César Love Poetry

Photographs not Taken 

Not the selfie before the pyramid 

Not the banquet where we ate and gorged 

The falcons in formation above your chimney 

The crime you witnessed but your testimony ignored 

That lakeside stroll when sunset rays revealed her truest beauty 

Maybe you held your camera but were too in awe 

It never became a photo, now it’s a minor regret. 

Somewhere in the head’s rear lobe 

Snapshot memories keep in Kodachrome 

Some are stored in black-and-white, some in sepia tone 

There they fade like everything else. 

Finally you are cremated 

Your mind’s gallery turns ash 

Then they become something to touch 

Each picture a shingle on the scales 

Of the wings of your moth.

Daytime Moon 

sighted at 3 o’clock at this hour, 

a salt cracker 

by midnight, vanilla ice cream

Request to the Whale 

You beast of myth, you beast of time 

Your journeys though oceans are vaster than the moon flights 

The barnacles of your hide are as bumpy as the decades, as coarse as history 

I am unworthy to ride on your back. Explain to me one simple thing I might understand. 

Share with me one chapter from your voyages. Teach to me one vowel of your language. 

 

© César Love. All rights reserved. 

 

Cesar Love is a Latino poet influenced by the Asian masters. A resident of San Francisco’s Mission District, he is also an editor of the Haight Ashbury Literary Journal. He is the author of Birthright and While Bees Sleep. cesarlovepoetry.yolasite.com

César Love Poetry

Four Corners 

 

you share with me a picture of your sunset 

I would give one back to you 

But my balcony faces east

 

instead, I offer you 

A midnight 

dawn

And noon

 

three corners of the sky 

with your sunset, they are four 

one diamond of the night and day 

 

Orange 

In the grocery store aisle

one belly button orange with a scar 

others pristine, unblemished 

others soon to be sold

 

Between perfect sisters 

one unbidden sphere 

branded by two discolored inches 

not to be held 

not to be tasted

 

A globe passed over 

oceans never plunged 

forests never inhaled 

landscapes never painted

 

A world unfathomed 

with a navel and a canyon scar 

is the canyon east or west?

north or south? 

perhaps along her belly 

or across a breast

maybe against her cheek. 

 

Moonlight at Noon 

The Moon, My Shadow, and I make Three. – Li Po 

 

I would bake on this planet 

If not for the Moon I invited 

She agreed to let me keep her 

Tucked beneath my blouse 

Her cool face against my belly 

I lounge in her quiet 

I swim in her well 

I bloom in her sanity 

 

The Moon brought me a friend 

One who used to follow me 

She mimicked my every movement 

At first she flattered me 

Then she mocked me 

Finally, she ran away 

I screamed at her, 

Come back here! 

I tried to put a leash on her 

But she was too smart 

I threw a plum at her 

Of course, she thew one back 

We did this for months 

Then the Moon told me her name 

 

The Poet’s Tent 

North or South, she travels 

Always with her tent. 

On chosen ground, 

She slides its rods into the earth.

 

She places cloth on its frame. 

A cloth she imagined 

Something like a Mexican rebozo 

Something like an Amish quilt 

A cloth that exchanges colors 

That switches latticework 

Cloth that vibrates to the heartbeat of deer 

Cloth that answers the whispers of trees

 

The poet smooths the floor 

She unrolls her carpet 

Psychic knots detach from its tendrils: 

abandoned theories 

dropped desires 

jettisoned memories. 

They pulse on her floor. 

Soon to transform 

Soon to become 

feral opals 

protean metals 

iris crystals. 

She prepares the door 

Butterflies of every stripe arrive 

 

© César Love. All rights reserved. 

 

Cesar Love is a Latino poet influenced by the Asian masters. A resident of San Francisco’s Mission District, he is also an editor of the Haight Ashbury Literary Journal. He is the author of Birthright and While Bees Sleep. cesarlovepoetry.yolasite.com

Cesar Love Poetry

Inventory 

I am removing items from my refrigerator 
Cheeses that wouldn’t save 
Vegetables that had hoped for another day 
Strange meats forgotten in the attic 

There is rancid stuff in jars 
There is wilted stuff in baggies 
I acknowledge them and say good-bye 
In the basement 
There is a unique kind of sweet potato 
Which was given by a friend 
I had forgotten about them both 


Donut Shop 

most customers order theirs to go 
the glazed, the old fashioned, the maple bars 
they take them in small white bags 
the big orders in pink boxes 

there are also patrons who order “for here” 
they nest at the counter and at tables beside the window 
daydreams floating like buttermilk bars 
memories uncurling like cinnamon rolls 
amusements twirl 
ideas fancy as French twists

flavorsome steam ascends from the coffee pots 
dark roast, kona, or hazel 
refills on the house 

© Cesar Love. All rights reserved. 

Cesar Love is a Latino poet influenced by the Asian masters. A resident of San Francisco’s Mission District, he is also an editor of the Haight Ashbury Literary Journal. 

He is the author of Birthright and While Bees Sleep. 
cesarlovepoetry.yolasite.com

 

Cesar Love Poetry

Black Molasses 
by Cesar Love

Light cannot pass through me
I swallow every spark
I put out each candle I smother the streetlamp
I douse the lighthouse

The moon, the sun, and the day
Down they go in my distillery
Everything bright milled by my night
There I make them black like me
There I make them pure like me

When I am ready, I make the world sweet
Give me flour, I make gingerbread
Give me water, I become rum
Give me an audience, I become music

I am black molasses
I go the speed that I choose
They say I move slow, but really I move free
In this sugar, you meet freedom
In this, sugar, you become four-alarm cool
The bongo of minutes, the gong of the hours,
Simple flickers on the still of your soul

"Black Molasses" was previously published in Birthright by Cesar Love
© Cesar Love. All rights reserved.

Cheekbones 

The handsome Native
His cheekbones are not chiseled
He is not made of granite
He is not made of marble

The handsome Native
His cheekbones are flesh and bone
They have felt hurricanes
They have met tornadoes

The handsome Native
His face fathoms all weather
He has withstood hatred
He has withstood other small winds

© Cesar Love. All rights reserved.

Cesar Love is a Latino poet influenced by the Asian masters. A resident of San Francisco's Mission District, he is also an editor of the Haight Ashbury Literary Journal. His latest book is titled Birthright. His previous book While Bees Sleep was published by CC. Marimbo Press. cesarlovepoetry.yolasite.com

Rock Collection

By César Love

I seek escape, not in smoke

Not in drink

But in rocks I’ve gathered

None are boulders, few are pebbles

The perfect mass gorges my two hands

Hardness is my comfort, density my high.

The Black One brings me to outer space

The Purple, a utopian palace

The Orange, a feast devoured slowly

The Grey, a ferry to oblivion

My comedown is softness

Reality, a sinkhole in feathers

Below my pillow

I keep an opal

Always the Land

When the storms end, he is quiet to all but the deaf

Many hear the whispers of streams, the mumbles of rivers 

But below the threshold of a lapping pond

There are sounds as soft as a tadpole’s heartbeat

At volumes quieter than grass

The land delivers a wordless sermon

You are free to leave before the end, for the sermon has no end

Can you bear the spastic stillness?

If you can listen for ten minutes, you are free to ask a question.

If you can listen for an hour, you can ask for anything you need.

Ask what about your bees?

The trellis on your porch, broken by the eight-foot weeds

It’s painted and repaired, ready for the blossoms

To greet the sun and moon, ready for the blossoms

To welcome back the bees.

Listen to the honey spinning into gold

Ask what about the blackout?

Remember the fireflies you caught so long ago?

You hid them in a basement jar.

Realize you’re one of them.

Hands unlock the lid, hands let all of you free.

Listen to the land echoing your glow

Lake Chabot

Castro Valley, California

Blue water, mirror of day

Show us the breadth of the sky

Dark water, mirror of night

How lovely the moon on your throat

Sweet water, ripples and tides

Ladles of kisses

The brush of your tongue moistens our clay

Deep water, so certain the currents

Sleepless their movement

Sleepless your will

Still water, gentle the splashes

So peaceful your power

So quiet creation

The Sprinklers

Surprised on sunny park grass

The intrusion of sprinkler water

Hidden fountains meant for moonlight

Let loose by mistimed dials

An accidental shower

Perhaps you scamper from the grass

Safe and only a little wet

Perhaps they give you a hearty splash

Soaked or dry

Savor the wet sparklers

The cool of deepsome wells

This is not the Alhambra

This is not Niagara

Small rainbows

The rise and fall of water drops

An arc of musical notes

Spiring to the sky

In love enough

To fall to Earth.

© César Love. All rights reserved.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR: César Love writes poems about displacement and the search for home. He can be found at open mics of the San Francisco Bay Area. His new book of poems is titled Birthright. 
http://cesarlovepoetry.yolasite.com/