Free Verse Poster Contest

I chose this line from the poem "If" by Rudyard Kipling (one of my favorite poets) because the second I read the line, it made me think. It made me realize that no matter how bad things might go, even if you have lost all hope on everything (including yourself) you should still hold on, and keep on trying.

If 

by Rudyard Kipling

If you can keep your head when all about you
Are losing theirs and blaming it on you,
If you can trust yourself when all men doubt you,
But make allowance for their doubting too;
If you can wait and not be tired by waiting,
Or being lied about, don't deal in lies,
Or being hated, don't give way to hating,
And yet don't look too good, nor talk too wise:

If you can dream - and not make dreams your master;
If you can think - and not make thoughts your aim;
If you can meet with Triumph and Disaster
And treat those two impostors just the same;
If you can bear to hear the truth you've spoken
Twisted by knaves to make a trap for fools,
Or watch the things you gave your life to, broken,
And stoop and build 'em up with worn-out tools:

If you can make one heap of all your winnings
And risk it on one turn of pitch-and-toss,
And lose, and start again at your beginnings
And never breathe a word about your loss;
If you can force your heart and nerve and sinew
To serve your turn long after they are gone,
And so hold on when there is nothing in you
Except the Will which says to them: 'Hold on!'

If you can talk with crowds and keep your virtue,

Or walk with Kings - nor lose the common touch,
if neither foes nor loving friends can hurt you,
If all men count with you, but none too much;
If you can fill the unforgiving minute
With sixty seconds' worth of distance run,
Yours is the Earth and everything that's in it,
And - which is more - you'll be a Man, my son!

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Color Collective Poem #2

Antique Lace-Benjamin Moore

922

Soft pearls,

God’s beads wrapped inside

Your wrinkled –but sage

Hand.

Each prayer is a soft

Lullaby

Sung to me by the

Wisest of mockingbirds

Sung to me by the

Ancient mysterious

Angels

That seem to consume

All of your careful

Attention.

I drift off into a religious sleep

While you lull me with the

Devoted voice of an angel

Passionately praying

Hail Mary’s

Our Father

And the Glory Be.

I arouse with the sound of the rosary

Being wrapped around your

Oh so

Heavenly

Hand.

The words wrapped around my

Oh so

Innocent

Heart.

I smile,

A sad smile,

Because the luggage is waiting

In the back of a car.

A car that will detach me

From you.

And all that will be left

Are assumptions, questions,

Doubts.

I will ponder whether I will get to

See you again.

They say you forget,

They say you don’t understand,

But I know

You do.

You whisper in my ear

Something about a present,

You have for me.

So I help you walk,

While you weakly grasp

Onto your wooden cane.

I feel that sour pressure

In my nose, tears that are slowly

Climbing

So I swallow.

I swallow because it takes

One tear

For you to collapse.

I swallow.

Your bony

Shaky hand

Struggles to open the second drawer

So I help.

All I see is antique lace.

I never really thought about

It.

What your undies looked like,

I never really thought about

How fragile and angelic

They would be.

A red pouch emerges from all the lace,

And you carefully open up the rusty,

Worn out zipper.

A green 20 dollar bill touches my hand

And time stops when you hold

Each

And every one of my fingers.

The money means nothing me,

It’s you that matters,

It’s you that I want to hold on to.

I kiss your ancient forehead

And look into your watery eyes.

I swallow

Scared of what might become of you

Scared because every night

I will pray

Pray to the same God you are so

Devoted to

Pray for him to protect you.

Because I want to make sure

That no matter where I go

You’ll still be there

Waiting for me 

to return.

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Color Collective Poem

Smoke Gray-Benjamin Moore
2120-40

The door is closed,

And will not open

For the sky shows nothing

But darkness.

I can barely hear your steps

I can barely feel your presence

As I listen to the TAS TAS

Of the stethoscope hit the

Dinner table.

The next thing I hear isn’t out

Of the extraordinary and I realize

I was wrong.

You go out the backdoor

And I can see you

With the clean

White robe that mom so carefully

Washed.

The robe of a doctor that will soon

Reek

Gray smoke.

When the doors are locked,

And the curtains shut,

Your heavy steps

Travel through the stairs.

But before you reach me,

Your youngest daughter,

I inhale.

I inhale all the  gray acid fog

That comes

With you.

The early light announces day,

Announces another weekend.

I numbly go down the stairs

Only to see you and

Your loyal companion.

Your minion

Dangling from your forefinger and your middle finger

Carefully sitting on your right hand.

You seem so consumed,

So obssesed,

Closing your eyes every time you

Smell,

Every time the doctor takes a drag.

I’ve seen them.

The publicity that blames it

All

On the cigarette.

I’ve seen them.

The professionals talking about

The nicotine,

The tar,

The carbon monoxide

And all the components that will soon bring

Lung cancer,

Emphysema

And heart diseases.

Yet I come home,

Only to find you inhaling,

Only to find you enjoying

The pleasure and satisfaction

That the smoke brings.

So please promise me and I’ll hope.

Promise me you’ll remember the time

When you were so addicted,

When breathing smoke

Made you blithe.

And I’ll hope for health to fight every battle.

Promise me you’ll never forget the

Cigarette butts

That were left in the ashtray.

And I’ll hope for health to fight every battle.

Promise me you won’t regret

The minutes you spent

Igniting those mistakes.

And I’ll hope for health to fight every battle.

For if the emphysema never catches up to you,

I promise you I’ll remember the second-hand smoke

That came from the doctor

That inhaled

All the

Gray Smoke.

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Where I'm From

I am from Basketball,

From Marathon and Sportline.

I am from the tamales inside the busy kitchen

(steamy, inviting, smelled of

Colombian pride).

I am from plucking clovers,

From blowing dandelion’s seeds,

Nature that just like the tides in the sea,

Changed direction,

Changed inspiration,

Changed me.

I am from arepas every Sunday

And long, lengthy, lean legs.

From Carolina and Nelly,

Doing everything my own way.

I am from the star students,

From responsible,

Successful ones.

From You Can Do Better and Erase It And Do It Again.

I am from rosaries with grandma,

From First Comunion with my uncle as the priest,

I am from knowing all the prayers,

That mom so carefully whispered to me,

Right after daddy said,

Buckle your seatbelts!

I am from Bogotá, San José, and Quito.

From Fritanga, tortillas and Locro.

I am from every little detail,

That once made me smile,

I am from that first thought,

That always pops in my head.

I do not come from,

One

Special place.

From its time to meet your grandfather,

(the one that left your grandmother)

A long time ago.

I am from one thousand

Family members,

Always sticking together,

Familia Granadilla.

No matter how many airports I visit,

I know my family when I see it.

I know their hugs, I know their kisses,

I know my family when I see it.

Because I love how we talk until

3am.

Because I love how we laugh about

what others say.

  

I am from people,

From the people I love,

From the people I hate,

Too.

And what I love the most,

Is that the thought of them

(their laughs, their compliments)

The thoughts of writing them this

Poem,

Makes my insides twirl,

Makes my heart ache,

Makes me crave for when I’ll return,

To where I am

From.