Category: david estringel

Anatomy of a Poet, or This Ol’ House

~ South Broadway Press ~ Leave a comment
Image: Hadassah Carlson

Anatomy of a Poet, or This Ol’ House

BY DAVID ESTRINGEL

roof tiles gray and thin
falling away in the sun
like ash ‘round my feet

windows cloud and warp
with the long passing of one
too many hothouse summers

the paint outside cracks
and flakes – bare patch betrayals
ebbing pulse lull

the kitchen screen door
sticks—hinges in need of grease—
in its ever-shrinking frame

floorboards ‘round the stove
creak and sink underfoot, it’ll
need a cleaning soon

pictures on the wall
faded, some slipped from the hook,
crash down in silent thuds

dust storms in dark corners,
settles ‘round pillows and teacups
I write “Wash me, please”

but

the studs are solid,
foundation holding strong. Ghosts
seem to know their place

and

the morning cock still
crows in the yard, pecking at
its lil yellow stones

David Estringel is a Xicanx writer, Professor of English, and EIC with words at The Opiate, Cephalopress, Dreich, Beir Bua Journal, Literary Heist, The Blue Nib, The Milk House, and Poetry NI. David has published seven poetry/hybrid collections, six poetry chapbooks, and one co-authored novel Escaping Emily through Thirty West Publishing House. Connect with David on X @The_Booky_Man and his website www.davidestringel.com.

Lover’s Kaddish | David Estringel

~ South Broadway Press ~ 1 Comment
Image: Noah Silliman

Lover’s Kaddish

Come,
again,
and walk beside me
down the verdant path,
‘cross this deathly sprawl,
reading poetry from tombstones
and the yellowed pages
of your tattered Lorca.
How sweet the ballads
and laments on the breeze
that sift through soft yews—
just yonder—
that shake
like fists
at wrought-iron gates—
at Heaven—
clutching their red burdens (in clusters)
like beating hearts
to breasts of evergreen.
Dance with me
to the whispers of cypress trees—
so tall
they cut the sky,
bloodying
what God painted blue,
and the laughter of boys and girls,
as they duck and dart
from behind the pale bounty
of this garden of stone,
reveling
in perpetual games
of tag and Hide & Seek.
Will you find me
at dewy dawn
amongst sprays of grocery store bouquets
in cellophane wrappings
that cry silent tears?
Or in the cold of a moonrise,
contemplating our stars
and the gossip of earthworms?
When…o when,
will I see you, again?
Will memory outlast the letters
of my name?
Loneliness the promise?
There is no end
(so it seems)
to this longing, our endless game
(Who hides?
Who seeks?),
just a stone on my pillow
and the endless promise
of evergreen.

David Estringel is a Xicanx writer/poet with works published in literary publications, such as The Opiate, Azahares, Cephalorpress, Lahar, Poetry Ni, DREICH, Somos En Escrito, Ethel, The Milk House, Beir Bua Journal, and The Blue Nib. His first collection of poetry and short fiction Indelible Fingerprints was published April 2019, followed Blood Honey and Cold Comfort House in 2022. David has written five poetry chapbooks, Punctures, PeripherieS, Eating Pears on the Rooftop, as well as Golden Calves and Blue (coming 2023). His new book of micro poetry little punctures will be released in December 2022. Connect with David on Twitter @The_Booky_Man and his website www.davidaestringel.com. 

Days of Red and Gold | David Estringel

~ South Broadway Press ~ 1 Comment
Image: Jakub Dziubak

Days of Red and Gold

Sittin’ at the kitchen table—cup of black coffee in one hand, cigarette in the other—I look past catches of blue paint and the remains of flies on screen door mesh, toward the sorghum field just beyond the ranch gate. Death’s stillness—a gravity all its own—has seeped into every corner, permeated the grout of tiled countertops and spaces in between fruit magnates on the old, white Frigidaire like the smell of rabbit in the oven or hints of storm riding out on the breeze. Life’s left the room—no pulse under these linoleum tiles—it seems, leaving it darker, a bit colder, despite morning’s come to call through the window above the sink. I take another sip—bitter on the tongue—then a drag (or two), finding myself—absent-minded–fingering the contents of a chipped, pink and white bowl of green stamp china (of which she was so proud). Four pennies, two dimes, and a nickel. Two rusty paper clips. A half-used packet of B&C headache powder. A dead fly. I remember eating from it—sweetened raspberries, red and golden, from bushes in the garden—when I was small. How I’d toss them back in grubby fistfuls, between chokes on the juice, as honied explosions—sour and sweet—took me to Heaven and back then ‘round, again, while she looked out the screen door, tossing hair from her eyes—cup of black coffee in one hand, cigarette in the other—staring at my father working in the field, beyond.

David Estringel is a Xicanx writer/poet with works published in literary publications, such as The Opiate, Azahares, Cephalorpress, Lahar, Poetry Ni, DREICH, Somos En Escrito, Ethel, The Milk House, Beir Bua Journal, and The Blue Nib. His first collection of poetry and short fiction Indelible Fingerprints was published April 2019, followed Blood Honey and Cold Comfort House in 2022. David has written five poetry chapbooks, Punctures, PeripherieS, Eating Pears on the Rooftop, as well as Golden Calves and Blue (coming 2023). His new book of micro poetry little punctures will be released in December 2022. Connect with David on Twitter @The_Booky_Man and his website www.davidaestringel.com. 

This poem is from South Broadway Press’ new anthology, 
Dwell: Poems About Home. Purchase here.