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Jakub Tiupa Sep 8
The bird sings
He cries
He screams
The words of the great and free
Of the one.
He who took it all
And he the one who cried
"I am the one!
The one to end it all
And begin the new time
Of me."

Screams disappear into the forests
His eyes glimmer
He fights in stone
And sets in metal
The iron gaze to the right
By the disgrace of God

The people are gone
Never to tell their tales
Of this suffering
In his hands

Señores, this is all we have left
It won't buy you a loaf of bread
But it may buy him a heart
for him to feast on.
I found a Spanish coin from 1949 featuring Francisco Franco. It made me think.
8pm sunsets man who could’ve imagine
Seeing us in each other’s arm could be so magic
One ****** and we moving backwards
Lately your texts are getting cold,
Like ice cubes in this summer cooling away
from our fire energy, the when time is emites
Repeated arguments got our feeling so redundant.
Hoping to see better days, hoping we see a better vayca.
Live yours and I’ll live mines, but we pendulums our time will come back at the terminal when I arrive.
Theanm Ankh Jan 16
It all started in my second-story room.
A quiet summer night, not a single sound,
And then a loud boom.

I looked out the window for a better view
And rushed down to the kitchen, out the patio door, and onto the deck
Because what I saw in the sky reminded me of you
A small chill nipped at my neck, and I wondered,
Could you be remembering me too?

Because with every reverberation a star shot through the sky.
A shimmering burst, like a fiery blossom, every one of its blooms.
But it lingers for just a moment, and then it disappears.

Remember when we believed that if we swung high enough we might be able to fly?
Remember when we thought we could be artists and authors by just the age of sixteen?
Now all we do is sit and sigh, waiting on the Wifi,
Telling ourselves that the dreams we had were just unachievable little schemes.

They say you moved to Spain.
Three years ago, I heard.
Tell me, did that rid you of your pain?
And don’t lie, because I know, behind closed doors for your mother you cry, because Cancer had her killed.

And I might have found a lover.
And you’ve probably found another.
And we might feel fine as of now, but someday,
Just like the pyrokinetic flowers that bombard the night sky,
My memories of you will fade away.
I just wanted to say goodbye.
in the
pit I'll
visit tonight
with her
said the
yellow *******
of cordial
and skylight
in Monserrat 
she ought
to treasure
my Abacab
with séance
with her
quilt of
resilience that
she'll muddle
a night in Barecelona
Carlo C Gomez Jun 2020
Night withdraws
and I alone inhabit
those Spanish eyes

We sit upon the hill
where El Greco once regaled
the arts with a masterstroke

We listen for dawning chimes
as she picks flowers
& passes explicit love notes

I catch the shadowed
reflection of erstwhile
against her naked back

How it resembles curiosity
& imperial city bells
ringing forth

A klaxon
a clarion
the siren call

To passions both painted
& fleshly achieved
by the same inspired hand
Colin Mulligan Jun 2020
and lemons
augment the paths
we walk down
into town
in the
mid afternoon

Behind gated villas
like modern day Cerberus
hounds grumble into half life
howl languidly
as we pass

Whilst pink and purple
wild and free
as our love
flourishes in the ragged
Mohammed Arafat Mar 2020
Mirror hung on my wall
I am staring at you
A conversation starts
between us two

Ununited the world is
You have hate to one another
Rage sneaks into your lives
to your nerves and blood
They love you when they need you
They leave you when you need them

The strong prey on the weak
The rich steal the poor
You have no right to speak
Patronage plays the role

Families divided
Decisions decided
Bad presided
You misguided

I come for a reason
to make you thankful
to stop the treason
and believe in handful

You came to teach us
but with a big fuss
Our families are pretty ill
Please, teach, but don’t ****!

Mohammed Arafat
Every new day comes while we are still quarantined at our houses and away from our friends and beloved ones, the Coronavirus shocks us with new surprises. Today, it inspired me to write this poem.
Nikkita Jan 2020
In the land far away,
where the feared knight
still roams night and day,
forgetful of his steed and might,
I lay in forgotten stones.
In this ancient coffin, my abode,
I listen to whispered tones,
from ages and times, about
to lose their pale.
The scratched tapestries unveil.

When this tragedy is tangled no more,
I will sleep my rest,
closed eyes with sore,
and a hounding pest
at my feet that plucks me apart.
If without a scream I shall lose,
my sense of being, my heart ****
with the anguish of my dearest Muse.
The chivalrous soul of mine,
would disappear in time.

A fatal blow would prove to be,
the sorrows of my people, my love,
for they hold out candles out for me
when sways in wind a pale dove.
Without this lighthouse,
just like a corsair without his men,
- my fires ***** and douse
quick as they darken -
Foreigner of the people that once were.
Stranger of his neighbors, fellow pair.

All this I uncover in our misty
and dying chronicles,
that seep from the attic, a dusty
worm-filled hole with obstacles
thrown all around.
Somehow, the sulfuric hand
guided and bound
me to this newfound land.
Now, I leave my diary to rot
with the rest of this abysmal lot

and see for my self I will,
through the eyes
of great delight, that still
thank the Lord for the rise
of my homeland, my dear Spain.
So speak to me, not through whispers,
but thunderous march. In vain,
I've called out to you, disperse
my puny efforts and become real
or my crust, my shell you'll peel.

Forever, for forever engravings
shall burn with lushness,
the tint and stings
on my canvas. Redness
eaten away by heroic equals.
Forever, for forever I wear
this cloak unwrapped. Rumples
or smiles come up. I spare
them of their rugged hatred.
Here I come, my love, forever sacred.

While birds have sung
their heart's quaver,
from threads, I hung
not to waver.
The one leading, guiding,
and scheming my escape,
the one who brought me to the brink
of death, as Zeus tried to ****
Europa so did Mother Nature.
Her vivid corpse cold as a glacier

I've kissed countless times.
She brought the beast back to life,
like a beggar awarded with dimes.
Now I've caught up to the strife,
the woe that plagues me I've seduced
with frisky moments, and pedant
efforts to capture the spruced
scene that grows around. Hesitant,
my chimera has become.
I await the return of the lost one.

En Plein air, that's how they call
my unhinged creations,
when behind the marble wall
a mess of colors invokes sensation.
While my dreams still lure
me to believe far voices,
some have caught here for sure
and my attention poses
openly to these claims.
So I have taken a few new names.

Heat shines
among the littered bricks,
that shape these cheerful chimes
and clouds puff and huff. Cheeks
of young and fertile women
reflect the solar flare
that forecasts a prosperous omen
about to arrive and meet my stare.
Beautiful, sweet, and sunny. See
them exit my breast free.

Smite me almost did Saint Peter
when into his otherworldly
palace naive and eager
I walked boldly
on thin ice for a silhouette,
****** Mary, I thought at first
I saw. Godly choral, a duet,
with a phantom throat, full of thirst,
I couldn't quench
and closed shut, the hinge

wouldn't move.
Truth be told, I was in heaven.
Bliss and sooth
fell on my shoulders. Raven
of doubt, nowhere near.
This is it, come here, my angel.
A single tear
drowned in a bust stable
with years. But the second
briskly happened.

No more could I look at her
with these sinful hopes.
Bind her figure and tear
that coal habit. Robes
of pure essence
defend from ***** folk.
They shine of transcendence
that God willed to stalk
their highness.
Look could I look no more, no less.

Steps turned to miles
from wings, I stole.
Once church's tiles
now are a single pole.
Like a chess piece
without the restrains
of playful dynasties.
Still, it pains
me when I escaped
and the way I paved.

Here I notice
your toppled towers.
Giants left this
as a reminder. Showers
of needles deep in your skin
I enter and cry.
Where did it begin?
I ask while I sigh.
My lips against yours
where attack did sores.

Final light
shines through your veins
as I uncover what's right
while stains
of buckets of blood
collide with my
own sacrifice. Flood
hardens my tie
to you, dear Barcelona.
I become one with your persona.
Victor D López Dec 2018
Unsung Heroes

Although I stand on the shoulders of giants,
I fail to see much farther than the bridge of my nose.
The fault in mine. The shame is mine.
For I am unworthy of you, my beloved dead.

Emilio (Maternal Grandfather)
Your crime was literacy,
And the possession of a social conscience,
That made you yearn to see your beloved Spain remain free,
And prevented you from suffering fascists lightly.

You did not bear arms,
For you abhorred all violence,
You did not incite rebellion, though you
Rebelled against the foreign and domestic enemies of freedom.

As best I can tell you were an idealist who,
In a time of darkness,
Clung passionately to the belief,
In the perfectibility of the human spirit.

You would not abide the lies the regional papers carried,
And translated news from American and British newspapers,
About the gathering storm,
Sharing the truth freely with all who would listen.

You gave speeches, and wrote speeches delivered by others, in support of a doomed
Republic collapsing under the weight of its own incompetence and corruption.
You were warned by friends of your imminent arrest and offered passage back to the U.S. or to
Buenos Aires where so many of your friends had already found refuge.

But they would not get your wife and nine children out,
And you refused to leave them to their fate.
They came for you, as always, in the middle of the night,
These cowards with stern faces hiding behind machine guns.

They took you prisoner, not for the first time, to the Castillo de San Anton,
A fortress by a most beautiful, tranquil bay,
Where they tore out your nails, one by one, and those their
Gentlest caresses while they asked you for names.

You endured, God knows what there, for months,
And were sentenced to be shot as a traitor at La Plaza de María Pita.
But the Republic had friends, even among the officers of the fascist forces,
And one of them opened your cell door on the eve of your execution.

You had contracted tuberculosis by then, yet, according to grandmother, you
Managed to swim miles across the bay in a moonless night, to safety in the home of
Another patriot who risked his life and the lives of his family to hide you in
His root cellar and made a trip of many miles on foot to find your wife.

He found your home and told your wife of your unexpected reprieve,
And asked her to send some clothing and some shoes to replace your ***** rags.
You eldest daughter, Maria, insisted on accompanying the stranger back on foot, taking
Clothing and what provisions she could quickly gather and carry to you.

From time to time you accepted the hospitality of an overnight stay
In the attic or hay loft of a
Republican sympathizer as these were not hard to
Find in the fiercely independent
Galicia under the yoke of one of its own. But mostly you lived in the woods, with active guerrillas for years.

You lived with all the comforts of a hunted animal with others who would not yield,
Your only crime consisted of being on the wrong side of a lost cause.
I hope it brought you some comfort to know you were on the right side of history.
It brought none to your wife and none to your youngest children.

As you paid the long penance for your conscience, once a month or so, after some
Time passed, you visited your wife and children. You were introduced to the little ones
As an uncle from afar. They did not know the bearded wild man who paid these visits
In the middle of the night and left wearing dad’s old, clean clothes.

The older ones, Maria, Josefa, Juan and Toñita, all in their teens, told the little ones
That their “uncle” brought news of their dad. The younger children, still wearing the
Frayed cloaks of their innocence, accepted this, not questioning why he stayed in
Mom’s room all night and was gone before they awoke the next morning.

Your grief at playing the part of a stranger in your own home, of not embracing your
Children on whom you doted, one and all, for their protection and yours, as there were
No shortage of fascists who tried to ply them with pastries and candy,
Seeking to use their innocence as a weapon against you.

Your parents were relatively wealthy business owners who farmed the sea but
Disowned you—perhaps for your politics, perhaps for choosing to emigrate and
Refusing to join the family business, or perhaps for marrying for love in New York City
A hard working girl beneath your social station in their eyes.

You lived just long enough to see Spain delivered from war,
Though not freed of her chains.
You were spared the war’s aftermath.
Your wife and children were not.

No books record your name. Most of those who knew you are dead.
Yet flowers have long perpetually appeared on your simple above-ground burial site in
Sada that holds your ashes, and those of your eldest son, Juan, and second-
Eldest daughter, Toñita, who died much younger than even you.

Your wife has joined you there, in a place where
Honor, goodness, decency, principle and a pure,
Broken heart,
Now rest in peace.
You can hear all six of my Unsung Heroes poems read by me in my podcasts at (plus much more of my fiction, non-fiction and poetry in English and Spanish)
Victor D López Dec 2018
They also came for you in the middle of the night,
But found that you had gone to Buenos Aires.
The Guardia Civil questioned your wife in her home,
Surrounded by your four young children, in loud but respectful tones.

They waved their machine guns about for a while,
But left no visible scars on your children,
Or on your young wife, whom you
Left behind to raise them alone.

You had been a big fish in a little pond,
A successful entrepreneur who made a very good living,
By buying cattle to be raised by those too poor
To buy their own who would raise them for you.

They would graze them, use them to pull their plows
And sell their milk, or use it to feed their too numerous children.  
When they were ready for sale, you would take them to market,
Obtain a fair price for them, and equally split the gains with those who raised them.

All in all, it was a good system that gave you relative wealth,
And gave the poor the means to feed their families and themselves.
You reputation for unwavering honesty and fair dealing made many
Want to raise cattle for you, and many more sought you out to settle disputes.

On matters of contracts and disputed land boundaries your word was law.
The powerless and the powerful trusted your judgment equally and sought you out
To settle their disputes. Your judgment was always accepted as final because
Your fairness and integrity were beyond question. “If Manuel says it, it is so.”

You would honor a bad deal based on a handshake and would rather lose a
Fortune than break your word, even when dealing with those far less honorable
Than yourself. For you a man was only as good as his word, and you knew that the
Greatest legacy you could leave your children was an unsullied name.  

You were frugal beyond need or reason, perhaps because you did not
Want to flaunt your relative wealth when so many had nothing.
It would have offended your social conscience and belied your politics.
Your one extravagance was a great steed, on which no expense was spared.

Though thoughtful, eloquent and soft-spoken, you were not shy about
Sharing your views and took quiet pride in the fact that others listened
When you spoke.  You were an ardent believer in the young republic and
Left of center in your views. When the war came, you were an easy target.

There was no time to take your entire family out of the country, and
You simply had too much to lose—a significant capital ******* in land and
Livestock. So you decided to go to Argentina, having been in the U.S. while
You were single and preferring self exile in a country with a familiar language.

Your wife and children would be fine, sheltered by your capital and by
The good will you had earned. And you were largely right.
Despite your wife’s inexperience, she continued with your business, with the
Help of your son who had both your eye for buying livestock and your good name.

Long years after you had gone, your teenaged son could buy all the cattle he
Wanted at any regional fair on credit, with just a handshake, simply because
He was your son. And for many years, complete strangers would step up offering a
Stern warning to those they believed were trying to cheat your son at the fairs.

“E o fillo do Café.” (He is the son of the Café, a nickname earned by a
Distant relative for to his habit of offering coffee to anyone who visited his
Office at a time when coffee was a luxury). That was enough to stop anyone
Seeking to gain an unfair advantage from dad’s youth and inexperience.

Once in Buenos Aires, though, you were a small fish in a very big pond,
Or, more accurately, a fish on dry land; nobody was impressed by your name,
Your pedigree, your reputation or your way of doing business. You were probably
Mocked for your Galician accent and few listened or cared when you spoke.

You lived in a small room that shared a patio with a little schoolhouse.
You worked nights as a watchman, and tried to sleep during the day while
Children played noisily next door. You made little money since your trade was
Useless in a modern city where trust was a highly devalued currency.

You were an anachronistic curiosity. And you could not return home.
When your son followed you there, he must have broken your heart;
You had expected that he would run your business until your return; but he
Quit school, tired of being called roxo (red) by his military instructors.

It must have been excruciatingly difficult for you.  Dad never got your pain.
Ironically, I think I do, but much too late. Eventually you returned to Spain to
A wife who had faithfully raised your children alone for more than ten years and was
No longer predisposed to unquestioningly view your will as her duty.

Doubtless, you could no more understand that than dad could understand
You. Too much Pain. Too many dreams deferred, mourned, buried and forgotten.
You returned to your beloved Galicia when it was clear you would not be
Persecuted after Generalisimo Franco had mellowed into a relatively benign tyrant.

People were no longer found shot or beaten to death in ditches by the
Side of the road. So you returned home to live out the remainder of your
Days out of place, a caricature of your former self, resting on the brittle,
Crumbling laurels of your pre Civil War self, not broken, but forever bent.

You found a world very different from the one you had built through your
Decency, cunning, and entrepreneurship. And you learned to look around
Before speaking your mind, and spent your remaining days reined in far more
Closely than your old steed, and with no polished silver bit to bite upon.
from Of Pain and Ecstasy: Collected Poems (C) 2011, 2018
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