to waste. One thing I take is the seed in me to aspire elsewhere, which I've already planted at HP under the name Logan Robertson. Thanks again. Wish everybody the best.
Copyright © Connie Pachecho | Year Posted 2018
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Connie Pachecho Poem
Christmas Past and Present Bring Me Tears
My legs of yesterday's
walked into a Christmas storybook,
a glorious past,
pages filled with good tidings.
And as young kid, once with open eyes,
with clinging beliefs
in good shepherds,
it was
my parents,
that was better than Santa.
It was Mom and Dad's reindeer,
being their five children,
that pulled their sled,
in song and dance,
through the stark Norwegian landscape,
deep in the countryside,
to a house covered in snow,
with a chimney billowing.
And that snowman in the front yard,
holding a smile
at all five button noses,
wrapped in long fur coats,
colorful knitted scarfs and caps,
black leather mitts and boots,
frost biting at their lips and toes.
With a parents love nipping at their hearts.
I still remember those very first steps,
tiptoes
on that white Christmas morning,
down the stairs of fairyland,
past the fireplace,
past a cuckoo clock on wall,
into the living room,
excitement building up in me,
bubbling,
multiplying,
as I look under the Christmas tree,
a spruce
full with evergreen branches of pine cones,
dressed in ornaments, frost and tinsel.
My breath suspended.
And see.
And see
a red bike,
a roll fast,
my nine year old eyes
matching the sparkle and shine
and those tires never once tire.
Glorious that moment.
Forever savored.
Me soon racing down the hill
at the first hint of spring,
hair blowing in the wind
racing the bluebirds in my heart.
Framed.
The shine.
These cairns,
marking the passage of my youth,
Christmas,
my walk,
my walk of fate
through the storybook today swelling in tears.
I still remember,
now,
some fifty years later,
a picture,
from gold to gray.
And as I turn the storybook pages,
of a once fairyland,
I see
the stockings filled with dark chocolates,
oranges, and walnuts.
And pride on
my Christmas card to Santa,
the one I drew with loving care,
a stick man with a beard and pot belly,
standing next to eight stick reindeer,
placed next to Santa's
plate of cookies and milk,
now half consumed,
bite marks and leftover crumbs,
all for effect,
I soon surmised.
Later that morning
we returned from church,
in our Sunday best suits and ties,
and quietly had dinner.
Today I reminiscence,
that turkey dinner with all the trimmings,
mashed potatoes and gravy,
yams and asparagus,
a side of salmon
and apple pie,
like the snowman
and pile of cairns,
smiling.
The glow of the candles
second to the glow of seven faces
gracing the table, once.
Both the smiles and glow caressing my heart
on days like today.
It was a walk that once was.
So glorious
and fulfilling,
a budding horizon,
a promising life,
that makes days like today,
suspended,
graying and lone,
somewhat on the wilted side,
and somewhat bitter,
a little bit better.
I still look out the window,
past the trees,
along a path,
to see if anyone's coming over today,
for effect.
connie pachecho
12/25/17
Copyright © Connie Pachecho | Year Posted 2017
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Connie Pachecho Poem
He Found Clouds That Weathered His Mind
Twelve months ago he caught a train
A train of thought.
At the depot of his mind he got on,
As a stowaway.
All through his life
He was hitching a ride,
Hitching life,
Hitching nothing.
In tow
He had nothing to show.
Just seeds of gloom
That grew into trees.
Trees of melancholy.
On the outside he was normal.
On the inside
He was fighting his demons
Masked as depression.
On this train ride
He hoped for an answer,
A guiding light,
An angel from Heaven,
A welcoming change.
It grew worse.
Winds of faith,
Blowing him chocolate,
Wrapped up in sweetness,
An oasis.
He saw her on this train,
Another stowaway.
Perfect.
Water for his drought
The angel he sought.
His sunshine.
They talked briefly.
It stormed,
She turning into clouds
That weathered his mind.
Another aberration.
He got off,
Kisses blowing
In the wind
Masked as pain
Taking him further
Into the abyss, into
the depots of his mind.
connie pachecho
8/6/17
Copyright © Connie Pachecho | Year Posted 2017
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