#davidanthonycarrillo
Along the tidelot shore between “H” and “I”—
a green Lancer in the high weeds catches my eye.
Though not a classic by any means,
it’s rare
as they come—still proud of its sheen.
Its factory lime paint, still fresh and bright—
chrome bumper glistens there in the sunlight.
Black sidewall tires faded and cracked,
once kissed highways, now sag on their jacks.
I see the owner some mornings, coffee in hand,
running a palm along the hood, thinkin’ it grand.
Familiar, the creak when the door opens—
driver’s seat formed to his father’s proportions.
Turning the key—a shudder, a gasp, then—the ghost in the machine slumbers again.
Its speedometer’s stuck at sixty-eight—
the engine left unturned on Father’s Day.
No flowers. No cards. No one to see—
only the car, the wind, and the weeds.
It lingers there, between regret and rot,
leaving the crickets to finish his son’s thoughts.
—•0•—
Nov 11, 2025
Nov 11, 2025 at 11:32 PM UTC
It should’ve been a celebration, not strife—
asparagus had the woman beside me chirping tonight.
I’m telling you, our nuptials seemed destined
for a fight—till I was caught in that blushing light.
A big peach moon was on the rise,
the glow of its shine caught in my eyes.
Hanging down low and ripe for the ask,
I leaned back in awe, seeming to bask.
She asked me, “What’s the grin about?”
though no words dropped from my mouth.
Curious, she turned around to see
what in the world had gotten into me.
“Ah,” she said, ********* her ring,
and in her eyes, I saw familiar twinkling.
I placed my hand upon her shoulder;
she slid her chair a bit closer.
Savoring wine and its fermented sweetness,
I wondered where night might lead us.
One thing’s for sure—I’d love to take a bite,
reaching across that starry-eyed sky.
—•0•—
Nov 11, 2025
Nov 11, 2025 at 11:20 PM UTC
I am a trained, dancing bear.
The ringmaster treats me well.
Watch me ride a scooter,
and balance on a ball.
I am the star attraction,
performing center stage—
but once the spotlight dies,
I’m returned to my cage.
Box-step, waltzing—
across the ring.
The crowd just loves
the “dancing bear” thing.
Though I am very tame,
don’t poke me with a stick.
Your arm will then be mine,
and you’ll likely get bit.
My handler shocks me,
teaching novel tricks.
I learned to hula-hoop,
but now I’m over it.
Box-step, waltzing—
gliding through the air.
The crowd applauds
the celebrity bear.
The carney men taunt me
after a night on the town.
They wouldn’t be so bold
if I weren’t chained down.
I dream of wild mountains,
wandering forest floors;
I’d fish mighty rivers
where I am caged no more.
Box-step, waltzing—
doing my thing.
The crowd just loves
the “dancing bear” thing.
Then the circus master
offers a golden chance;
he turns his back on me—
I grab him for a dance.
I’m a tent-clearing,
growling, grizzly bear.
Making headlines:
You Should’ve Been There!
—•0•—
Nov 29, 2025
Nov 29, 2025 at 11:19 AM UTC
I promised Alicia, when she was small,
we’d see Paris someday.
Stepping from an Uber onto Rue Clovis
and Descartes—
rubber soles meet cobblestones.
Monsieur Descartes has me dreaming.
Chasing shadows up a spiral stair—
each footfall makes planks groan.
Does a racing heart, full of anticipation,
prove I’m here?
Monsieur Descartes has me dreaming.
Across the threshold—
patched stone walls,
a timber-beamed ceiling—
familiar to old-world eyes, not mine.
Monsieur Descartes has me dreaming.
Bells call, the faithful and tourist alike.
I draw back red velvet curtains.
A cathedral tower peeks through
a centuries-old skyline.
Café voices suddenly hush.
Monsieur Descartes has me dreaming.
Lifting latches, throwing windows wide—
we breathe the crisp winter air,
smell strong coffee.
Smaller, brighter
bells join in to lift us.
Monsieur Descartes has me dreaming.
Hemingway’s Spanish beret strides by,
stirring blue doves into the sky.
No manuscript—
just looking for a clean, well-lit place to write.
Monsieur Descartes has me dreaming.
Passing scooters hum
to Django’s two-fingered guitar.
Locals exchange nods
and line up for paper-wrapped loaves—
tempting every passerby.
Monsieur Descartes has me dreaming.
Most astonishing of all—
a fruit-frosted cake arrives,
Alicia celebrates thirty;
she wears a diamond ring—Valentine.
Our delight is real—but no—
Monsieur Descartes has me dreaming.
Nov 29, 2025
Nov 29, 2025 at 10:52 AM UTC
The Monster sits—bolts and plates, heavy on its tracks—“SP” tattooed across its face. Smoke puffs from its stacks stings my nose. We cling to Mother’s side, Brother and I, clutching our brown suitcases. A porter, sparkling with brass buttons, puts down a step box. Grandma presses sugar mints into my palm. Under her spell, I follow the wool scent of her coat as we board the beast. Grandma says, ride the line, boys—ride it while it lasts, one more whistle, one more call, one more echo from the valley’s past.
Inside the crowded car, I complain, “It smells like cigarettes!” The floor rumbles—to people’s chatter, I listen, down the aisle. Grandma finds us empty seats. I wish to say, Mister Conductor Sir, please click-punch my ticket, so I can wave goodbye. Two short whistles echo on Maclay Street. The hulk shudders once, twice, then rolls forward. With big tears, my Brother leans into Grandma. She says, ride the line, boys—ride it while it lasts, one more tear, one more goodbye, one more echo from the valley’s past.
At the first crossing, the whistle blows: long–long–short–long. Bored-looking adults sit behind steering wheels, while excited kids smush their faces against the glass, or hang from windows, whoo-wooing and waving back. Grandma says, ride the line, boys—ride it while it lasts, one more crossing, one more mile, one more echo from the valley’s past.
Just outside town, our window turns pitch-black. My Brother holds his breath to avoid the deadly tunnel gas, his face reddening before daylight fills the windows at Saugus Station. Onward—we climb into smooth, sun-colored hills. Giants, I tell him, sleep beneath earth’s covers. He laughs, but his eyes stay big and wide, watching the hills as if they might awake. Grandma says, ride the line, boys—ride it while it lasts, one more climb, one more ridge, one more echo from the valley’s past.
Higher, we climb; the train chuffs through tunnel after tunnel, over trestles that sway, circling like a merry-go-round. The dining car’s special: bologna and mustard on white bread with lukewarm milk. I push it away—Grandma doesn’t mind. But I eat every bite of the apple pie—its sweetness helps me forget the bologna taste. I lick the crumbs from my sweater sleeves. Grandma says, ride the line, boys—ride it while it lasts, one more sitting, one more taste, one more echo from the valley’s past.
Down into the flat valley we went, rolling past brown fields with giant black grasshoppers, their longish heads see-sawing, and soon croplands in perfect rows: almond trees standing in formation; carrot fields neatly combed and parted. Like clockwork, the great wheels would clack and hiss—“Bakersfield, folks—next stop,” the conductor calls. Passengers grab suitcases; newcomers rush to fill the warm seats. Grandma says, ride the line, boys—ride it while it lasts, one more rumble, one more buzz, one more echo from the valley’s past.
Grandma digs in her purse, “Oh—almost forgot.” She presents us kids with a bag full of plastic men and wild creatures and a yo-yo. I toss the yo-yo straight down, snapping the string so it climbs without a wobble, just like the Duncan instructions say. The Conductor calls out the stops: “All aboard!” Delano, Pixley, Tulare Station. Blackbirds on fences become specks in the smoke trail. And Grandma says, ride the line, boys—ride it while it lasts, two more flag stops, one more station, one more echo from the valley’s past.
Grandma points out Pixley Park. “Your dad carved your mom’s name on that Valley Oak”—but I’m too busy shouting orders to look. “Cowboys charge—army men, cover them with fire!” My Brother lines up dinosaurs and growls, “We’ll crush your bazookas and eat all your men too!” His T-Rex, giraffes, elephants, and gorillas knock down the cavalry’s advance and the battle is on. Grandma says, ride the line, boys—ride it while it lasts, one more charge, one more battle, one more echo from the valley’s past.
I don’t hear the Conductor announce the next stop, but in my heart, I know it’s Tulare—where I was born and where Grandma lives. Tulare comes out of the fog to show itself, the water tower floating in and out of sight—glimpses of the Tulare Theatre. I think I spot Ling Joe’s Café and Woolworth’s 5 and Dime. Brown-faced railroad men emerge from the iron gray. Grandma says, hammer hard, boys—keep that line alive, one more swing, one more try, secure that spike to the rail tie.
I see the workers’ shacks—curtains waving as we go by. I wonder if the railroaders will retire the way my Ta-Ta Tony did—leftovers from the old days—like the bologna sandwiches they fed us on the last hurrah of the Southern Pacific, San Joaquin Daylight. Young men, old men dressed in denim shirts, looking up with blank stares—ants with hammers, making sure the trains don’t fall off the tracks. Grandma says, ride the line, boys—ride it while it lasts, one more whistle, one more blast, one more echo from the valley’s past.
—•0•—
Nov 24, 2025
Nov 24, 2025 at 3:22 PM UTC
I don’t claim to be a poet—
no illusions I’ll publish.
I just like to pen a verse,
maybe read it in public.
Just a wavering voice,
trying not to sound cliché.
My themes aren’t romantic,
or epic in any way.
If what I recite is drivel,
it won’t embarrass you.
But if you find you liked it,
a simple nod will do.
—•0•—
Nov 24, 2025
Nov 24, 2025 at 3:07 PM UTC
This thought occurred — behind the shed —
A blinding fog inside my head.
Barbed snags, held me there —
Each word a **** too deep to bear.
Silence washed in — time stood still.
The darkness passed — so too the chill.
The story’s end, sunlit leaves will write.
Till then — a shallow breath of life.
—•0•—
Nov 20, 2025
Nov 20, 2025 at 12:30 PM UTC
The doors are locked,
shades drawn.
No signs of life
stirring inside.
Out on the porch,
strike the knocker—
no one answers,
as if someone’s died.
I recall the hinges
swung wide open,
the hostess there waiting,
each room lit and alive.
She must’ve moved on,
neglecting to tell me—
or, perhaps, couldn’t
manage a goodbye
Now I must find
myself elsewhere;
the proprietress
left me an empty sky.
In the end, I wasn’t kin,
just a boarder—
privileges suspended,
a house closed tight.
—•0•—
Nov 20, 2025
Nov 20, 2025 at 10:19 AM UTC
Falling cones from upper branches
scatter across the forest floor.
At the foot of the redwood,
Wildflowers thrive among ash.
Through cycles of time—
spire seeds, fallen blooms, and
windborne dust return to the soil,
their essence carried upward,
woven into the sentinel’s grain.
Standing tall—our dear one
is heartwood amongst old friends.
Hear his voice as branches stir.
Catch the flash of his smile in
sun light filtering down;
see stars dance across his
dew-laced mane.
Feel him near in the evergreen hush.
—•0•—
Nov 18, 2025
Nov 18, 2025 at 10:38 PM UTC
Met on a hillside, to my surprise,
a rival appeared at my left side.
His stride long, glory of ’74,
two dueling foes, forged by the same sword.
The vigor of youth races with the sun.
I tried to rob my match of his fun,
but the path veered to his advantage,
the final kick—more than I could manage.
His lengthening stride low in the sun,
shadow’s running ahead—the race’s won;
our brief reunion sank into dusk,
till he pops up again—rising from the dust.
—•0•—
Nov 20, 2025
Nov 20, 2025 at 1:08 AM UTC
In gray, dreary months—
wood grain softens;
posts loosen in
standing puddles.
Furrowed by the yellow sun—
once firm, now brittle—
the fence leans again
after seasonal winds.
I wedge in stakes,
brace sagging sections—
too warped to set straight,
like ligaments of the knee.
“It’s time for a new fence,’”
I proclaim.
“Nah,” my neighbor shrugs,
“we can take the wobble out.”
He drives in heavy nails,
reattaches dog-eared pickets;
hammer taps boards,
for the dull and the hollow.
We mend aging joints
together, patch split planks.
Set it right for a while—
till the wind comes again.
The life of weathered wood
is reminder to us both.
We do what we’re meant to do—
for just a while longer.
—•0•—
Nov 17, 2025
Nov 17, 2025 at 10:52 PM UTC