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.
.
Somethingful
.
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.
.
Roast
.
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.
