Poem: "A Dress Left On The Hanger"

"A Dress Left On The Hanger"

the man, the man, the man
left town in a tirade
about rotten tomatoes at the local mart
staring at the cashier lady with dog breath
and sagging breasts

she was a thrice divorced mother of three
in her mid-forties
drunk on Chinese takeout and cigarettes
she used to haul cargo across state lines

the house now empty
old Elvis plays on the turntable hi-fi
as night waits to infiltrate the sky
and change its face from light to dark

shadows loom in silence
too much msg in one's diet promotes lethargy
the dress is left on a hanger
dripping wet and seething with unkempt anticipation.

(Note: This was originally written May 27, 2004 for my old blog.)

Copyright: 2004, by Raymund Diaz Delizo

Poem: "Letter left unsent to this morning's advice column"

"Letter left unsent to this morning's advice column"

dear _______,

in the event of my impending unraveling, there is nothing left for me to give you. all I have are the words I have written over all these years. I have not left a single feeling, phrase or moment untouched. (as a matter of fact, remember the time we ran off in my Winnebago and ate BBQ all summer?) in these last moments I have left, I think of all the nice things that were left unsaid. I'm sure if you check, Hallmark's already got the perfect card for what we both must be thinking now. the moon was out last night, and it was beautiful. silent, silvery light glowing in perfect defiance against the subtle sky, not a raindrop or cloud in sight. I think a few birds were about, chattering and wooing. all the while, the lone sound of a million wings flapping. you were wrong about me, you know. I didn't turn out to be a bitter old coot like James or Thomas or even Hank. but what you did get right was the fact that I'm gonna miss you. and that's saying somethin' there 'cuz you know I don't miss nobody. if you ever are standing outside at night on the porch your father built, in the old house where our children grew up, reach out with your hands. I still might be blowing a kiss your way. maybe, if I'm lucky, you'll be there to catch it. enough of this horseshit, I'm off to the bar to get drunk and scratch my ass all night.

your blubbering, loving idiot bastard,

Robert

(Note: This was originally written June 2, 2004 for my old blog.)

Copyright: 2004, by Raymund Diaz Delizo

Idle Thoughts

Looking back on the extent of my evolution as a writer, I'd say I have put down hundreds of pages of poetry and prose in 13 years of writing seriously. Most of those have been lost and I unfortunately can't reproduce them anymore, but I do still remember them. The first real one I remember was called "Flood" and was very raw and dark and emotive. I was into a lot of E.A. Poe, Sylvia Plath and Dylan Thomas at the time. Since then, in 13 years of hit and miss, I went from being a borrower to a kind of writer with his own voice. I admit I still go back to what got me excited to write in the first place, but I have a feeling that as I have changed as a human being, so too has my writing been forced to mature and evolve. Whether it's good or not, I'll let whoever reads it decide. I'm not qualified to make an objective analysis of my work because what I write is so a part of me so I don't feel quite up to the task of judging its poetic or artistic merits. Hopefully people will come away enjoying what I have done, but as long as they look at it honestly and come up with their own opinions of it, whether good or bad, if it is done honestly then that is all I could hope for.

Copyright: 2004, by Raymund Diaz Delizo

(Note: This was originally posted on my old blog on June 3, 2004)

Poem: "Conversation Overheard At A Local Costco"

"Conversation Overheard At A Local Costco"

She eyes the cashier with contempt
Twenty items or less
Been walking for over two hours
The black eyeliner is fading

Amid the countless heads
The woman in blue slaps her husband's face
And spills the milk

A moppy haired green behind the gills
Winks his approval with a flick
Of the wrist
Tragedy is avoided

The clock reads ten minutes
Before bedlam.

Copyright: 2009, by Raymund Diaz Delizo

Poem: "Taking One's Time"

"Taking One's Time"

Chalk it up
To one last drink
The bartender with his lazy
Nonchalant glare

Flirting with the
Fleeting idle jukebox
A tap on the bouncer's shoulder

No set destination tonight
A sultry night
Sweltering anticipation
Leading up the stairs

Leaning in, slowly
Eyes meet
In a smoldering moment
The tension palpable

As it crawls unseen
Underneath skin
Hushed in exposed undertones
And bated breath

Amid the roar, whispers abound
"It's just you and me, honey."
It's only a kiss, she tells herself
Lingering quietly in the shadows.

Copyright: 2009, by Raymund Diaz Delizo

Poem: "Twilight"

"Twilight"

The darkness looms in the distance
Wings envelop the innocent
Face contorts in sublime surprise

A hand goes up
Red lines intertwine
The last fading sirens
Outside, a shadow moves

The lines blur
Eyes close
Amidst the glare
Of silent
Angry, gnashing teeth

In the end, a chalk outline
Defines the contours of
A palpable goodbye.

Copyright: 2009, by Raymund Diaz Delizo

Mental debate

For the past few days, I have been debating whether or not to get back into attempting to write a full fledged novel. The last attempt I made was several years ago and, for whatever reason, it just fell apart.

I've begun to look into the possibility of creative writing software such as Dramatica Pro as an aid, but, at a retail of about $270, I'm a little reluctant at spending that kind of money just for one program.