Archive for the ‘English Poetry’ Category

My Kite
October 30, 2009

By Pol Arellano

An inner child’s view of love and possession.

I was getting worried
I thought my kite wouldn’t make it
But then I saw its tail flutter
Like a butterfly in heat
Amongst the ink-blotted sky
And I smiled

This isn’t the season for kite-flying,
Or so they said
But I couldn’t disagree more
Kites will dance
Even if the wind
Refuses to cooperate
Yes, my indigo-bellied kite
Shall fly
High up in the sky
And the rhymes will get better after
Each flutter
They will just stop
As I smile

My kite beats hers
And any other kid’s for that matter
Because my kite can
And enunciate
The words spoken by your grandmother
When she was still in her flour-sack undies

My kite is unlike any other
It smells like bread rolls and
Buttered onions
Laid out on a Midsummer’s day picnic
My kite smells like a virgin
For my kite is a virgin
Flirting with nothing
Not even the sky
Or the Eagles
Or your brain

My kite sounds like
A concerto
Of one-legged violinists
All ninety-nine of them playing
For the last time
Crying for glory
And roses
And canned applause
And maybe even a goodie bag

My kite beats all iPods
And all Tower Records
My kite is a symphony
Created by strangers and sweethearts
Under the white and blue protection
Of the trusty transit

My kite beats hers.
My kite is unlike any other.

I need not worry.
You’re already mine.

The Meek Man Who Could
September 29, 2009

By Pol Arellano


He’s meek, this man; the man who could

And all who walk like he be should

He captures light and traps each beam

And puts the Lord on prime esteem

Good odes he keeps in heart and mind

And teachings of the One most kind

Service, he draws on talent; flair

For those who need the utmost care

How meek! This man, this man who could

And be like he I pray I would

With works of good he mutely plods

He trusts the truth – that praise is God’s

Dedicated to a man who believes that service is sacred and for all the people who share the same faith.

Carpe Diem.
August 17, 2008

By Pol Arellano

Come smile with me on this putrid day

Smile at the blinding sun.

Look, isn’t that your mother

Holding twelve paper bags in her hands?

Why don’t you go and help her?

Come smile with me some other time

Maybe come back after an hour

Or after you see Mr. Procs win at checkers

But let me remind you that the sun won’t shine for you, love.

It won’t shine again for you.

So what are you going to do?

Oaths are Tasty.
August 1, 2008

This poem was inspired by the vile thoughts running around my head on the 30th of July, 2008. Oaths are tasty. They just didn’t cook it right.

Oaths are Tasty

By Pol Arellano

I’ve always thought

That oaths were something that you cannot

Trap under

Beautiful effigies and numbered claps and that

They were tasty beyond belief.

More intimate than red hot kisses

Underneath damp mattresses that

Rumple and cringe

To the very thought of intimacy

“Not again,” they’d think with their mattress minds.

But, sir yes sir, they are damn tasty.

Oaths are tasty

Tasty beyond belief

Tasty beyond damn belief, sir

Oh, you beg to disagree?

You must have been cooking them the wrong way, then.

Kings are sweet all the time
July 31, 2008

By Pol Arellano

If you could defeat me

You could count on my sweet, splendor-filled promise

That the sun between the moving valleys

Belonging to the lazy giant you’ve stoned

To infinite irritation

Shall be yours to keep

You can count on that, dear friend.

If you could pin me to the ground

And rip my rusted crown

Out of my bulging head

You can be sure to enjoy

The graveyard my people have been nursing

For years plus a thousand

Yours will be the green vastness

That turns into a lovely shade of black and gold

When treaded by the right footsteps

You will have dominion over their

Dead myths and hopes

Their fantasies and dreams

Their weaknesses and lusts


Six to seven feet below the

Sweet, sweet lips of the ground

Yes you can.

If you could slit my throat

And free my screaming crimson

Out of its obedient frame

You may keep the Dancing Swans of Eden

Who will dance unceasingly

Till your eyes vomit salt-trimmed manifestations

Of grief, greed and gusto

You shall listen

And move your bloodied fingers to the rhythm

And swords and bayonets

May not disturb your solace

You may.

If you could puncture my fist-shaped beater

With your indispensable spear

You shall bed my lovely daughters

The princesses of my land and life

All seventy-nine of their milk-like complexions

And strawberry dispositions

They will line up

All in their best gowns and perfumes

To give you their chastity belts

And persuade you to spend

Some saccharine sweat

On their majestic mattresses

But you better watch your back, my lad

Daggers are easily hidden

In maddening whispers and soft light

But all of these

You may have

Yes you may.

If you could cut my thinker off

In one swift motion

With your ambitious sword

Hold me by my golden tresses

And raise me up high and proud

Let my blood flow to the clay-colored earth

But be sure to silence my mouth

For I may just praise you without apparent end

And proclaim your courageous victory

To the uplands and lowlands

So that they could bow

And asphyxiate you with their stares

And you might just feel

Like you would want to sew me back in place

Sew me like a milk-maid would her daughter’s

Beaten-up rag doll

But the deed is done

The deed is done

And you can count on it

Yes you can

And you may

Yes you may

For you shall

Oh you shall

If you behead me

Then the crown is yours to keep

Until another behead-er

Beheads you

Of your glorious state

Or you could always defend your crown

If it fits

If it fits you like your favorite Levi’s.

Remembering Milk.
July 28, 2008

By Pol Arellano

I opened the door to greet the

Bottle of milk the milkman left

I stared at it for a while, looking at how perfectly opaque

Milk is.

Perfectly white and bubbly


I took it inside and turned the TV on.

I watched Seinfeld, a re-run

And stared at the perfectly white and bubbly


I stood up and made toast.

I fried a couple of eggs and five slices of bacon

I made coffee,

Sweet coffee, without cream, just the way I like it.

I ate in silence as I stared at the perfectly white and bubbly


I left the soiled dishes on the sink

And went outside to play with

Rover, a chocolate Labrador

My blind neighbor owns.

While he’s not looking (he’s never looking)

I would play with Rover.

My blind neighbor likes me and I like Rover.

I bid Rover goodbye and promised

To see him tomorrow.

Rover barked.

I waved at his owner too.

But he didn’t wave back.

I know that my neighbor likes me.

And I like Rover.

As I headed home I thought of my dad.

He’s quite a character.

He slaps my mother whenever he comes home and doesn’t find

His favorite slippers at the front door.

He kisses my mother, passionately while were having dinner

Of baked beans and steak.

He slaps her whenever his wine is never cold enough.

He makes love to her noisily during the

Wee hours of the night

Waking me up with their moans and sighs.

My dad

He gave me nothing worth remembering

I opened my door and went to the kitchen.

I stared at the perfectly white and bubbly


I touched it and found out that it wasn’t cold

Neither was it too hot.

It was warm,

The perfectly white and bubbly


I smiled.

I thought of Rover.

I threw the bottle of perfectly white milk on the floor

On the same, exact spot I

Threw the previous bottles of perfectly white


And watched the broken glass glisten once again.

The perfectly white


Painted my red floor with its opaque beauty

Like the others before it.

The perfectly white


Never fails

He gave me nothing worth remembering.

Not even a chocolate Labrador named Rover.

Nothing but perfectly white


When would it fail?