las manos de mi padre

father's hands
caked with dirt,
maps with tiny roads of blood
from splinters and metal edges,
burned in the sun,
frozen in the warehouse,
scented with:

tomates,
calabazas (squash),
pepinos (cucumbers),
sandías (watermelons),
mangos,
jalapeños,
aguacates (avocados),
berenjenas (eggplant),
melones,
cerezas (cherries),
limones,
uvas (grapes),
 

and other produce you and I have eaten without knowing by whose hand we have been fed

If you like this poem, please buy my eBooks at:
https://www.amazon.com/author/writeracuna 

and/or share this poem with friends and family who would be interested.

Gracias!

Ricardo

the wheel grinds on

the wheel grinds on,

humanity advances,
and the skyscrapers scrape
deeper into space
and those who plummet to their death,
plummet to their death,
their last yells go unheard,
unremembered,
but i am young,
and the time is now,
and there is no time,
and yet my heart is sick
because i want to make the music
i hear on the radio,
the lingering lyrics,
the driving beat,
the sea for others to swim in

 

From my ebook under the influence.
https://www.amazon.com/author/writeracuna

these roses i wrote you/estas rosas te escribi

These roses I wrote for you,

Hope you like them

They are motley-colored

And pure like love itself

But thorny

Like the heart itself

Hope these roses you’ll caress with your care

Their thirst satiate with your tears

And your singing make them grow

Hope these roses console you

During the sunny day and stormy night

Even when you’re old and tired

And I’m dead and not longer by your side

May they speak of our love)

These roses I wrote for you

Estas rosas te escribi

Ojala y te gusten

Son de todos colores y puras

Como el amor

Pero espinosas

Como el corazon

Ojala estas rosas acarisiez con tu querer

Con tus lagrimas les quites la sed

Y con tu cantar las hagas crecer

Ojala estas rosas te consuelen

Durante el dia asoleado y la noche tormentosa

Aun cuando seas viejita y cansada

Y muerto yo a tu lado no este

Que hablen de nuestro amor

Estas rosas que te escribi

https://www.amazon.com/author/writeracuna

woman/mujer

desert flower

root

earth

are you

woman

aguave water

cloud, bird of hope

my guiding star

along the dark road
through the mad city

may they never take away

your light, your fervor, your splendor

you are all heavenly bodies

the universe itself

and i

a mere moon

but with an iron heart

ready for battle

my queen

you are salvation

and i your Lazarus

still deaf, mute, blind, senseless

only you can make me believe

in the beyond

springtime to all winters

life to death

are you

woman

 

flor del desierto

raíz

tierra

eres tú

mujer

agua del aguave

nube, ave esperanza

mi estrella guía

por la carretera obscura
a través la cuidad lunática

que nunca te quiten tu luz, tu ardor, tu fulgor

eres todos los cuerpos celestiales

el universo mismo

y yo

un simple satelite

pero con el corazón de hierro

dispuesto a toda batalla

mi reina

eres salvación

y yo tu Lázaro

aún sordo, mudo, ciego, inconsiente

solo tu me haces creer

en el mas allá

primavera a todo invierno

vida a la muerte

eres tú

mujer

From my ebook Greetings from Heaven & Hell:
https://www.amazon.com/author/writeracuna

may day

fuck the politicians, ceos, bankers, celebrities

false idols

let us instead drink, sing, celebrate

our parents, our teachers, the working class

the people we see on the bus

and in the streets everyday

fuck the civics book trivia

of useless dates and names

of people and places and events

that are self-important

let us instead learn about

a day in the life of

every man, woman and child

who make up humanity

not illusion or insanity

the real heroes

the true history

How Broken-Hearted Found Love

Bloom © 2011 Ricardo Lira Acuña

            

            Broken-hearted for two years after my arrival to LA and several bad dates later, I had already given up on finding someone, that is, until I met Love.  She ignored me for about a month after I first met her.  Then one night at the Bigfoot Lodge we just clicked, and she wrote her number on the back of a Food 4 Less receipt.  We started going out and seeing each other every chance we got. 

            A few months into our courtship, she called me up with tickets to a Ricky Martin concert in San Jose.  I really wasn’t interested in going, but for the love of her, we drove up to San Francisco, stayed for the weekend, and caught the concert on Sunday evening.  Driving back to LA after midnight, I was speeding over 90 on the I-5 to get us back as soon as I could because we both had to work the next day.  It had been the perfect weekend. 

            But it only took a split second, when I thought the car wheels had hit dirt in the island between lanes, for everything to go wrong.  I swerved, slammed the brakes, and we spun out and flipped over several times.  Time slowed down as glass and dirt flew everywhere, and I put my arm out to protect Love fearing the worst ending.  We landed in a ditch by the side of the freeway.  My scalp was badly cut, making me look like Stephen King’s bloody Carrie.  Miraculously though, Love was unharmed and able to run up to the freeway, inbetween checking up on me to make sure I didn’t go into shock, until she was finally able to flag down a trucker who called 911.  I was sewn up at the nearest ER, and we had to spend the night in some hotel in Los Banos because my car was totaled.  I told Love right there and then that she could leave me, and there wouldn’t be any hard feelings.  We took a Greyhound bus back to LA, and she stuck it out with me.  I proposed to her on Valentine’s Day 12 years ago. 

            Poor Love, don’t know how she puts up with me, but I’m glad she does.  I’m still a kid at heart who doesn’t want to grow up.  I’m also struggling as a writer, my mind always preoccupied with what I’m writing and not necessarily the daily obligations, responsibilities and chores.  But I do know this, my Love brings out the best in me and teaches me to be a better husband, father and person.  She inspired many of the poems in my second book of poetry and photography, Greetings from Heaven & Hell, about falling in love and the realities of marriage and growing up.  I owe my beautiful children, my life, everything to Love.  I love you. Marvilla.

Now on sale as an ebook for only $2.99, Greetings from Heaven & Hell:

http://www.amazon.com/dp/B0066CPY3O

Now on sale as an ebook for only $2.99, under the influence:  http://www.amazon.com/dp/B0066AA2Z6

Please share with anyone you know who enjoys poetry and photography.  And thank you for your support!

How Charles Bukowski Saved Broken-Hearted

Were it not for
Charles Bukowski
I wouldn’t be a writer.
My girlfriend of 7 years woke up one morning
and dumped me.
We had met in college
at an overseas exchange program in Paris-
oh la la la la la la la la!
But instead of immersing ourselves in French,
we spent most of the time looking for jazz clubs and museums
and falling in love.  
After college we couldn’t find a job to save our lives,
but when we did,
we wanted to be saved from our jobs.  
We moved to New York City
where I went to film school.
But we couldn’t afford NYC;
and it was driving me crazy
with anxiety and panic disorder! 
She wanted to move near her family and settle down;
I wanted to do the same,
but near my family.
We ended up in Denver(?)
where I proposed to her 3 three times, 
and 3 times she thought it best
to save up our money.  
In the dead of winter,
I bought a used Honda
Drove for 18 hours on icy roads
and could’ve slipped right off 
the Rockies
and wouldn’t have given a damn.
I was broken-hearted.

Without connects or money in the City of Angels, 
I took an office job and avoided film production 
because they paid nothing
or next to nothing.
I now had humongous student loans to pay back,
in addition to
my car, rent and bills.  
One night while speeding home drunk,
I flew my car
over some railroad tracks
and plowed into a parked car.
I woke up
with a sheet over my face
and thought I was
visiting my body. 
But a doctor 
was stitching my face.  
Luckily, no one was in the parked car,
but my Honda was totaled.  
I commuted on 2 buses
from where I lived east of East LA 
to my job on the Westside.  
You’d think I’d enjoy not being stuck 
in infamous LA traffic,
but I
was broken-hearted.  

One day I happened to walk into
the LA Central Public Library downtown
and happened to browse
through the lit section,
where I came upon
The Days Run Away Like Wild Horses Over the Hills
by Charles Bukowski.  
I’d heard of him
through a classmate 
who claimed
Bukowski was the greatest writer there ever was.  
And there was Bukowski himself, 
all that was left of him anyway,
in my hands, 
his words.  
But man, were they words!  
They came alive
and spoke to me, 
as clear a voice I ever heard.  
Right to the heart.  
No pretense.  
No bullshit.  
As if the man had cut himself open for all to see—
the good, the bad and the ugly.  
I had his struggles as a writer and as a person, 
But what I wanted most
was his lust for life.  
I read his every book.
I wrote my own poems.  
Even in the darkest moments
when I felt like leaving LA, 
giving up on being a writer 
and ever finding someone else to love, 
Bukowski was there like a good friend 
reminding me to keep going 
until the day came 
when I wasn’t 
broken-
hearted.


NOTE:  If you like what you just read, please check out my books of poetry and photography now available as ebooks for the Kindle on Amazon.com.

Here's the link to my 1st book of poetry and photography under the influence:  http://www.amazon.com/dp/B0066AA2Z6

Here's the link to my 2nd book of poetry and photography Greetings from Heaven & Hell:  http://www.amazon.com/dp/B0066CPY3O

Please share with anyone you know who enjoys poetry and photography.  And thank you for your support!