Crickets aren't otters.
So when the tiny brown 
wannabe grasshopper 
started to spasm on the patio
and jerk that hind leg around 
like a barroom breakdancer  
I faced a moral dilemma:
should I don the hangman's hood?

As applied to the circumstances,
the answer was simple. 
No.
Not while I was rocking a fresh
pair of Richmond red New Balances. 
I mean, people literally stopped me 
on the metro
and inquired about purchasing these bad boys
right off my feet! 
As someone offered fashion praise 
at a Haley's comet visibility rate
I wasn't inclined  
to turn my shoes 
into molcajete
and make cricket guacamole.

On another day, 
if I was wearing my Crocs
—god bless them,
those polymer bad boys 
could walk up Mount Vesuvius 
on a bad day
and live to talk about it—
the answer may have been different

My morals hadn't changed.
My shoes did.

I was just passing through,

Looking for a spark of something to give me hope,

To reawaken my inspiration.

I was not left disappointed,

So many talented voices here.

Some words left heaviness in my heart,

Others made me feel emotions I haven't felt in a long time.

All were touching and beautiful,

Words spoken from the soul.

I wish everyone the best of luck,

And the most kindness this life has to offer.

Beautiful, But

my love, I didn't mean
to bleed like
this—

seeping into
the lines I handed you

these bones. unpolished
verses that keep
the wound at night

stripped it down to
nerve and skin

let it breathe
like a softened edge

and turned it into thunder
being careful
with the sound

ready to be tidal,
steady on the ground

you said it
like it was beautiful,

and gently
like it was true—

maybe
every line I've bled
dripped softly
into you—

-

By Alberto Valdez

Seeds of Stardust

We carry the seeds of our ancestors

to places they never heard of,

across oceans they never named,

beneath skies they never imagined.

We carry their stardust within us,

their hopes, their fears,

their unfinished dreams,

woven quietly into our own.

For now, we are the keepers of the seed,

the living bridge between memory and tomorrow,

rooted in stories older than our names

And sometimes I wonder:

Where will our seeds be planted?

In what distant soil will they take root?

What languages will they speak,

what stars will guide their journeys?

My old trinket box has weathered time,

its edges worn, its corners softened,

yet within it sleeps a quiet world.

Tiny treasures rest there still

little layers of yesterday,

little destinies preserved,

echoing softly through the years.

Whenever I lift its lid,

my heart fills with forgotten verses,

and smiles rise gently within me.

An old button.

A sugar-sweet candy wrapper.

A ribbon once tied with love.

A folded paper boat.

Silken stars.

Seashells gathered from distant shores.

Memories of children,

of games and laughter,

of a worn ball and a broken one,

of the whispering waters of Creek,

of a little wooden bowl,

colored beads,

a tiny umbrella,

and a clock I once bought with pride.

In every small object

lies the beginning of a dream.

To the world,

they may seem worthless,

mere fragments of the past.

But to me,

they are vessels overflowing with memory,

rolling gently through the corridors of time.

My childhood glows within them,

alive as a dream that never truly faded.

And so,

my old trinket box and I

remain forever bound,

stitched together

by threads of memory,

love,

and wonder.