Testimony to the Night [In English and Spanish]
In the quiet of the arctic night-
Here, here is where you find
To clutter the mind
(for a moment).
Here, the sky has eternal eyes
With the Universe-
Here my eyes seek and search
Here, resides a strange peace
The ebbing, eldritch dark;
Cold and oddly numb are my feet,
If Kings and Queens were
Ah! Praise, praise be to thee, to thee
Of the foes, divine immortals?
The enemies that never rest
I hear music, harmony from afar (there)
Orion's dust?perpetual dust;
Aw! Ye, our sacred books are all on fire;
Tiding from heaven-.
I see the flames; crimson flames;
And the mindless will play some more?
Off in the darkness, somewhere?!
Sea; with fainting breath, silently-;
I do not want to see the annuals-,
?stirs the cosmos: with His spectral.
Eh! yes! Oh yes, the midnight sky has eyes
Hence, soon to recur the inviolate
Notes by the author: "?this is a deep, and restless poem with many images; the secret of the poem (to me) is the sun, as it has always rose, so it shall again, tomorrow, and again another tomorrow, and so shall peace not exist, as long as it is in the hands of mankind." The author has spent time in the Arctic, l996. 7/7/05 #752
This is part one of three parts; part two, to this poem is called: "House of the Goblin"?
Testimonio a la Noche
En la quietud de la noche Ártica-
¡Aquí, aquí es donde Ud. encuentra
Aquí, el cielo tiene ojos eternos
Aquí mis ojos investigan y buscan
Aquí, reside una paz extraña
Frío y entumecido de una manera extraña están mis pies,
¡AH! Alabanza, alabanza sea para ti, a ti
Oigo la música armoniosa, desde lejos (allí)
¡Aw! Nuestros libros sagrados están todos sobre el fuego;
Veo, las llamas sobre los caminos de batalla
Fuera de la oscuridad, ¡en algún lugar!?
Yo, no quiero ver las anuales
Pero, aun el cielo nocturno tiene ojos
Notas del autor: "este es un profundo, impaciente profundo poema Con mucha imaginación, el secreto del poema (para mi) es el sol, Como este siempre sale, así este saldrá, otra vez, mañana, y otra vez Otro mañana, y así la paz no existirá, mientras esto este en las manos De la humanidad." El autor, ha permanecido un tiempo en el ártico, 1996. 7/7/05 #752
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Sleep, Dreams, and a Poem
The Incubus' Flash-lightHe looked inside my head And found a dreamHe didn't like-;As I looked back at him, I found an incubus Shinning a light(and stole this poem from him-last night).Thoughts: Dreams and Poetry: in dreams we let go of our inhibitions; in poetry we write them back out.
Satirical Poetry About Tony Blair
All Hail.Is your hospital full of aliens, despite new cleaning firms, Antenna waving buggies, And creepy crawly germs, Then dont waste another second, now were into election spin, Just complain, over and again, and up pops smiley smiley grin.
A Poem - By Lorraine KemberIt was a day like any other and mother, father, sister, brother, were carrying out the customs of their land. When suddenly without warning, Mother Nature came calling, shook the earth and stole the ocean from the sand.
Asha of Darfur [A poem with a commentary by the author]
Asha of DarfurCry, cry-oh little Darfur woman For your sister Janjaweed- [in Sudan's merciless region-who was raped to death); Where rape and death run ramped;And Asha prays the Arabs don't' hear Here sobbing little black tears? ?in fear she will be chained to a bedIn Darfur, by the insidious justice Of the Arabs, who run ramped?Ah, yes! In Darfur you've guessed, It is not a crime to raped and arrested; By the very one who raped, and terrorizedYou; it is the conquest?Satan's ribs!..
Poetry in a Nutshell
Poetry is more than just rhyming and prose that is in meters and verse. It is an art form.
Since Youve Been Gone...
My life has changedin so so many waysIt seems to always bein a state of disarray..
House of the Goblin [Part Two of Three/with notes]
House of the Goblin [Part Two of Three]Here is where, where the air is stillAnd the mountains shadows disappear! Here is where, unnumbered spirits dwellWhere harp and memory expire?Where the rainbow-leaps, from itsStoreroom-keep, and cries; And the sands along the oceans coastEcho then die?as in sleep?;And where enchantment turns into ghouls!..
Never Ever More
Once upon a midnight dreary, coffee cold and vision bleary, all night sat there writing COBOL, coding spread across the bed sheets, changing syntax for the mainframe, having checked my final line, I took the floppy from the drive.Typing with a steady hand, I then invoked the SAVE command, but there below my effectuation, appeared the cryptic communication, "Abort, Retry, Ignore" and nothing more.
The Time Has Come and Buzzing
Most of my poems are written late at night, often, as this one was, after I have turned out the lights to go to sleep. It seems that is the time when I am most creative.
In the Mountans of Haiti [A Poem: in English and Spanish]
In the Mountains of Haiti(In the City)-July is a hot month-sweating Poverty out on every street (In Port de Prince); mixingMemory with desire causes stirring. Not much rain in Haiti (in 1986); Summer kept us busy, building A medical clinic, in the mountains?.
Looking Out the Rear Window
The funeral rite concluded With the pastor shaking hands, Offering words of comfort I didn't quite understand.The undertakers came forth And summoned pallbearers' four.
Two Poems and an Analysis ['Witness,' & 'An Old Love']
Two Poems and an Analysis ['Witness,' & 'An Old Love']WitnessMy face belongs to whoever sees it Everything has a meaning but life Even the bugs strive for existence God saved man, from God Ghosts have lonely sins Her bones are stones Up and down the hill Gardens blossom Spotless skies Dramatists August I can not rest!..
It's dark, it's cold, its' just six thirty,thoughts of sleep still dull my brain,As I huddle down, inside my coat,a commuter clone, just waiting for a train.Insidious rain, just drizzling down,through weak light of creeping dawn,Paper sandwich bags and old coffee cups,blowing past, look so forlorn.
Live For Today...
Isn't that what they say?But what does that mean?There's no definition that mayanswer that question..
Breathing-in, Minnesota [a poem: now in Spanish and English]
In early fall, in Minnesota, the rain falls, falls, In buckets, buckets and more buckets-: drops Likened to music from its many streams-land Of ten-thousand lakes; moistened gravel, gravel Everywhere?Grandpa sits on the porch-daydreaming of, of Something, perhaps winter around the corner-; As the flies disappear, with the mosquitoes? Leaves will soon vanish, shadows will come earlyMaybe he's thinking about summer: miles and miles And miles and miles of cornfields; his childhood now Long gone, he hums a hymn, a song; looking at the Metal-piped fence, he made, with three poles, on the Embankment, leading up the steps to the porch; It's worn-out like him.The winds in Minnesota smell fresh, fresh from all The foliage, there's a lot of it.
San Francisco [Almost a Sonnet]
(The city by the bay of Northern California, near which the Pacific Ocean resides; the year is 1967)Mid October seemed like some spring day,When through the poised waters, dry as lead, The ferry, like vague shadows that stand the dead,Slipped down the curved coast of Frisco bay, Rounded the Golden Gate,-and San Francisco lay, Before me, that gay city, pink and red, Hippies covered Haigh Asbury's homeless head,-My home, to be, I found stirring and grey.The waves busted on the wooden-sides; fishermenNearby with long necks, looked and cast again.
Writing Innovative Poetry
Writing innovative poetry, the kind of poetry that reputable literary journals publish, entails knowing exactly what each word of a poem does to the reader. A good poem should be evocative, skillful, and cohesive, but before attempting to hone these attributes, a potential poet should be knowledgeable of the various forms and attributes of contemporary poetry.
The Butcher of Lima and Footprints to Mantaro Valley (Two Poems)
Footprints to Mantaro Valley (Peru; in English and Spanish)In what retreat art hid?-Where falling mountains groan In shadow and amongThe rapids of the Rio? Is not your name Mantaro Valley?Beyond the footprints of the Andes--?I can hear your voice in echoesI can hear thy voice, divinely low. I do but know thy by a glanceAs the clouds above me know? .
Walt Whitman, Romance With a Stranger
The concept of brief encounters, even romantic encounters, with a stranger recurs often in the verses of Walt Whitman.Take, for example, these lines from one of the inscriptions that Whitman wrote to his 1860 edition of Leaves of Grass.
Ode, to the Mighty Midget Omac [In English and Spanish]
Part One Midget HistoryI am thirty-six inches tall, that is all-Honest to god I am My hair is green, my eyes red, and IHave a very thick neckMy eyebrows are thin, and my beardHas three hairs? And I bore abuse, when I was youngYes! It happened to be; day by day??folks laugh at me, my appearanceYou see?I make them appalled. .
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