Cane with some sugar in it,

or

Sugar with some cane sprinkled in.

Tea, on the other hand, taste nothing like advertised, or at least how they show it in movies.

This morning, I fell victim to the lies of such films.

I, a coffee drinker, drank some tea…

The initial taste, when the tea touched my tongue, was nothing like what I expected.

Yet, despite my taste buds begging me for something sweeter,

I remembered the countless times my other buds told me that tea is healthier for me.

So,

I braced.

I took another sip.

This time,

I was semi-ready for the landing,

Like an old lady on her first flight,

grasping the armrests firmly enough to keep herself on her seat.

The landing was rough.

But I was determined to finish this cup.

So,

I took another sip.

This time,

I was an old, experienced sailor, hairy-chested, and bad-spoken.

I braced for impact.

Grasped my mast and braced for the waves to rocked my ship.

Despite my experience and my sea legs,

I was thrown so hard

I put my mug down.

Sip after sip, life passed me by,

or rather,

seemed to pass by me.

I’m not convinced tea is better for me.

I am no longer sure which buds to listen to.

I braced again.

I took my last sip.

This time,

I was a knight, shield in hand,

that seemed to weight more than I remembered,

but I was victorious,

stand in on top of the dragon I slayed called:

“I started this tea and I must finish it.”

I’d done it.

The next morning,

life had a very specific taste.

Like tea.

I think I’ll put some sugar on it.

I overheard their conversation Tuesday night.

They spoke of us.

How it’s been a while

…if ever…

That someone looked at someone

The way I look at you.

“I truly get it,” said the wind.

“Look at the way she smiles.”

“How lucky he must feel,” replied the sea,

“To see her for a while,

and hold her while she sleeps,

and trace the constellations hidden in her freckled cheeks”

Their chatter fell to silence.

The wind sighed silently

The sea rolled a smile, crashing tenderly.

Then, as though they had rehearsed it throughout their years,

They said,

“Yes.

He loves her.”

And maybe, hopefully, you’d laugh, and I’d add,
“If you were a vegetable,
you’d be a cute‑cumber.”

I miss cheesy pick up lines
because how else am I supposed to tell you
that there is no other explanation
for someone like you to exist
except that an angel fell from heaven?

I just hope your landing was gentle.

And yes, I know…people will say
the devil fell from heaven too.
How they love to twist things,
to share opinions, and flip narratives.
But I miss the days
when I could feel words
without the people trying to correct them.

Because seriously.
you’re heavenly to me.
you fell from heaven. A ten from Tennessee.

So if my words sound cheesy…
good.
They’re supposed to be.
They’re poetry.

-Ivan Morales

Se va él
en la corriente
la que pasa firmemente
enfrente de mi casa.

con prisa se va él,
corre el agua y él también.
Ya se fue pa’ no volver.

Cae el agua,
siempre fiel,
mi barquito de papel.

Voy corriendo tras de él.

The stars- they bore witness.

When we sat at a table set for two,

you and I dined from one another.

I ate your words, savored your stories,

and got drunk on your passions.

Tonight, we changed roles -

The stars looked up at us,

And you and I outshone them.

Commentary;

I wanted to turn the idea of connection right on its head. I tend to think of a connection as something to do with someone, to enjoy nature, or to be influenced by my surroundings, though these are good and even necessary, the real connection happens when two people engage in conversation. Stars gazing is a play on words of stars being the ones observing two people and not the other way around, and that a real connection is not dependent on your surroundings but on intentionality, by asking questions and by understanding.

I like life bitter, bitter and passionate,
and when a song can be played, played on a detuned guitar,
I prefer to walk, to walk on cobbled streets.

I arrive three steps, three steps too late to my path.
Joy chases me; I choose the sting.
A cursed tongue and a treacherous taste...
How to tear it from my soul, from my soul, if I cannot?

Me agrada la vida amarga, amarga y apasionada,
y cuando una canción puede tocarse, tocarse con guitarra desafinada,
prefiero caminar, caminar por calles empedradas.

Llego tres pasos, tres pasos demasiado tarde a mi sendero.
La dicha me persigue; yo escojo el aguijón.
Una lengua maldita y un sabor traicionero...
¿Cómo arrancarlo de mi alma, de mi alma si no puedo?

For here they steal the laughter of children

just to wear it like paint.

And the river runs cold.

Dreamer, stay asleep.

It’s warmer in your world.

Here, men dry their tears with torn clothes

from the wounded they themselves destroyed.

And still, the river runs cold.

Dreamer, don’t come back.

The rich eat the baker’s bread,

while he washes the flour from his hands

in the cold, cold river.

aquí roban la risa de los niños

para pintarse la cara.

Y el río corre frío.

Soñador, sigue dormido.

Tu mundo es más tibio.

Aquí, hombres secan sus lagrimas con la ropa desgarrada

de heridos que ellos mismos destrozaron.

Y aún así, el río corre frío.

Soñador, no regreses.

Los ricos comen el pan del panadero,

mientras él se lava las manos

en el río, frío, frío.

Today I learned that
beauty has light eyes.
That her smile can be engraved in memory,
that her voice is like the touch of foam on the beach,
that she can be studied like a work of art,
that, like a painting on display, she can be admired eternally.

And if she were a poem, I could read her attentively
and memorize every comma and period about her.

How sad that
“what is learned is never forgotten,”
for I have not yet forgotten her,
but her name I never learned.

Hoy aprendí que la belleza tiene ojos claros,
que su sonrisa puede quedarse grabada en la memoria,
que su voz es tan gentil como el toque de espuma en la playa,
que puede ser estudiada como una obra de arte.
Que, como una pintura en exhibición, se puede admirar eternamente.

Y si ella fuera un poema, yo pudiera leerla atentamente,
y memorizar de ella cada punto y coma.

Qué triste que…
“Lo que se aprende nunca se olvida”.
Pues yo aún no me olvido de ella,
pero su nombre nunca aprendi.

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