Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
Sitting in a café in mexico
Listening to French songs on the radio
Drinking a pacifico and trying to remember how I got here

I think I caught the ship in San Francisco
After I caught the blues in Tennessee
And then I got kicked off down here in southern mexico
Yea, I think its finally coming back to me
And im
Sitting in a café in mexico
Listening to French songs on the radio
Drinking a pacifico and trying to remember how I got here

Well I watched Singyn ride the rail
so I jumped on that train
had close calls and broke some laws
never even felt the pain
ran all over town that night red paintbrushes in hand
I cant explain no more cuz I don’t think you’d understand

Well the ‘One Stop Mariachi Shop’
Is where we bought our leather vests
Tried our luck at bullfighting and lost but did our best
Found out roller skates don’t work when you’re on cobblestone
All out of pesos and I just want to go home
(c)2008 CJG
Kyle Kulseth Nov 2012
We're washing in
On waves we ride
     on the Crimson Tide
Washing up
Drying out
     it'll be alright--
Six pack Pacifico, it's all sympatico
and copasetic
          but it's so pathetic
you're living hermetic
     You can't even smell the trees.

It's an age--or it's becoming--
     one of reckless living
     and sin forgiving
Finding time to be alone

     I'm not alone
        I know
    Just one out of millions
Cover streets and subjects and bare midriffs
     pull sardonic smiles tight

Disagreements turn to fights
     but not on my watch
           not on my watch
           not on my
WATCH WHAT I CAN DO!

The Stupendous Calamari,
   that is what they call me
     'cause just
          watch what I can't do!--

Got eight long arms
And no axe to grind
Six-pack Pacifico, that still leaves two, you know
     One to pick up
     One to dial
     Tell you you were right
     Five to put away the empties
     One to save one for tomorrow,
     For the Crimson Tide
     But you never liked
     Never liked that movie much.

And anyway

     Time to take some time to
                       take some time
I got some time for drying out.
Arcassin B Jun 2018
By Arcassin Burnham

Strawberry fields forever,
But those old fruit just rot,
In a world so so **** messed-up like man you gotta give it all you got,
The pressures on,
Make sure you don't have tired feet in a giant race we call humans so don't front,
We all get irritated and angry and put on fronts,
So why give your time to someone that's gonna take the clock and Bangs the batteries out of it and make you lose track,
Now head back to the race of life,
Only you decide,
If you wanna die in vain or be liberated,
If your the type,
Or fight your urges and change your life,
It's not hard,  you just got to get your views just right,
I'm sorry but where the **** were you when I got in fights?
Where were you when I got kicked out of my mother house and I had no lights?
Where were you when I was being isolated and all the kids hated and broke my concentration and anxiety had a hold on me bad and,
Everything in this world just make me sad man,
They throwing all of my pride up in the trash can,
But this all just to be a man,
And looking to the most high,  now I understand.

put all insecurities aside for the heir.
‎this world ain't just what it seems,
‎We all have to care,
‎The racists,the fakes,the satanists,
‎we'll leave you all there,
‎We will all risk our lives everyday,
‎The rapture will be here,

We all need to hold hands in this cold society,
not one person in the world can take on an army,
better not let your guard down not even for a second,
not even for a minute...


Concentrate,
Accelerate,
Don't situate your bodies body.
Your soul.
You better meditate,
And educate,
Just liberate your bodies body.
Behold.
Concentrate,
Accelerate,
Don't situate your bodies body.
Your soul.
You better meditate,
And educate,
Just liberate your bodies body.
Behold.

put all insecurities aside for the heir.
‎this world ain't just what it seems,
‎We all have to care,
‎The racists,the fakes,the satanists,
‎we'll leave you all there,
‎We will all risk our lives everyday,
‎The rapture will be here,

We all need to hold hands in this cold society,
not one person in the world can take on an army,
better not let your guard down not even for a second,
not even for a minute.

Dos.
http://arcassin.blogspot.com/2018/06/pacifico-ii.html

©abpoetry2018
Nat Lipstadt Nov 2015
~for Steve R. & Stephen Y.~

"two regrets are mine -
not finding you earlier in life when...words would have carved for me a better road, and...not hand-ing you a touch, the perfect tightness-shake of one's hand reserved for fondest friends and the light press on one's back deserved for dearest brothers!"
~~~

the light press surety of five fingers on one,
oh, what messages it composes, oh, what duty weighty it transmits

dear brothers:

tho this hands-on handoff, this fly-over, is still a  
mission unaccomplished,
yet no regrets, please!

men don't overuse superlatives,
what you lovingly uncover in my rocket-verbal Mars probes,
is more telling, more revealing of  who you are,
than any hand-tightness shake,
any touching grasp, could e'er convey

yet I promise, forsworn upon the cross
of the north west Pacifico latitude and longitude
a latitude that just happens to intersect
my olden, new english state,
knowing that Interstate 90
a straight transcontinental shot,
and the car keys just an impulse grab away

to tell your arms, your face, your back, our hands,
that when you love my poetry,
you love me,
you friends,
are an affirmation of  Pablo Neruda's words:

"whoever discovers who I am
discovers who you are"


fondness is not distance constrained,
touching grasps pay no obeisance to time,
the honor of your affection permanent
affirmed and enflamed,
all mine, sublime, to lead my heart,
where to lay hands upon your back,
to realize even more
our single united rhyme
November 7, 2015
4:50 pm
nyc/nl
Dean Sep 2014
He talks about his days they’re almost over
The headstone is a truth told entirely in lies
Soldiers on for the sake of nostalgia
Counts his smarts like the lines on a dial

Fakes it like a real man
Caught by the feeling, meets the ceiling as a ghost

Monuments to skin those days are over
A healthy dose of same ain’t enough to keep it down
No one left to blame, by the time it hits the ground

Working against the blood flow,
I thought I’d know me a bit by now
But we’re all stuck in limbo

Frontin’ its own occasion
Wading out with lead boots, down the line
Get me off that straight and narrow
Call to arms that magistrate, its a crime

Working against the blood flow,
I thought I’d know me a bit by now
But we’re all stuck in limbo..
Victor Marques Jan 2012
O mar dos poetas

Sereias do mar em que eu acredito,
Ilhas do oceano pacifico,
Noites que dormem em mim,
Cavalgadas no horizonte sem fim.

Escravizados pela monotonia que nos engana,
Faróis que alertam os desprevenidos,
O azul do mar que nos chama,
Poema dos poetas esquecidos.

A liberdade dos versos meus,
Ondas brancas com espuma,
Linhas azuis de coisa alguma,
O mar e Deus.

Cemitérios dos poetas sem nome,
Barcos sem velas içadas,
Imensidão que abraça e consome,
O mar, os poetas e suas cavalgadas.

Victor Marques
Wörziech May 2014
Vindouras lágrimas de outras dimensões, de aleatórias caixas, de onde emanam as palavras que sustentam o tempo passado pensando e perdido em certa densa desordem por mim criada e alimentada; confusão estendida e desfocada que me faz, ainda hoje, perder o senso, obscurece a visão e me torna apropriadamente observador do incompreensível momentâneo. A tentar não expor o que não compreendo, não vejo calmaria ostentável, plano exponencial de trajetória constante, não vejo a solução vendida em caras garrafas italianas previamente datadas.
Faço uso da máquina para aliviar sua tensão perante tolas invenções por mim proferidas; também consulto meus cálculos lógicos de verdadeira atração; me vejo então este pacifico vivente, com todas as respostas para não fazer perguntas. O silêncio está duradouro e enlouquecedor.
The Fire Burns Sep 2016
We mount up and ride the road
Leather clad and bikini topped beauty
clings to my waist

The wind is in our face
her hair blows ferociously
goggles spotted with bugs

Confederate flag do-rag
club vest, decorated
nickname on the back

500 miles of pure bliss
curves and hills and straights
in the summer sun

Stop along the way
outdoor bar
El Pacifico and lime
inspired by a friends poem and a different friends motorcycle pic on facebook
The Fire Burns Oct 2016
Fire up the grill
its time to thrill
Tastebuds on tongues
Seasonings flung

Rub it all on
Garlic and tarragon
Butter and thyme
The smell is divine

Lemon squeeze.
Sure to please
Wrap it in foil
Pleasure in toil

Coals glowing red, look
Ready to cook
Hear the sizzle and pop
Pop open a top

El pacifico with lime
Helps **** the time
Now asparagus with dill
Goes down on the grill

Out comes parslied rice
Will pair really nice
Asparagus is ready
Salmon aroma is heady

Get your plate
Don't be late
Labor day dinner
Sure was a winner
Grilled salmon, rice, asparagus, and a few other things
I'm lost in the sea of your navy grey eyes.... sublime....I could float in them til the end of time.

Sueño con aquel maritimo azul-gris del pacifico océano de tus ojos.  Andando en vela y con velas, perdido en lo placentero de esos dos espejos de tu alma...los que yo hasta el fin del mundo escojo.
Oh yeah....just so nobody gets the wrong idea...this is for the speed demon angel
We are all rivers, you see.

Your own reflection is held by the fish you catch, at breeze point of day. At golden oaks Sunday sun.

At summer’s hold, a the chapel’s bell, heard, prayed, taught that…

THE SAND, fate, a stranded old dog, like myself. At early morning lunch, I hunt at rivers. And so my face washed by the glass like greens of water, watermelon.
We are rivers, this is mine, this is reflected by my memories and my torments.

atoned sinners, contrite heart

A book full of blood, washed up, up to her simmering feet, her lovely, tanned feet. The women I’ll forever hold my service too, and my heart hung at the museum for her, to remember devotion.

unspoils ungrateful, heals the lost.

Like a gun in the down LOW of whiskey barrel
O a gambler sombrero, who drinks sotol at the Pacifico of México. And walks by wine bodegas, not found, not lost, but searching. She somehow found me. By my river, her river, both our. You see, we are all rivers.

TIME is much more valuable, when you sort out your troubles with stories to tell…
Wörziech May 2013
Vindouras as lágrimas de outras dimensões, de aleatórias caixas, de onde emanam as palavras que sustentam o tempo passado pensando e perdido em certa densa confusão por mim criada e alimentada; confusão estendida e desfocada que me faz, ainda hoje, perder o senso, obscurece a visão e me torna apropriadamente observador do incompreensível momentâneo. A tentar não expor o que não compreendo, não vejo calmaria ostentável, plano exponencial de trajetória inconstante, não vejo a solução vendida em caras garrafas italianas previamente datadas. Faço uso da máquina para aliviar sua tensão perante tolas invenções por mim proferidas; também consulto meus cálculos lógicos de verdadeira atração... me vejo então este pacifico vivente, com todas as respostas para não fazer perguntas. O silêncio está duradouro e enlouquecedor. Preciso de um tempo, por favor.

— The End —