Beat poets.
Bring the sweet.
Tonight we’ll meet
at Taco Milagro
on melancholy street
in east-end,
near Eastwood,
by the old
Third Ward hood.

We’ll go.

Red fizz and black caps
burning grass like jazz
and my belly growlin’
or is that my heart?
Hungry head spinnin’
Red, red, like wine
drips of heart thumpin’
empty empty
the jitters jumps,
beats bumpin’,
runnin home stumblin’.

© paz

Advertisements

Silver seed erupts.
Light’s germ curls from utero.
Bloomed Moon cradled by Sun.

© paz

*****************************************************************************************************

*****************************************************************************************************

addendum: I didn’t even write this haiku with this “holiday” in mind; I’d written it yesterday on my phone actually. I was looking at the moon while at a graduation party. I was sitting next to a pool, legs kicking at the water and seeing the moon’s reflected light. So yeah wasn’t thinking about a holiday to honor mothers. Not at all. But maybe subconsciously there was something there which is why I’m adding it with a slight change. It’s funny that poetry works that way. I say it’s the writing form that taps deepest at our subconscious, for me at least.

So now that I think about it, Happy Mother’s Day beautiful mamas! If you’re a mama, you’re a mama EVERY damn day, and only you know what that means!

Here’s a brief RADICAL history of Mother’s Day. You non-lefty, non-radicals may also appreciate it.