Poetry

Jonathan Rados photo

By

Luis Cuauhtémoc Berriozábal

Sleeping on the Bench

He slept on the bench.

He seemed at peace.

The stars shone above

and the moon stared.

As a child he slept

on a bed in a house.

I wondered what went

on in his life

that led him to this

place.  Homeless and

sleeping in the streets

every single night.

Wannabe Kings

The moans are audible.

The mournful crestfallen

faces cannot face the sky.

The dreams are eviscerated.

The gray sky lowers its boom

at the mourners. The fruit of

hope is rotting in the broken

heart of humanity.  Anguish

rears its ugly head.  The laws

will change and wannabe kings

see themselves victorious.

The road just became more

treacherous. I can hear the

moans reach a fever pitch.

Luis Cuauhtémoc Berriozábal

Luis was born in Mexico. He lives in California and works in the mental health field in Los Angeles CA. His first book of poetry, Raw Materials, was published by Pygmy Forest Press. Kendra Steiner Editions published his latest poetry chapbook, Make the Light Mine. His poems have appeared in Blue Collar Review, Counterpunch, and Unlikely Stories.