"jaime" poems
He entered our classroom
Quietly
Something in his hand
A slip of paper
Assigning him
to English 11b
English words
Thick in his mouth
He whispered his name,
Jaime Chavez
Jimmy Changa!
someone mocked,
Had one of them for supper
Nice to know you burrito boy.
Jaime Chavez smiled,
And remembered.
He entered our classroom
Quietly
Something in his hand
A book
Shakespeare
Carefully noted
In Spanish and English
Jimmy Changa
Someone mocked
Whatcha got there?
A book?
You don’t need them to cut my lawn.
Jaime Chavez smiled,
And remembered
He entered our classroom
Quietly
Something in his hand
An award
Superior achievement
English 11b
Jimmy Changa
Someone mocked
You didn’t earn that,
******* ****** ****
Jaime Chavez smiled
And remembered.
He entered our classroom
Quietly
Something in his hand
Full scholarship
Princeton University
In English Literature
And something else
A bumper sticker
"God Bless America,"
Which he carefully
tacked to the bulletin board
My name is not Jimmy Changa.
My name, is Jaime Chavez
And he smiled.
Apr 17, 2013
Apr 17, 2013 at 4:07 PM UTC
The books are wrong;
Samson is not his name,
But his last name.
Strength is his identity,
Though Jaime is what they call him.
He did not die lonely,
Nor will he ever do.
Regina Spektor got it right somehow,
As how people never do the first time;
A woman broke his heart
Whose name I cannot confirm to be Delilah,
She could have been anyone in his past.
But he married a woman named Michelle
And borne love by four beautiful children
With one which I know very well
And sometimes feel as if she were me
Or I were her.
But in his eyes I could not tell if I were her
Or she were me.
In fact, I could not see myself at all,
As if I am only, in those eyes,
A ceiling to keep from falling;
A mere test of strength,
Held up by pillars of sacrifice
And blocks of responsibility.
But I must be something else,
For there was something more
Than my nothingness in those eyes
Which keeps me from falling,
Besides those powerful hands
That steady the blocks
And secure arms
That lock the pillars;
It was his love regardless of who I am
That holds my blocks up
And embraces my pillars close;
His love which need me not contained in his eyes
For I am already contained in his heart.
I guess the writings on the wall
Failed to let us all know
That the great Samson's weakness
As well as source of strength,
Is not his hair
But his heart beneath that hard chest.
And so the legend goes,
Not with Samson's great strength,
But with his love as a husband
Which can cure a whole hospital
And as a father
Which can withstand all torture.
And his story will be told;
His love will be passed on
By his children to their children,
And they will live forever
In the name of his glory,
In the name of his triumph
Over the prophecy's false tragedy.
And not a soul will not know
Of how Jaime – the real Samson,
Was the strongest man of all.
Sep 29, 2013
Sep 29, 2013 at 11:59 AM UTC
Gina and Dru, the perfect two
Killed a boy named Beau then went on the move
Maybe its sick, maybe its wrong
But for Dru, that Beau hurt his Gina, and love is **** strong
Pinned her down cryin, made her take it
Then those two lovers came back, as it went
Gina brought a tire iron to his head
And Dru was in shock, but wasted no time then
Got in his truck, set for a man named Carl
That new his brother Jaime, behind bars now
They ran and they ran, those two kids man,
But one day Dru passed out, and Gina was hurt again
So while her baby slept, dreaming of her
She ran the bath water hot, didn't care if it hurt
Slit her wrists snip snip, just like that, the end
And Dru woke up and found her, in that water running red
Yelled at the abandoned walls, "You took it all!"
Knees too weak, he begins to fall
Takes the knife from his girl, his entire ******* world
Slit his throat so again he could hold her
They dreamt of treehouses, bad dogs, forever
But in the end, after it all
Gina and Dru are still together
Sep 30, 2013
Sep 30, 2013 at 1:34 AM UTC
She is not perfect, nor even very close.
But what she is for me is perfection, a shadow isn't as close.
She is not my savior, as The Christ already has that role.
But she is my salvation, the liberator of my soul.
She is not my property or even my right.
But she is everything I have far beyond sight.
She is my Jaime!!!
Jul 10, 2014
Jul 10, 2014 at 9:44 AM UTC
dear
james,
i would like you
if you ever said
what you mean.
instead, you make up things
to make me think i want to talk to you
and then you proceed
to be the most boring human being
on the face of the planet.
your fake
peppy
exclamations
are deceiving,
tiring
and flat
after about four
hundred
of them...
i love you about as much
as i love a toaster oven
or any other
inanimate object
james,
dear...
you are so
boring.
May 18, 2013
May 18, 2013 at 11:58 AM UTC
Se dice, se rumora, afirman en los salones, en las fiestas, alguien o algunos enterados, que Jaime Sabines es un gran poeta. O cuando menos un buen poeta. O un poeta decente, valioso. O simplemente, pero realmente, un poeta.
Le llega la noticia a Jaime y éste se alegra: ¡qué maravilla! ¡Soy un poeta! ¡Soy un poeta importante! ¡Soy un gran poeta!
Convencido, sale a la calle, o llega a la casa, convencido. Pero en la calle nadie, y en la casa menos: nadie se da cuenta de que es un poeta. ¿Por qué los poetas no tienen una estrella en la frente, o un resplandor visible, o un rayo que les salga de las orejas?
¡Dios mío!, dice Jaime. Tengo que ser papá o marido, o trabajar en la fábrica como otro cualquiera, o andar, como cualquiera, de peatón.
¡Eso es!, dice Jaime. No soy un poeta: soy un peatón.
Y esta vez se queda echado en la cama con una alegría dulce y tranquila.
922
De qué sirve, quisiera yo saber, cambiar de piso,
dejar atrás un sótano más *****
que mi reputación -y ya es decir-,
poner visillos blancos
y tomar criada,
renunciar a la vida de bohemio,
si vienes luego tú, pelmazo,
embarazoso huésped, memo vestido con mis trajes,
zángano de colemena, inútil, cacaseno,
con tus manos lavadas,
a comer en mi plato y a ensuciar la casa?
Te acompañan las barras de los bares
últimos de la noche, los chulos, las floristas,
las calles muertas de la madrugada
y los ascensores de luz amarilla
cuando llegas, borracho,
y te paras a verte en el espejo
la cara destruida,
con ojos todavía violentos
que no quieres cerrar. Y si te increpo,
te ríes, me recuerdas el pasado
y dices que envejezco.
Podría recordarte que ya no tienes gracia.
Que tu estilo casual y que tu desenfado
resultan truculentos
cuando se tienen más de treinta años,
y que tu encantadora
sonrisa de muchacho soñoliento
-seguro de gustar- es un resto penoso,
un intento patético.
Mientras que tú me miras con tus ojos
de verdadero huérfano, y me lloras
y me prometes ya no hacerlo.
Si no fueses tan puta!
Y si yo supiese, hace ya tiempo,
que tú eres fuerte cuando yo soy débil
y que eres débil cuando me enfurezco...
De tus regresos guardo una impresión confusa
de pánico, de pena y descontento,
y la desesperanza
y la impaciencia y el resentimiento
de volver a sufrir, otra vez más,
la humillación imperdonable
de la excesiva intimidad.
A duras penas te llevaré a la cama,
como quien va al infierno
para dormir contigo.
Muriendo a cada paso de impotencia,
tropezando con muebles
a tientas, cruzaremos el piso
torpemente abrazados, vacilando
de alcohol y de sollozos reprimidos.
Oh innoble servidumbre de amar seres humanos,
y la más innoble
que es amarse a sí mismo!
909
Jaime burrows her toes deeper into the sand.
She watches the sun sink slowly into the skyline,
it’s colors melting on the surface.
Waves churn,
blackness upwells.
It’s her third day on the beach,
her third day watching the color change.
She takes three deep breaths,
contemplating whether she should try to shake off the sand,
or stay sugar coated.
She stands,
takes three steps to the waters edge,
and sticks her sandy toes in the surf.
As silt swallows her feet,
she begins to sink.
She takes three more steps,
foam clinging to her calves.
The sand shifts beneath her feet, but it holds.
Suddenly, she stoops down,
scooping handfuls of water onto herself.
Sand streaks down her arms;
the hem of her dress clings to her legs.
She should sit.
Instead, she takes three more steps.
As her dress floats around her thighs,
she lifts her head, searching.
A wave slaps her back.
Soaked, she stumbles.
Another wave surges.
Her dress snags on the current,
she slips.
The salt stings, but she doesn’t struggle,
except to see three stars as she slips beneath the surface.
Aug 15, 2014
Aug 15, 2014 at 3:19 AM UTC
its how you make fun of everything i do
and how you always leave your clothes behind,
the way you tickle me uncontrollably
and occasionally give me wedgies,
its how you want to be a chef and be a politician and travel the world,
how you always go cross eyed in pictures
and think you're the greatest thing thats ever happened,
how you get unbelievably jealous
and always put me in my place,
its how you've grown to trust me
or at least pretend to to make me happy,
how you dance like an idiot
singing lady gaga and katy perry
and the way you smash me to make me giggle,
its your huge dumb dimples
and your confidence and your humor and your anger,
its the way you look at me until i say what, then never give an answer,
how you call me kellzzz to make fun of me
and never let me win,
its how you hold me all night
and how you snore so ******* loudly,
the way you slap my cheeks and grab my face to kiss me,
the way you call me beautiful even in the messy morning,
its how you're almost as competitive as me
and how you're so freaking smart,
how you taught me about geography and never let me forget it,
its how you love classic movies
and look kind of like jaime lannister,
the way you pick me up till i scream
and always, always make me laugh,
its how you drunkenly told me the words
we both promised we would never say
and how every moment I'm with you
you make me want to say them too
May 19, 2014
May 19, 2014 at 10:16 PM UTC
Jessy
is
a fine
laddie boy
and
Jaime
is
a good
lassie girl
stop here
and
rest awhile
make yourself at home
in
the
green hills of Ireland
but
not to worry
your
weary heads
Jul 1, 2016
Jul 1, 2016 at 10:17 AM UTC
jaime is over
jaime is gone
cathy decided it's time to move on
ganon yon, hindi pwedeng puro si jaime lang
Nov 29, 2019
Nov 29, 2019 at 9:54 AM UTC
Mom I’m home,
Guess what I learned in class today?
I learned what rooms are safest for hiding.
I learned what it sounds like to hear my classmates scream.
I learned what it looks like when the bodies of my friends fall
like pretend soldiers that were never meant for a real war.
Mom, today I learned what war looks like,
because now it looks like our schools.
We wear bulletproof backpacks and carry
textbooks over our heads.
Our base is rigged with smoke bombs to
disorient our enemies and
little black boxes to let them know when we are safe.
Mom, today I learned the meaning of fear.
It means never seeing you again, or Dad.
It means sending texts in between clutching other people’s hands
as we all try to keep quiet as we quiver in the closets.
It means not knowing if the sounds outside the door are
another tortured orphan, another lone wolf,
or the sounds of our saviors coming to bring us home.
Mom, today I learned that I must fight.
I must fight for the future that I want to see.
I must fight for my friends, for other kids,
and for our right to live.
I must fight for Alyssa,
for Scott,
for Martin,
for Nicholas, Aaron, and Jaime.
I must fight for Peter,
for Joaquin,
for Cara, Gina, Luke, and Alaina.
I must fight for Meadow,
for Helena,
Alex, Carmen, Chris,
and all of the other students that won’t be coming home from school.
WE must fight for Parkland, for Sandy Hook, for Columbine, for Marshall County,
and all of the other schools that turned into historical battlegrounds.
Because this is history.
We are all actors if we continue to pretend that everything is okay.
We are all actors if we continue to think that anyone with a gun license
should be able to purchase an assault rifle,
though they continue use it on kids who haven’t even gotten their driver’s licenses yet.
Those of us here today, we are actors because we are fighting for what is right,
we are fighting to have our voices heard and our demands met.
But they are the ones who are acting.
They act like we are to blame for our own murders.
They act like the solution isn’t right in front of them.
They act like school shootings can be fixed with more guns.
No more.
No more guns in our schools.
No more wondering if we’ll make it off campus today.
No more hoping that the world won’t forget their names.
No more fearing for our lives in a place that should be dedicated to educating us,
to bettering us, and to connecting us.
No more.
Mar 13, 2018
Mar 13, 2018 at 11:35 PM UTC
i never chose him
never wanted him
never trusted him
knew he's a fraud
from day one
liar, crook, worm
not a thing gentle,
loving or pure about him
thinks himself
some fracking messiah
all the same
not even a common imp
it's on us
he rose so high
dizzied by his false might
the fall won't be only his
everyone's going down alongside
and in his agony
he will say
BURN THEM ALL!
mad king that he is
jaime, we need you now
more than ever
oathkeeper
Sep 22, 2022
Sep 22, 2022 at 7:32 PM UTC