Poetry For Our Time

Poetry heals the wounds inflicted by reason. -Novalis

Author Archive

At The Wake

with 2 comments

It’s raining out, of course. My brothers, Ricky and Tom, and I walk across the wet, slick street to the pasty white funeral home. Tom walks with the swagger of someone who not only wears a suit constantly, but loves every moment of it. He smoothly reaches up and removes his sunglasses, lips pursed like he a badass mother fucka, because he knows if he walks inside with them on and Dad sees him, we’ll need to get another coffin for him. Ricky constantly pulls at his tie, his shoulders shifting so much it might look like a dance, if not for the uncomfortable look on his face. We get inside and the rest of the family is there. The children make quick last arrangements with the funeral home director, where the backboard of pictures should be placed, when the casket should be closed, while the young grandchildren, my three little sisters and the one little cousin, go off and start filling in the coloring books. The rest of us move on to the casket, for one last look at Papa. His hands clasp his holy crucifix and ever present rosary. A small bulge in his pocket marks where the holy water blessed by Pope John Paul II lays. His face, though, seems naked without his glasses, his usual joy devoid from the now waxy and lifeless face. i don’t stay long. The kids take our seats behind the parents, who must now face the lines of strangers offering their condolences. Tom immediately starts making trouble. He looks at me and asks, “Wanna hear a joke?” I give him the dirtiest stare I can muster. “No, I do not want to hear a racist joke, Tom.”

“Ok, well there was a black kid, a white kid, and a me-”

“Stop it Tom.”

“-xican kid in a preschool. The-”

“Tom, do you really want me to get your nice new suit all bloody?” He stops. But we all know that we won’t stay quite long. Only five minutes pass before I give up trying to rein them in and I go along with Tom’s joking. I laugh at how the night before, he had tried chugging a can of soda as fast as he could and threw up in the process, Ricky begins terrorizing out little sister Catie, and my older sister Marita and my cousin Joey begin swapping their best drinking stories. For a moment, I worry that we’re being uncomfortable with death, that we’re coping ineffectually with the death that we are surrounded by. But that’s dumb. We’re just being Calderons, Papa is in a better place, and I’m sure his beaming down on us, even if we’re being a little unruly at his wake.

Ok so not a poem and im not even really even sure whats going on with it. i just needed something to write i suppose. so let me know what you think, if you can pry any meaning out of it that i should liven up a bit. I might go into the actual funeral later


Written by gorditodelgado

April 14, 2009 at 3:01 am

Posted in Poem

Why I Suck at Life

with one comment

She says it

I’m taken aback

I want to respond

Tell her she’s wrong




Because she’s right

Because everything she says is

the truth

I Failed

I’m Just As Bad As Him

I’m Heartless

I’m A Coward

Written by gorditodelgado

February 25, 2009 at 6:11 am

Posted in Poem


with 3 comments

A is for Acid

B is for Base

I’m going to punch

my chem teacher in the face.

Ok, so I know that most you guys are English majors and such, but you know what an acid and base are right? You know what the pH scale lookds like, and if some one told you that orange juice is a 6 or whatever, youd be able to put together which side, above 7 or below seven, is acid and which is base, right? Well in my 102 level chem class today we spent and houra nd a half lecture learning a bout all these things. Like we were in Freshman (in highschool) chemistry. It upset me a bit, and i suppose that its not the teaches fault if its in the required curricullum (i dont think thats spelt right), so i guess i dont really want to punch her, more so just the class in a very abstract sense. haha not much of poem

Written by gorditodelgado

February 17, 2009 at 10:06 pm

Posted in Poem

and the other

with one comment

This was in tribute to “To His Coy Mistress” by Andrew Marvell for Honecker I think, or Samsa. I’m pretty sure it’s Honecker tho

To His Ambitious Mistress

By: Mike Calderon

Had we but world enough and time,

This ambition, my friend, would be no crime.

To the movies we could go

And you could pay for the show.

When the lights go down, your hand I’d hold,

My jacket you’d wear when it got cold,

And perhaps after a thousand years

I’ll change enough to belay your fears.

I might fall in love with you, but I think

That even after a millennia, our hearts won’t link.

Now don’t get me wrong, I do care

About you, your happiness, and your welfare

And such love I have for you.

And this love I hope you have too.

For you seem to be more of a good friend

And such a relationship I would not want to end.

So we can hang out after school

And going out to eat after practice is cool.

We can talk at lunch about that test

and when it comes to doubles ping pong we’re the best.

Our Camaraderie we can easily show

But let’s stick with friends and take it slow.

Written by gorditodelgado

February 16, 2009 at 1:43 am

Posted in Poem

Make up

with one comment

ok here’s some old stuff some of you have seen, but its just a couple to make up for all the missed stuff

Write in Coherent Sentences, Please:
A poem about extreme dislike for poetry
By: Mike Calderon

Oh, yes, I hate poetry
And though it may come as a surprise,
It invokes within me
A feeling I despise.

Most people look at poetry
and think, “Oh that’s just great!
It sounds so pretty and melodious,
But an analysis I will not make!”

Well I think it’s stupid
To hide behind your stanzas.
It’s as if you don’t want them to hear,
It’s like you’ve gone Sardines-bananzas.

You wedge your thoughts and feelings
Behind your rhyme and wit,
And once one guy or girl has figured it out
He (or she) plops next to you and ya sit
And wait for the rest of us to figure it out.

In my eyes there are but three reasons
Someone would wish to in this way write
The first is for love, and then for gloom
And the last is to take a bite
At society.

In reverse order I shall respond
To these reasons three,
Mostly because it was the only way it would rhyme,
But also because this was written by not you, but me.

So the latter was society
And at it you shake your fist
Your sick of its infamy
Its cruelty and immoralness…t.

Well let’s just catch our breath
And take a good step back
And pull our good old history book
Out of our trusty knapsack.

It says no poet is revered
For having the guts to dare
To stand up to McCarthy
And Stalin to end the Red Scare.

No writer is heralded as
The slayer of injustice and slavery.
Nor the winner of World War I, or II, or Nam,
And we still have hunger and poverty.

No, that power is from… a president,
And not from what you write.
You may be the voice of the people
But only in hindsight.

So go out and run for mayor!
Go set a precedent!!
Maybe people will follow and change the world
(Or at least vote for president)!

Well, maybe it’s not society
That pushes your peeve button,
But it’s sadness, your lonesome, life sucks,
You feel like your missin’ sumtin.

Well, I’m afraid the general public
are not the ones to be addressed.
Those are memories not so fond,
Probably sad and maybe repressed.

You should tell a relative or friend,
But what you don’t want to do
Is bring them over to open up
And then hand them an emotional sudoku.

They’ll ponder over your metaphors,
They’ll crunch through it for a while;
And maybe they’ll get it but,
Being frank would be faster than going for style.

It’s cool if it helps you cope
With some bad memory or event,
But PLEASE do not publish
That poem used to vent!!

If you do, then, out comes
The good old history book;
And millions of kids in English class
Will at your life have to look.

And it won’t be the good
But the bad times we’ll study
And connect your experiences with your poem
And make my life also feel cruddy.

Now before I cause us all
To fall into a state of depression,
Let’s move onto a topic
To which I advocate no oppression.

Now if you were paying attention,
You know what is in store.
It’s an often overused word
That the French call amore.

If you write of true love
Publish it, sell it, just bring it back.
Today “I love you” is worthless.
Real love is something we lack

Use a million metaphors
And who needs punctuation?
As long as you can bring love back
To this shallow and shameless nation.

So let’s review, shall we?
I can do it with ease.
It’s a message for all you writers out there:
Write in coherent sentences, please!

Written by gorditodelgado

February 16, 2009 at 1:41 am

Posted in Poem

Falling behind

with one comment

Alright guys so im kinda falling behind the pack on this thing but classes are getting to be kind of a lot right now so hopefully ill be able to catch up over the weekend. if not… i dont know, ill sing a ballad in spanish for you next time i see you, urr something

edit: so right after i published this i decided that im gonna wrote the most ridiculous love ballad ever in spanish for one of my poems. I dont think many of you will be able to read it, so you can just imagine my sultry voice singing it… and i suppose about half of you havent hear dmy sultry voice… well…. im going to go to sleep


Written by gorditodelgado

February 6, 2009 at 7:40 am

Posted in Uncategorized

A Preview

with 4 comments

I’m pretty flipping busy today, so all i have time for is a quick preview of a poem ill finish eventually

Why Ben Franklin Wasn’t President

Our Country has seen great presidents:

Washington, Jeffereson, Taft, Monroe

And each has set their great presedent

Included is Ben Franklin, right? NO!!!!

Basically Ben was a terrible guy

so a horrid president he’d make

And now you say, “But why?”

Well i wrote this to tell you for goodness sake!

If Benjamin Franklin were president:

Prostitution would be alright

Brothels would run rampant

Marriage the dust would bite

And our ethics would be hampered

Written by gorditodelgado

February 3, 2009 at 8:50 pm

Posted in Poem