#nicaragua
#Aguarnica es una pintura hecha por Picasso
durante una guerra civil en centroamérica
acerca de un pais mitológico
donde todo está al revés;
un pais que provee los ricos del mundo con
fragantes puros de calidad indigena.
La guerra Nica es otra cosa;
en la primera obra mencionada
se trata de robos y opresión y ataques no provocados
contra la ciudadanía de un país pobre...
Pero la guerra Nica es un cuadro bonito,
primitivista, lleno de lagos, volcanes,
pajaros tropicales y colores vivos.
En la pintura de Picasso se nota lideres corruptos,
bajo el mando de un burro ex-ladrón,
los cuales dan servicio labial a un ideología en bancarrota
mientras saquean los pocos recursos del país
para vender a extranjeros, enriqueciéndose en el proceso.
Sep 30, 2021
Sep 30, 2021 at 9:33 AM UTC
Aquel pueblo está cansado
de vivir siempre de esclavo
ya el Sandinismo le dio su lección . . .
y si no se van
aqui está mi brazo
empunañdo en poesia
para darle su cachimba lalalalalalalay laralalalalaylayla . . .
VIVA NICARAGUA LIBRE !
ABAJO con la CORRUPCION de las clases ELITES
¡ ABAJO con el COMUNISMO y el GLOBALISMO !
Viva MI POESIA para SIEMPRE
Apr 21, 2018
Apr 21, 2018 at 9:57 AM UTC
As the ocean breaks
And palm trees sway,
In the peaceful morning
Of a new day,
I sit and listen to the black birds’ songs
Of joy and life
That do not long
For the freedom they already have.
The birds back home sing a different tune,
They chatter and screech to fill the gloom
And damp dark chill of a winter’s noon,
(at least to me that is)
But as I sit here by the beach,
Feeling the calmness and the peace
Of this wondrous, quiet space,
I can’t help but to grin,
For to be where the people are kind,
And orchids smell sweet,
Where the air is hot,
(but a good kind of heat),
Was simply,
Truly,
Wonderful.
Mar 25, 2018
Mar 25, 2018 at 10:15 PM UTC
of sun and heat and romantic glory,
of coal black eyes and a remarkable story,
came a man, dark and handsome, though not quite so tall
with the cunning ability to make every girl fall
under a curious spell of disoriented love
by making each believe they were set above
all the rest, by showering them with praises
of their incomparable beauty, and using masterful phrases
he could capture the heart of an innocent girl,
promising her nothing short of the world.
but in an instant, in a moment, it would all be gone,
because his love was as fleeting as dawn.
he fought with a love that seemed solid and true,
his earnest eyes promising his heart to you.
his silver tongue and alluring voice
made it easy for his captives to make their choice
to surrender their hearts and allow him to hold
their futures and affections because they were told,
with words spoken in the language of love,
that they were meant to be, they fit like a glove:
“Te amo, te amo con todo mi corazón.
Tu eres mi amor, y yo sé que tengo razón
Cuándo yo dijo que significas todo para mí,”
and with beautiful language he would make you see
that he was right, and you needn’t fear
the heartbreak that was drawing near.
for when another beauty happened by,
she wouldn’t fail to catch his eye,
and he would always rush again to start,
taking with him your broken heart.
Mar 13, 2018
Mar 13, 2018 at 8:41 PM UTC
My idol walks. Behold her beauty
born of Nicaraguan night
summoning poetic duty:
tremors of volcanic light!
Clouds of ash and lava dropping:
I come back… I going shopping.
Sounding her primeval waters
crater lakes, her green lagoons,
fabulous—this diverse daughter’s
humid palms and storm-tossed moons;
ascending up her jungle mount:
Transfer dinero to my account!
Stone-faced idol, pre-conquista;
rice with beans or sacred maize
labyrinthine Latin vista,
cumbias and sacred lays.
Hurricanes and quaking earth:
****** what’s your dollar worth?*
She who left her quaint dysfunction
reeking of colonial woes
for the multi-culti junction,
holy in her porno-pose;
scowling like exploited nations:
How you say… congratulations!
Gushing like a flow of lava
running down her placid gaze,
ripened flesh; the scent of guava,
passion-fruit in paraphrase…
Monkeys howling, torrents pouring:
Poetry to me is boring…
Rubén Darío’s wonderland:
Flor de Caña the anesthetic.
Marx’s tropic reprimand:
Sandinismo as emetic.
Verses don’t impress this lass:
Please—the car need fill with gas.
Lost in hurricanes of thought,
pounding the roof, God pours, it rains.
What was it, really, that I sought
In her land where the poetry reigns ?
It’s love. At times I long to shoot her:
Why you waste time on that computer?
Apr 20, 2016
Apr 20, 2016 at 3:50 PM UTC