paintedcave

Saudade [saw’dadi]

by Guillermo Martin

A Portuguese word with no direct translation –

fitting for feelings you can’t fully express.

Profound yearning for things lost and never found;

endorphins swim as memories flood.

A wistful glance towards prosperous youth before thieves arrive:

Reminiscing of no worries and yes-terdays’ expressions,

or Forever friends further, further still from farewells.

Games finally made obsolete falling victim to the clock.

The scorching encore radiates from the background:

Secret words and sensations only a pillow dreams of now.

Ancient lovers caress your neck with rousing breaths,

no longer filling the gap to reach the cloud’s peak.

A tattered photo of Ma and Pa dressed in sharp new clothes:

Melancholy sinks in about six feet to join them.

Wishing for favorite foods preserved for Sundays,

leaves a bittersweet taste you can’t seem to swallow.

Things once concrete become abstract and intangible.

Lost along the path, distance prevailing –

memories held onto for dear life,

a suffering so sweet.

Diptera

In Spring…

The flies begin to gleam

scuttling, hovering, fighting for steam

ever searching for the illustrious peach

a calculated risk to reach this star

every night towards a fuzzy dream

surreal, but instinct swarms on

waking…

the buzz, the hit or hiss

seeking and gazing

soon to be upon the promised land

God’s nectar falling from a precious stone

the fruit tree is a bullseye

only a master’s stinger can pierce

again…

stealing a glance, a fateful

touch with six legs and two wings

appendages strewn about

hastily deciding on entering

a web disguised as a path, a maddening future

no compound eye could detect

farewell…

the creature reeks of too late

an incurable rot infests its garden

In Summer…

crawling with anticipation

the larvae learns to fly

unaware of the cycle about to transpire

The Room

Dreams of ancestors displaced from home

aliens from a foreign land haunt me

I inherited their alienation

I sit up with a creak

scanning the room with unsteady eyes

the bed and I share a mutual discomfort

The flicker of a lone candle

its warmth projects a lively scene:

dancing shadows over bleak walls

who mock and reject my solitude

The face on the clock is like my own

I blink,

blink again

we move forward in time, but

always seem to stand still

our hands grasping at the future

The closet door is locked

no longer enabling my seclusion

or offering a place to hide masks

Back in bed I search for a companion

to share this desolation

I almost find her,

but she’s overshadowed by

repressed thoughts and stalking mistakes

competing for my affection

Nights spent blindly looking for an exit

from this self-imposed prison of doors

light slowly starts creeping

in through pale blinds.

But it never lasts

 Bio

Guillermo Martin is a man of simple tastes who enjoys long walks on the beach, candlelit dinners, and intimate conversations. While not being a hopeless romantic, he spends his time cooking, running, and writing. He currently attends Santa Barbara City College.