Poem

Unless otherwise noted, these are original poems by Jon Oropeza.
March 14, 2015

I have immensely enjoyed every cigar and cigarette and cigarillo that has ever given me an excuse to stand on a street corner Paris, France or San Francisco Kettner Ave in San Diego anywhere the red light of America – or to squat in my garden in a light rain to inspect my arugula and […]

June 2, 2014

Back! in California! hot dry air desiccated lawns a BMW, a Mercedes, a block party long afternoons going slowly orange to pedal a bike through to let go the pedals and enjoy the bathwater-ie ether – but what I really like is to fling the bike drop the hammer on the pedals. also I like […]

May 3, 2014

San Francisco, I feel like if with my poet mind I write one good line about San Francisco? And send it around my little group of writers? Then I’ve done my work for the week. Weather: San Francisco like the prow of a ship. Abutting into the ocean. Being kissed by the sea; Neptune’s urchins […]

December 19, 2013

Sitting at a table overlooking Sinclair Inlet. It is sunrise. I am looking west and as the sun rises the light hits the Olympics turning those snowy peaks first purple, then pink, then bright golden. Wind is blowing this morning, which might be obvious if you know that if a stiff north wind is not […]

March 20, 2013

Storm this morning. Walked to the café. Table after table, tapping away. I am one of them and they are me, beside the strangeness of you being you, and me being me. Off to himself in the far corner he sits, his hands folded behind his head. Looking out the window. Looking at the day. […]

March 15, 2013

Today is the Ides of March 2013 and I Jon Eddy am sitting at my table at my café with my back to the wall typing these idle thoughts into a connected laptop looking out at the pink trees along the avenue having a macchiato breathing. – Jon Oropeza

March 8, 2013

East Of Washington All this, all this: dripping and dripping gurgling gutters the frogs – the stand of fir silhouetted on the slope that starts past the porch – a moon peeking through silver billows. In New York City there was this sense: the rest of the continent there as a vastness you might be […]