far away from home

A pumpkin pie
just out of the oven, oh the smell
of your thighs, scent I really can’t describe
but must smell like cherries.

I’m not home
and I’m not far away from your thoughts,
desires or sting from your fiery nails upon my nalgas.​

Every ounce
of my capacity I have is focused
not just on you, but on my surroundings, on my past,
such past I know like the back of the moon. ​

Fidel Guerra, Oregon, Dec 4, 2020.​

 

Yes, you maybe so miles away from home, but you left there a beautiful memory, a nice guy who is still making his steps wandering from here to there and back again with a beautiful smile in his face. I liked this: ¨Oh, the smell of your thighs, scents that I really can’t describe but must smell, like cherries.¨ You are cute with your words. Nice poem my dear friend.

 

María J,
I am shy again, this poem, its contents are embarrassing to me. I wonder about my other self when it gets hang up on writings like this...but it happens. Besides, what choice do I have? Indeed, I could be a thousand dark and cold miles between where I am and a warm and welcoming hug. I think this poem needs some editing, otherwise, I should place some orange safety cones around to draw attention so that people stay away. Again, I feel shy and I hope I didn't hurt your feelings. Long ago I picked cherries and I love the smell, color, how hard and soft they can be and, indeed, tasty, erotic and many other beautiful things somehow beyond me, my simple vocabulary..

love and peace,
Fidel Guerra.

 

A hound, hound, doggy dog ... horny toe...
I'm sure you would write meaningful poems
if you try to rime... even pornographic themes.
of course metaphorically speaking.

Cheers! Big guy

 

Gus,
I don't know, riming isn't my thing. It's mysterious and soft, like the smell of bathing soap.
Poets who rime, I think, write in the toilet or take baths with them to get them clean. I love the ocean and really don't mind taking a shit in the wild. My poetry isn't written for trophies, but to share memories. Not much technicality bro, but memories.

My trophy lives inside,
in the sweet and dear simple things,
like a scent we remember with loving care
and behind our eyes rainy clouds make us smile...
that's when the front door of poetry opens, and you know it....

simple shit...

Fidel Guerra