Category: original poetry

Tennessee Whiskey

December 4th, 2022

Tennessee whiskey, help me understand

Why are cowboys this sad below a summer sky

It’s been a while, old buddy,

We’ve traveled the wasteland for some time.

Smoky’Ol wizard

Cast that icy curse, let it slide like silk down my throat

Pick me up from the dirt and, by all means,

Strip me out of my treasures

Go trade them for booze and guns

Cause I don’t want no memories

That they were there once.

Tennessee whiskey, bring the wild Ol’wolf,

Shake it out of its slumber

And have it cast out

the spirit of the law-abiding man from me.

Let us gamble now, draw our knives, and stab the sunny skies

Make it rain upon the faithful and throw mud on their plans.
Composition 1

June 24th, 2022

Tonight I chose to publish a poem, with no words on it.

Enjoy it and let me know your thoughts.

J.V
A Silent Hallway

June 4th, 2022

By Josué Vargas

Sometimes it feels like, I’m but a channel,

not an actor in the play,

not a protagonist nor antagonist,

but more like a place,

a hallway, or a passage.

Yes, a living hallway, a witness collecting sights,

footprints, conversations, emotions.

Those who passed through me left a drop of their own

joy, their own sadness, and their own hopes and despairs.

I’m but a witness, a silent witness, unnoticed,

and they let their guard down in front of me,

not knowing that I’m a place,

yet I’m alive, sentient, and aware.

I always knew I don’t belong in anyone’s world,

but I failed to notice the reason is,

I belong to everyone’s world, as a silent place,

a witness of a million stories.

And a rather lonely story of my own.
Binary

June 4th, 2022

By Josué Vargas

Fragmented

astonished at the vision

of souls – civilizations even –

flowing upstream / downstream

the boundless sea of intangible waters

and everlasting waves

My bliss, a light beam

and my sorrow, an electrical impulse

Dreams making haste to precipitate

from rainy clouds,

ethereal prisons for the brave new human

My meaning became encrypted

-swallowed the key…-

As dawn breaks, it’s all binary,

as dusk falls all life is gone

Its absence in continuum

and the illusion of presence,

in systematic intervals.

Then absence, and now,

it’s just returning errors

So I close my eyes to remember

the wood and the strings,

the paper and ink

The echoes of laughter,

the sigh of hope

and the bittersweet release

of crying out a broken heart

No if, then or else

no flawless algorithm

Only human

In letters hand-written,

in words unspoken,

with few chances and few choices,

but the entire world to uncover

Yet, he’s still there,

breathing heavily, buried in bytes,

dormant, but soon to awake

Then ink will stain the empty space,

prowess will prove the machine wrong

and dreams,

dreams will turn into a hammer immortal,

forged in fiery torment

To crash the system’s core
In Silence, the waves have stopped

June 4th, 2022

By Josué Vargas

In silence, the waves have stopped,
the voices of the crowd fade
and the ones who would listen, are behind thick walls.

As the bud sprouted before the smile of the heavens,
there it found me, ripping apart my enclosure
traveling further than my wings could ever endure.

Then it resonated boldly inside of me:

“This is the time,
this child that has been growing in my mouth,
it’s screaming and asphyxiating me with its feathers.
I must release it before it kills me.”

So I did.

And I saw it, in awe,
filling up the skies with a haunting melody,
this melody was colorless and yet,
soaked in blue.

My heart fainted and my eyes,
my eyes were mist,
at the beauty trapped in me
for so long, in the cruelest captivity.

And then,
In silence, the waves have stopped,
the voices of the crowd fade
and the thick walls mock at my dismay.

Unaware of my resolve,
to put colors in that song and console that free child,
now in the open world, now unrestrained,
yet all alone.
The Wooden Portal

June 4th, 2022

By Josué Vargas

Cold drops fall in scarred fur,

The fur of a faint beast, who’s seen too many moons

through the fractures in the rocks

Tired of seeking release,

from the vicious whispers

and the stench of the catacombs

No human hand forged this realm,

no creature enters the same room twice

Accursed with a human heart,

too eager to find bliss, glory, or light

or the earthly pleasures and rewards

that await the children of man

Yet, in the shape of a horrid creature, it dwells

Can’t bear the sight of its own face

as it bends painfully to lick water from a pond

When its muzzle descends to the rusted smell of the rock

It knows otherwise…

The vision of the winged man, shining in the forest night,

stepping out of the huge crack of a living tree.

The wooden portal, the right to blossom,

the expectation of a heart misplaced,

among fur and fangs,

and the vile catacombs

Home to every death and fright.