ISSN 2692-3912

Pack of Poems



Old Apartment Pastoral


A gentle hand, within its kind,

Adamantine grip, carries beans,

Kernels, lentils, and oats, and sews

Them into the soil of a planter.

A hole is dug with a finger and

Sealed back with a stitch.

Green threads poke through

The dirt, bringing an air of hope,

Of kindness, and home to a patio

On the second floor, across from

A brick wall, next to an old tree,

Above a lumpy dirt path,

With each new little life.



Menacing and Intense


I’ve been wanting to cry,

But the bottle in my chest

Has a sunken cork.


A pair of eyes fill heaven,

Their pupils roll my way and

Pin me under anvils of gaze.


Gluttonously, greedily,

I’m ripped apart by hands

Unaware of each other.


Blood, so fraught with stress,

Seeps into the ground

And kills the grass.


Dread and Hope duel

Inside my throat. Clashes are

Heard in my screams.


A little stream of tears

Flows through the cracks

In the draughted soil.


Enduring Hope, in the form

Of tumbleweeds, springs

Out and quickly grows.


That ball of prickly pain

Breaks away from its root

And rolls until it crashes.


Where does the day end,

When work and trouble

Follow me to bed?


A slew of bad news

Meets me at daybreak,

And I just give up.


But this place is empty.

So I get myself free,

And I roll some more,

Until the day my heart stops.



‘Maybe Winter Is a Thing of the Past’ v3


I, once, remembered how the Sun’s gentle, wood-charring rays

Would start to unfurl, and beat at the land

When I’d kindly ask the clouds to move out of the way.

Though, once, they didn’t leave, and the cold that came

Chilled my blood so that my flesh nearly crumbled away.

It had only ever been Winter and her puffy, gray

Armies that would lash me across the back with its icy

Cold air. I hated Winter and cursed the name,

Cursed those whips. How I wanted Winter to bleed, then.


I complained for days to different mystics,

I complained, safe, in the valley of their confidence.

The lashes began to scar over, and through these

Talks, and many many coats, I started to feel better.

So I set on my journey of salvaging

An old Winter friendship, and nothing more.


But could you imagine any gratitude, and love,

To the Sun when Summer invaded Winter’s domain?

Cloud after cloud shot down by the Sun,

Their thick bodies littering the seas and

Adding to their masses. There was

This one stray ray that missed, which

Had struck the Earth in her belly, and set her ablaze.

And my skin charred and bled alongside my whole world,

As I watched the spirit of Winter retreat from the Earth.


Thinking back, to keep tensions low, I had kept the name

I often cursed from moving past my lips

When I grieved to those friends of mine. . .


Except for once.


But, now that I’ve been on this angry, smoldering rock

Would I just like to tell Winter that I’m sorry, and

If she could please come back.





Catching sight of the starriest night sky,

I slipped on my face in a field of sand.

Catching two eyelidfuls of sand in my eye,

I prop myself up on my hands, survey the land,

And proceed to head home.


Smoothly gliding down a turbulent road,

My thoughts sing to me to keep me sane,

Smooth voices sing to me a flowery ode,

My ears catch a lyric about disdain

For this day, and the choir stops.


A pastel sky of oranges and pink

Fills the corners of my sight.

My pupils draw inwards and sink

Deeper into the last rays of light

As I’m filled with bliss at last.


I awake at four in the morning

On a lawn I had no intention

To sleep on, but this lessening

Bout of depression makes mention

Of misfortune mean little.





Where this roast needs

An hour and a half,

I’ve only half of that.


Though it needs more salt,

I’ve sprinkled the last

Of the jar already.


I haven’t the time to

Find the money to

Satisfy my debts cravings,


So I’ll have two bites

Now, and later scrounge

Parking lots for pennies.


I’ve addressed my shyness

But it dominates me still.

It’s boot digs into my neck,


My cowardice my closest

Companion, I couldn’t be

More compliant to my mind’s


Own shackles. I could’ve

Sworn that trying to live

Wasn’t so hard before,


But everyday I’m more

Exhausted than the last.

I tire of being tired,


But at this point I can

Barely move, and I

Wonder if it’s in my head.



Sixto Ocon is a student of American Literature at the University of Texas Permian Basin.