Category: Poetry

T’was a bright sunny eve of the birth of the Christ,

And Puerto Rican moms are making pasteles

A bit chilly out but so far no ice,

unlike Megyn Kelly’s Santa, Christmas Eve is not white.

If the snow doth fall in the morrow, rejoice!

‘Til the morning commute comes the day to follow,

the season is here to shop ’til you drop, faster

than the prices that you’re chasing after.

Nevertheless enjoy the Christ-mess

of things that come to be.

No matter how much your family annoys you,

have a Merry Christmas Eve. – RSM

A mind’s quiet place amongst the everyday hustle

of the gritty billboard ridden city,

I pity the ones who lack a fortress of solitude.

Be it ever so humble,

there is nothing like a long morning after a wild night,

listening to jazz and drinking raspberry tea

while admiring the sun and other random objects that shine over me.

It seems as if silence is a treasure

observed only by those who have heard the ambience

of their A to B commute for a bit too long

and strive to prolong the routinely inevitable.

Meditation of a sort, a sect of tranquility; a table for one.

-RSM

Love Is But A Cheap Flint

by Ruben Muniz

Servants line the halls of the seemingly rich man

whose smile hasn’t shown since he was a penniless hopeful;

Now his lips know only a grimace

and have met many women,

but he would build up his deck of cards

into a miniature bungalow and trade it

for the one ace of spades

who he couldn’t win over

because of pre-existing conditions

and his own sins.

The only skeleton in his closet

dons a white dress.

The music man plays his tune with a smile

and gets a roar from the crowd of onlookers

and leaves the stage at the night’s conclusion

with an empty feeling,

because his biggest fan never showed up.

So he goes home alone

drum sticks in hand

as his mind plays a percussive onslaught

of indifference, depression, and longing

for that big break to come, someday.

A dancer shines his shoes

and has moves that would impress a Russian ballerina,

and takes home another gold medal

to hang on one of his dozens of trophies

on his mantle.

He rips off his bowtie after the show

and throws it into his fireplace

and cries to himself

about that one move he just can’t seem to make his own.

A writer who has penned quite a few stories

in his day fears he will not live to see

his own perfect ending.

Deceptive emotions reign,

a tyranny of torturous thoughts

bombard their minds with angst.

It seems as if they’re fighting a war

that they were drafted into against their will;

with weary feet these men trudge on

not knowing if I’ll ever come home.

The spark comes and goes as if

love is but a cheap flint,

but the embers of their memories serve as emissaries

to reignite the flame in their minds of what could be.