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Poems by Luis Cuauhtémoc Berriozabal – The Finding and Heavy Baggage August 20, 2022

Posted by vscorpiozine in Luis Cuauhtémoc Berriozábal, poems, poetry.
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The Finding

It is all in the finding.
It is in unearthing what
is lost. It is a matter of 
luck to find peace in
this world. Go on about
it. Go do what you will.
I am opening veins. I 
will not let the pain get
in the way. It is all about 
coming out of the hole.
It is in the way you fight.
Leave the past behind.
Bury the past if you must.
It is a lot to take in. Let
this finding commence.

Heavy Baggage 

I leave the heavy baggage at home.
It will remain there when I go back.
I leave it there in hope that someday 
there is a positive metamorphosis.

The baggage will be gone and I will 
no longer carry it around with me.

I want to feel light as a feather.
The weight has been dragging me down.
It will take a lot of luck and work.
My baggage is an anchor on my soul.
It is nothing to take lightly.
I only have so much time left.


Luis lives in California and works in the mental health field in Los Angeles. His poetry and artwork has appeared in Art:Mag, Medusa’s Kitchen, Nerve Cowboy, Rogue Wolf Press, and Venus in Scorpio Poetry E-Zine.

Poems by John Grey – Why Bother? and The Honeymoon Mystery August 15, 2022

Posted by vscorpiozine in John Grey, Veteran Poets.
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Why bother waking up
from your afternoon nap?
There’s some kids outside
tormenting a dying bird.

A nap is to be contented in.
To enter a world where birds sing,
don’t crawl broken-winged across the sidewalk
while being poked by sticks.

Being awake, you report to the open window
and scream at the urchins down below.
They laugh at you, old man.
Why bother waking up your impotency?


You were into some amazing secret
that is often hinted at but never revealed.
It is inconceivably sacred.
Incredibly precious.

There were times I thought it was mere coincidence
that I was lying on the bed beside you.
I certainly wasn’t the fruit of the holy.
The mystery no heart can fathom or tongue relate.

Byzantine? I was half-undressed.
Pagan ceremony? I wrapped an arm around you.
Templar and Cathar? I held you close to me.
But what was that shining dimly in the background?

Your hand was host enough.
Your body made for an elegant cross.
We were in a cheap hotel room in Phoenix.
Not in the midst of some Arthurian legend.

It was 1987. The object in question, a honeymoon.
I don’t think we failed in our quest.


John Grey is an Australian poet, US resident, recently published in Sheepshead Review, Stand, Poetry Salzburg Review and Hollins Critic. Latest books, “Leaves On Pages” “Memory Outside The Head” and “Guest Of Myself” are available through Amazon. Work upcoming in Ellipsis, Blueline and International Poetry Review.