"anto" poems
Take a ride with me,
Give me your ear, your eyes;
Like stellar days of old,
I will tell no lies.
You see my days weren't complicated,
When the rivers ran red,
It was a bullet or the money,
Family gotta stay fed.
Your silent gestures cannot fathom
What was my everyday,
Like the hardened hollows of my soul,
I took my gun to the park to play.
This was my life
From my chest into these words,
Every link in the chain,
I am tied down by haunted verbs.
Kindle old fires
And set your daily a blaze,
I survived with deep wounds,
To the past I am a slave.
Give me my homiez,
All dead and gone,
Give a sip of that Henny,
I'll drip some on the lawn.
This is me,
Just an old ****
I'll remember the tombstones,
On bent knee I the marble a hug.
Today I am whipped
Among all the sorrows,
But being a survivor
Give me hope for all the tomorrows.
The westside,
Like a weary night *****
No coming back, no coming back,
I can't take no more.....
Pick out a casket
And don't remember my name,
Anonymous me,
A Dedpoet who carried the blame.
Feb 26, 2016
Feb 26, 2016 at 12:24 PM UTC
Whether I'm out on Military Drive
With my Ruca cruising the street,
I can't stay alive
Without that special meat.
I'm talking bout early morn,
Looking for a place for some comida,
When you need that taco like food ****
You need it in your Vida.
Yeah, you have buevo ranchero,
Or maybe some bean and cheese,
But I need me some vaquero
To fill my Mexican needs.
So make me a taco,
Make it chorizo and egg,
I'm just a typical vato,
Cmon, please don't make me beg!
And now you know about my favorite dish,
Eating Mexican is like a granted wish.
Feb 19, 2016
Feb 19, 2016 at 2:08 PM UTC
Brandon Bless you brother for your Holy Spirit filled poems.
Bless you Elsa , for your heart and God is using your poems.
Bless you Just Melz, Marion,Nicole,Dark and beautiful too.
Wolf Spirit,DC Raw,Ignatinus, David, Timothy, Joshua..
Joe Kevin, Gary L, Traveler, Mike Hauser, Anto MacRuaridh.
Soulsurvivoe, weeping willow,Hilda.Emma, MargotDylan.
I want to name each and everyone of you that I follow/
Beth St Claire, Nicole, Elizabeth Squire,Mark Cleavenger.
Forgotten Heart, Haley Madison, Eudora, Ann M Johnson.n
Vanessa Gatley, Beryl Dov, Mercie B, Paul Butters, Emma.
Nateive Son,Dopperganger, Cecil Miller,My cup overrunth.
Sweetpea, Frank Ruland, olestory teller, Ridicule, Tivonna.
Carolin, Anu, Nicole Dawn. plus so many more inspires me.
Please forgive me if you are not on here I love you all.
Everyone of you inspires me , I see your courage and your love.
May Christ always bless you all abundantly with his blessings.
I see the courage in all of you whom have my life here on HP.
Jul 26, 2015
Jul 26, 2015 at 11:14 PM UTC
The streets come alive when so many
Sleep softly into their dreams.
The newer L.E.D. street lights pierce
The secrets on the Old 90.
The women that the sun does not touch
Is aglow in the moonlit pavements,
Because she is a nocturnal,
To be seen by those who cannot see
The bright sun, she shares herself
With the secrets, only known to those
That never stay.
And to better fit into the list,
To better know the secret is to become
Something other than what is expected,
A desertion of your standardised
Places, where scars can be hidden,
Everyone can dress as royalty,
This is more common and natural,
Becoming the creature we all seem to
Leave behind.
And here there are lovers,
Beckoningly fighting one another
For a chance at one night,
An embrace in the eternal momentary.
And the thirst is deep,
The desire is a window to the stellar
Places, a deep freedom in the nocturnal,
An occasion set for nightly meetings
Of souls with shadows that seem to chase,
Street people on the Western venture,
An exchange of souls at home in the night.
Feb 16, 2016
Feb 16, 2016 at 2:55 PM UTC
E nella notte nera come il nulla,
a un tratto, col fragor d'arduo dirupo
che frana, il tuono rimbombò di schianto:
rimbombò, rimbalzò, rotolò cupo,
e tacque, e poi rimareggiò rinfranto,
e poi vanì. Soave allora un anto
s'udì di madre, e il moto di una culla.
860
I walk the Westside of San Anto,
The place I buried so many.
And the dead do speak
As they are in my words,
My very poetry.
Some have gone decent,
Others waved their final colors
With a kerchief ,now rest immortal.
So then I go back for them,
But move forward doing so,
To remember where I am
And where they shall never go.
If I am just a lucky guy
Who made it out alive when so
Many could not,
Then I cannot regret because the
Dead have no memory.
But why go back and visit
The desolation, the addicted
Nocturnal, the names who have
No faces?
Because I cannot reject myself,
The pistol I once lived by,
The nature of air and hope that
Escaped all in the ruins.
No, I will always return,
And my heart has not the words.
Now what?
Flowers for the dead and walk
The slab of names to rejoice
In what once was?
No, I come home,
The same as you,
As anyone,
Superfluous as this may be,
The return is necessary
If only to find oneself again.
Jan 21, 2017
Jan 21, 2017 at 9:34 PM UTC
he sits in that diner and he is
two point five decades' worth of emotion
compressed into a single, nervous point:
the relentless tapping
of keratin kissing linoleum.
he hears everything:
fingers curled round coffee cups
money whispering out of wallets
his thoughts clattering around like ice cubes
in the lemonade he asked for.
(his glass sweats, and so does he.)
one down. there's ice on his tongue, melting, and
he's feeling the weight of it
like the boxes crammed into his rattle-trap car,
like a pin pressed into a corkboard map,
like his signature at the bottom of a new lease.
(like a warning, and a hand on his wrist:
"you ain't gonna like it there, anto.")
last sour, pulpy sip as he decides
to pay it no mind and to play it
by ear. even now the distant city bustles
and he'll do ninety on the highway to catch it,
metamorphic in his fragile metal chrysalis.
May 20, 2018
May 20, 2018 at 8:31 PM UTC
I retreat prompted by a certain
Charm for older things
Into my mechanized city:
A scene of 1920's buildings
Awaiting seeker of history.
I sit by a grand oak
With a book in hand
And find a storage dimension
Of Pecan and Ashe trees
Whistling to Poplars in certain
Winds between the River and the
Town that runs through it.
Here in a walk with the River
I want to rest my soul
A destroy all other thoughts
Of complacent voices.
An old cantina was placed
At her heart, inside a Catholic
Crucifix with Christ watches
Over the patrons as they drink
A merry round with old friends.
A profound feeling in the city,
I gaze at the Old Mission
Of the Heart, I remember her well,
The Alamo lights up my city
And perhaps my whole world.
There is a tower of many Americas
Compelling the watchers,
Its as if the mercy of her heights
Allows you to fly in the air
Seeing certain histories from there.
I enjoy her charm,
San Anto at her heart
Is a maiden of loyal charms,
All resignation is set aside
As old voices speak to you,
And they seem to say,
"Welcome, welcome old friends"
Mar 3, 2016
Mar 3, 2016 at 11:02 AM UTC