Poets, Whitman depends on you
for he cannot return but turn over
in his grave. Purge your words
and make a stand for freedom.
Be swift at dizzying speeds and
write to stop the death of normalcy.
Let’s sweep away the last three years.
Poets, share your visions, don’t let
fools write your history. Do not rely
on politicians to save you. Do not
let your love of free speech be
stripped away. Spring to action.
Save your cities. Be defiant of the
lies and listen to your heart of hearts.
Poets, raise your voices, orators of
truth. Let us forge ahead. Do not
become powerless. Use your voice.
Poets of the soul do not settle for
mediocrity. The impossible is
possible. Safeguard your liberty.
Believe in equality and diversity.
The weight of the world is heavy.
Poets, share your visions, destroy
divisions. Make your shoulders broad
and do the heavy lifting together.
The Figure Outside
The door is closed.
There is figure curled up
at the doorstep outside.
The door is locked.
There is a spot of paint
in the doorstep.
No one knows who
put it there. No one knows
the spot of paint is
the blood of the figure.
His blood came from his palm.
The bearded figure
on the doorstep
without a hat,
down on his luck,
sleeps on his side,
his back facing the street.
Inside the owner
is seated by the fireplace.
There is warmth inside.
Born in Mexico, Luis Cuauhtémoc Berriozábal resides in California and works in the mental health field in Los Angeles. His poems have appeared in Blue Collar Review, Kendra Steiner Editions, Nerve Cowboy, and Yellow Mama Webzine. Luis recommends St. Jude Children's Research Hospital.