Yo, Hollywood! Where Are The Latinos At?
I agree, I think that the producers need to use Latino actors for Latino based movies. If we were to cast the movie Dream Girls with an all white cast, what would be the point? Hollywood needs to step up their casting acts and get started on casting appropriate actors for appropriate movies. If The House of Spirits needed a Latino cast, then CAST Latinos. It's a simple action, and not hard to complete since there are many Latino actors out there. If Remember the Titans was casted as an entire white cast, the theme of the movie would not make sense, so why would you cast an all white cast for a Latino movie?
A Poet. A Paintbrush.
A poet writes, not of life's storybook ending,
but of life's true form,
about the sorrows that come with each and every new day,
A poet writes about not only the pain they feel,
but the unexpressed hurt of the world,
A poet can take the emotions
glistening in someone's eye,
and turn it into a vivid mural of reality,
without picking up a paintbrush
but of life's true form,
about the sorrows that come with each and every new day,
A poet writes about not only the pain they feel,
but the unexpressed hurt of the world,
A poet can take the emotions
glistening in someone's eye,
and turn it into a vivid mural of reality,
without picking up a paintbrush
Hairs
Everybody in our family has different hair. My Papa's hair is thick and so short it sticks up in the air. And me..
My hair is crazy. It never obeys barrettes or bands or gel or even super-strong-"it- can- hold-your-hair-in-place-in-a-tornado" hairspray.
Aspen's hair is thick and straight.
But my mother's hair,my mother's hair, like little waves in a baby pool, and pretty because she had it cut recently, sweet to put your nose
into when she is holding you, holding you and you feel safe is the smell of country apples right as you pick them, is the smell when she makes room for you on her side of the bed still warm with her skin, and lotion, the one she bought for me when I was having a bad day, the rain falling outside and Papa snoring.
The snoring, the rain, and Mama's hair that smells like apples.
My hair is crazy. It never obeys barrettes or bands or gel or even super-strong-"it- can- hold-your-hair-in-place-in-a-tornado" hairspray.
Aspen's hair is thick and straight.
But my mother's hair,my mother's hair, like little waves in a baby pool, and pretty because she had it cut recently, sweet to put your nose
into when she is holding you, holding you and you feel safe is the smell of country apples right as you pick them, is the smell when she makes room for you on her side of the bed still warm with her skin, and lotion, the one she bought for me when I was having a bad day, the rain falling outside and Papa snoring.
The snoring, the rain, and Mama's hair that smells like apples.
El Camino al Cielo
Blue skies,
white billowy clouds,
Leaves dance around my feet,
blowing in the autumn breeze,
I walk below the archways,
in earthed with vines,
their somber leaves striving for the sky,
Down a ways, along the bereft path,
an iron gate I hunger to surpass,
My heart thirsts to evade the darkest hour
of the lonely night that comes to follow,
My hand rests on the unyielding threshold,
I push through the gate,
Forgetting my hated solitude,
When I pushed through that gate,
I wandered my way back to heaven,
and back to you.
white billowy clouds,
Leaves dance around my feet,
blowing in the autumn breeze,
I walk below the archways,
in earthed with vines,
their somber leaves striving for the sky,
Down a ways, along the bereft path,
an iron gate I hunger to surpass,
My heart thirsts to evade the darkest hour
of the lonely night that comes to follow,
My hand rests on the unyielding threshold,
I push through the gate,
Forgetting my hated solitude,
When I pushed through that gate,
I wandered my way back to heaven,
and back to you.
Knowing.
(prompt: I wrote poems across your tombstone knowing..)
I wrote poems across your tombstone knowing...
that the words scrawled across the cold marble
will never be heard by your unhearing ears,
will never be read by your unseeing eyes,
I wrote poems across your tombstone knowing..
that once they were written,
I would never have to write them again,
they were the words,
the words I never told you,
the ones I should have told you,
before the unseen end.
I wrote poems across your tombstone knowing...
that they are forever carved into my heart,
suffocating me, so I couldn't speak,
couldn't speak, only write,
I wrote poems across your tombstone knowing..
I'll be going home to an empty house tonight
I wrote poems across your tombstone knowing...
that the words scrawled across the cold marble
will never be heard by your unhearing ears,
will never be read by your unseeing eyes,
I wrote poems across your tombstone knowing..
that once they were written,
I would never have to write them again,
they were the words,
the words I never told you,
the ones I should have told you,
before the unseen end.
I wrote poems across your tombstone knowing...
that they are forever carved into my heart,
suffocating me, so I couldn't speak,
couldn't speak, only write,
I wrote poems across your tombstone knowing..
I'll be going home to an empty house tonight