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

 

Grandma's Invitation

by Julene Waffle

“I can read a newspaper by the moonlight tonight,”

she said, looking out the window above the kitchen sink.

I knew it as a brief invitation,

scratched quickly on air,

to sit and watch the interstitial moments

of deep dusk turned night.

Moon-shadows dripped from tree branches

like honey-glaze on fresh-baked biscuits,

and breezes carried crushed fern and summer tree

musk down the mountain on their backs.

Under wind-tousled hair, we held our breaths

as nocturnal shadows danced and

jumped from tree to tree,

memories of midnight dreams.

Peepers chirruped their love songs;

their lovers answered flirtatiously.

Bats swooped silently for insect supper,

and evening birds tittered and whispered,

buttoning the last vestiges of day to close.

On nights like this, we’d sit on the porch

amidst unfinished chores and stories untold

in thin night dresses and slippers, ready for sleep,

willing witnesses, yet bed and pillow

insufficient temptations.

Together,

we’d sit and listen

in our own silences.

Eyes closed, she’d soak in the damp of

night and heart-whisper her

own love songs and dreams and memories.

Sometimes her lips would curl, flatten, or oh,

forming thoughts on air

but uttering  no sound.

Her white hair brushed out and standing on end,

a crown of wisdom or a cloud of doubt,

I didn’t know which.  

And me, afraid to listen, afraid to not,

I’d watch her, hoping to learn something,

but I couldn't tell what

except to say I wish I had asked.

© Julene Waffle. All rights reserved.

Julene Waffle is a mother of three boys and a secondary English Teacher for over 20 years in a small rural upstate New York school. Her love of language was perpetuated at Hartwick College and Binghamton University. Her poetry, speaking to the everyday people of her everyday life, is widely published.