Just after the crack of dawn, As the sun spills its golden light, a suitcase stands by the door, announcing the journey to come.
I watch, heart swelling— each beat echoing years of laughter, bicycle rides, scraped knees, soccer games, the weight of dreams woven into the fabric of this moment.
I see my son, now a man, gazing forward into the horizon, eyes bright with the promise of the unknown.
I remember the first steps, the tentative dance of growing up, and how each fall became a lesson wrapped in a parental embrace.
With every reflection, pride unfurls like a flag raised high against the sky— an unspoken bond, strong and steady.
“Go,” I say, though the word is heavy, a bittersweet weight upon the tongue. “Explore, chase your dreams, find your own rhythm in this world.”
In that command, there’s a surrender, a release of the tether that has held us so close. Yet even if the distance stretches, that link will never really fray, only strengthen with each mile.
I fight the urge to pull you back, to gather all the memories, to pause the moment just once more; but I know this is the course of life— the letting go, the becoming, a cycle as old as time itself.
In California’s warm embrace, Where golden sunshine paints winter space, A fond five-year-old with eyes so bright, Takes in wonders of a special night.
Her tiny hands, fluttering with glee, Hang glazed ornaments on the tree, While laughter bubbles out through the air, Love and joy sparkle everywhere.
With tinsel glinting, a star on top, She twirls around and can’t help but hop To the smell of cookies, sweet and warm, With cocoa steaming, a cozy charm.
Not a snowflake falls, but hearts are light. Family gathers, a loving sight. They share old stories filled with good cheer. Thus, in the Bay, they bring themselves near.
Outside, darkness begins to hold sway; Inside, season’s magic leads the way. With every hug, every song, She hopes the wait will not be too long.
As night descends, lights full agleam, She closes her eyes, begins to dream Of reindeer flying in starlit skies And what surprise may come at sunrise.
With her hopes high and thoughts so deep, That there’s no snow, who cares a peep? While it’s not a “traditional” sight, The season’s spirit still shines just right.
“Land of the Brave” where dear liberty was crowned, We once stood united, our wills tightly bound. Through the smoke of battle, our ancestors espied That freedom’s a flame, but it can flicker and die. From the ashes of conflict, we forged our resolve, In confronting the tyrants, our spirits evolved. With courage we faced those who twisted the truth, Promises that gush like the Fountain of Youth.
Yet now in the shadows, the voices grow loud, With pledges painted in palettes of the proud. Cloaked in assurance, with menace beneath, The gloss of populists who thrive on our beefs. “Remember,” they say, “the past is a guide;” But complacence makes civic duty slide.
We gather our banners, but forget what they mean, As we march to the rhythms of a con man’s scheme. The lessons grow dimmer as visions in fog; While strongmen encroach, we sit like boiling frogs. With fervor they promise to serve and protect, But a chain on the soul is what they project.
So heed history’s warnings, the lessons they give, For freedom’s a choice, not a passive way to live. In the face of the storm, let our voices unite; For the fight isn’t over, we must keep our rights. To honor the fallen, please open your eyes; For sake of the nation, let wisdom arise. Together we’ll withstand, but divided we’ll fall; For our future to last, we must give it our all.
Billowing clouds snuff sun’s last flare; Day breeze yields to twilight’s fury Trees shake and swirling leaves fly, Rain driving, pouring hard and cold. Towns and farms bolt gates and doors As children whimper, grownups shudder. Heralded by heaven’s light, thunder’s crash, Doc Time is called to dutiful round. Harbinger of destiny, he practices his craft On cobblestones made of bone and sweets. Cries rise more piercing than the wolf’s, Joy more exultant than a heavenly choir. Old Aaron parted around midnight; Reminiscence was born at quarter past.
In Ms. Delgado’s kindergarten class, the desks were neat and properly arranged, filled with eager faces and tiny hands pulling out their pens and pencils. Among these students was Nina, a cheerful kid with curly brown hair and a big, wide smile. She was known for her vibrant drawings and, more importantly, her prized pen.
Nina’s pen was special. It was a gift from her grandfather, who had told her that it was magical. Every time Nina used it, her drawings, which received kudos from the teacher and classmates alike, seemed to come to life with extra brilliance. She was proud of it, and it had quickly become her favorite color in her pencil case.
A couple of weeks into the school year, Ms. Delgado announced a classroom project. “Class, tomorrow we’re going to make posters for the school art fair. But first, we may have to share some of our supplies with classmates who don’t have enough.”
Nina’s heart sank. She knew what this meant. The supplies they needed were things she took for granted, like pen, pencils, and erasers. She glanced at her pen, which lay in her pencil case like a precious gem. She didn’t want to share her cherished pen.
As Ms. Delgado continued explaining the project, Nina noticed a boy named Jimmie sitting quietly in the back of the classroom. Jimmie’s clothes were often a bit worn, and his shoes looked too small for his feet. She saw he only brought some regular lead pencils and a few old markers to school. He often had to borrow color pens and pencils. Nina felt a pang of sympathy for him.
That night, grandfather called on the phone and asked. “How was your day, dear?”
“It was okay,” Nina replied, “but Ms. Delgado said we have to let other kids use our pens and pencils for our school project.”
Grandfather’s voice was warm and encouraging. “That sounds like a wonderful thing to do. You know, sharing can be very rewarding. It shows kindness and generosity.”
Nina thought about grandfather’s words as she lay in bed. The next morning, she carried her school things to school with an uneasy feeling.
As the school day progressed, Nina observed that Jimmie’s drawings were mostly in black lines and shades of gray with a color or two in some sections. He would occasionally wander over to looked at the other kids’ drawings such her own. She could see how much he wanted his drawings to be as full of colors as those of his classmates. She tried to focus on her drawing, but her pens, particularly her favorite one, felt heavier and heavier in her hand. It was as if that pen knew she was struggling with a decision.
During lunchtime, Nina sat with her friends, nibbling on her sandwich and thinking about finishing the project. She watched Jimmie as he sat alone, eating his lunch in silence. Then suddenly a thought flashed. Nina made her decision. She walked up to Jimmie, extending her pen out with her small hand. “Jimmie,” she said straight way, “I want you to have this.”
Jimmie’s eyes widened in surprise. “But… that’s your favorite pencil.”
Nina nodded, feeling a mix of sadness and relief. “I know. But I think I think you should use it. It will make your drawings special like mine.”
Jimmie’s face lit up with a grateful smile. “Wow!. Thank you, Nina. That is so nice. I’ll take good care of it.”
Nina watched as Jimmie took the pencil, his fingers firmly yet respectfully grasping the barrel. As he turned to show the other kids, Nina felt a warmth in her heart that she hadn’t expected. It was as if the magic of the pen had transferred not just onto Jimmie’s drawings, but into her own heart as well.
Later that day, Nina noticed Jimmie’s drawings were more colorful and imaginative than ever before. She realized that her pen’s magic didn’t just come from its color but from the joy of giving and sharing.
As Nina walked home, she thought about grandfather’s words and felt a deep sense of happiness. She had given away her favorite pencil, but she had received something even more valuable in return: the joy of making someone else’s day a little brighter.
That mountain lords over me; High above a looming mass, Its silent, cold indifference Chilling and unnerving my bones. Regardless whether ready or not, I brace to launch my first step; Shaky foot in front of the other, I compel myself to move up. Walking a fine, tottering line, Just one stride after another, I slow to a deliberate cadence To conceal my reluctant struggle. My aging body sore and stiff, Using every muscle and resource, I feel as if I’m teetering, But dare not lose control. Midway my legs grow weak, Testing my will to persist; I stop and rest more often, Then stiffly revive and move on. I must stay ever focused Never looking back or down; Though my limbs grow weary, I cannot accept any forfeit. We all have mountains to climb, But climb we surely must, If we are ever to overcome fear, Adversity will bring out our best. Warned about possible failure, Thought I could not, dare not, While it was ONLY fifteen stairs, I had scaled my Everest!
In a bright room where the sun beams dance, there’s a feline perched on cushioned throne, regally aloof and unperturbed by the clutter of a world not suited to her august stature. Her eyes are chill half-moons, impervious orbs, that gaze through tight lids at the current scene filtering out the chaos of her subject’s soul— fond, but fumbling denizen of her domain. His callow voice, symphony of uneven notes, falls like scattered autumn leaves all about her, with coochies of affection, swoons of adoration, failing to budge her from predetermined scheme. She just stretches in a languid arc of catlike grace, feigning boredom while her attendant croons his reverent, heartfelt paeans of devotion, soundtracks to her staid, indulgent resignation. And as day wanes and dark fills the room, she will purr out “Meow,” a calculated bridge between the sacred space of her solitude and the clumsy affection of the human heart. In that certain moment, when she so deems it, she may settle in a bit closer, an inch or so, as if saying, “I acknowledge your presence, but remember, I’m still master of this realm.” Her subject, ever grateful for this fleeting gift, grooms that kitty with hands trembling in awe, clueless that tolerance is her boon and grace, and affection a crown she wears lightly, if at all. Thus, in enigmatic tandem, the two coexist: a sovereign planet with her sidekick satellite, each tethered together in a perpetual tango by the gravity of her immutable indifference.
Beneath the cwm zenith where nymphs wheezily prance, whizbang melodies from an old jukebox entrance. Faqirs strum quickly on sweet mezquite-wood guitars, highjacking reality, exciting quasars. A Jezebel sylph winks, zombifying the night, the zymurgy of enchantment, bathed in moonlight. Below the Qi’s frolicking flybys, swift and free, caziques and vizcachas equalize at tea, as quetzals dose on outoxyphenbutazone, jazzed by zippy zephyrs that sizzle to the bone. And while muzjiks whisper, “Quixotry is preferred. To maximize the magic, Xerox the absurd,” xylophonists scarf flapjacks, yelling at bezique, “Prizes in zuz and xu, not exempt from our pique.” Chutzpah and qwerty thusly are here intertwined, defuzing the mundane, leaving logic behind. So, exorcize your qualms and brush the “phphts” away. Squeeze out cynicism. It’s Oxazepam Day!
On a dust-filled ground where cowpokes abide, A pageant unfolds for a thrilling ride. As patrons wait for a sight yet unseen Within the stands, their interest grows keen.
With bated breath, attendees gather near, Stirring up excitement, raising a cheer. The arena transcends, emotions run high, Anticipation boils, reaching the sky.
The majestic dance between man and beast, Struggle for dominance, tension increased, It’s a show of will and courage to share, Where the fearless on mighty bulls do dare.
The gate bursts open, the beast is unleashed, Raw power, fury, bulk, muscular feast. Its hooves pound the earth with thunderous sound, As a brave soul holds on, no fear to be found.
In a medley of chaos, strength, and grace, Man and brute lock in dangerous embrace. Surfing a tempest, adrenaline floods, Rider contra bull, the battle bluebloods.
They twist and turn, defy gravity’s pull, Their spirits aflame, their resolve so full. Within eight seconds, the contest complete, Overcoming odds, a feat so very sweet.
Battered and bruised, yet he never faltered, Chasing the thrill, he leaves our hearts altered. In this rhumba of brawn, his skill displayed, He who lasts longest, wins top accolade.
Epilogue
Now unhappily all did not end there, Which is something I believe you should hear. The angry bull sought to apply some heat On the fallen not yet back on his feet.
A rodeo clown jumped to intervene A brave act ending up breaking his spleen. He sadly absorbed all the toro’s force And was sent to the hospital, of course.
While for a budding fan of eleven The rodeo tricks seemed close to heaven, That he’d seen a man there nearly fall dead Made him seek saner diversions instead.
Light, and warmth! How could it be? Last night, it had been getting dark and chilly, even cold. He certainly hadn’t expected any hint of warmth after a late autumn night’s slumber. But it did feel warm, how odd. Could he have gone into hibernation like his parents had told him happens at the turn of the seasons? His sleep did seem longer than usual. Could this then be spring? Perhaps. Gosh, he felt really good. He did not remember ever feeling so rested.
But wait, there was something even more puzzling. Hadn’t he last been deep underground when he turned in after eating that last tasty morsel of mammoth dung. Yum, that was so good. How the heck was he now on the surface?
The surroundings seemed so very strange. He could not come close to identifying anything that he was sensing. The light and the warmth were so unusually uniform. Nothing made sense.
