Wood Stained Memories
Poetry by Pablo Angel Castro
Birds chirping in aggravation,
my childhood disrupts their peace.
Racing through fallen apples;
rotting on unkept grass.
We entered from the wood stained back door.
Face first into a wall of lemon and pine,
Defending motherly assaults,
we trample through a fresh mopped kitchen;
giving its final earthy polish.
Knocked over towels and stepped on potato chips
display child’s appreciation for mother's hard work.
Love tickles with reckless excitement,
soothing agitations of mother’s futility.
Often reminded while picking up after,
until eventually a smile will invade.
Our home she maintains,
always doing her part.
It is her creations that stimulates her heart.
About the Creator
Pablo Angel Castro
Attorney by day, martial arts by night. I am the head grappling instructor for former UFC Heavyweight champion Stipe Miocic.
“Beauty is in the eye of the beholder. To give someone something to behold is beautiful in it of itself.”
-PAC
Keep reading
More stories from Pablo Angel Castro and writers in Poets and other communities.
A Little Bit Of God
January 2026 I thought I’d spend the night in neon lights on grainy film but my brother is telling me how an eternity of hell is caused by prevalent peace, and who am I to disrupt such a thing? So I found myself in the same skin with the same sights, wondering whether or not I am one of those– do I feel peace? Do I expect more when it is gone? It being everything. We’re running out of time but the car is belching up something strange and we’ve got God in between our eyes nodding along to every apology and plea spoken for our friends and loved ones– they don’t know any better, they’ll come around eventually. He’s telling me about barbed wire guides around lives and ties and wives and lies and, look, the snow is starting to fall so I guess we better hang up soon. But it’s been too long. We’re building fields of skills and realms of distrust and these moments are only seen now, can no longer be read as words, only swept with eyes upon oil pastels or smudged charcoal. It’s a painting of an evening, like Daniel’s soles in Edgar Degas’ mind, but if anything is just it’s the lack of unrest in skin like His and lives like this– okay, so maybe five hours on the phone is a lot if you have a job and you’re trying to cook dinner, but only one of us falls into that gorge and only one of us believes in what lies beneath it. My brother tells me things that sit in my spirit like half an ounce of prospect and a squeeze of bourn, how he tells God to let me in: despite my sins, despite all the moons in between these calls, despite the burning in both of our throats. I do feel peace here. I also feel that my peace is a subpar window job, a pinky’s strength avoiding blizzards inside the bedsheets. I’d like to spend more nights like this, with contrasting disaster living between a speakerphone, and God finding some space in between.
By Olivia Dodge3 days ago in Poets
Comments
There are no comments for this story
Be the first to respond and start the conversation.