"andes" poems
El oro, cuando lo golpea, brilla.
I want to stand at 3,082 meters
On the overlook above Machu Picchu — close
Enough to the edge so my timid toes
Flirt with wild columbine and teeter
On white granite stones laid centuries ago.
Speak to me the way the Andes
Breathe cumulus clouds phthalo blue. Seek
Answers in the form of temples. Slow
Down time in the Room with Three Windows —
Hanan-Pacha: bless my fears with conviction.
Kay-Pacha: reject this earth’s mundane affliction.
Ukju-Pacha: watch my seedling-soul as it grows.
Move with me in cyclical certainty from ruin
To reverence, beyond what words can measure —
Even the old Peruvian proverb for treasure.
Our trials make us mountains among humans.
Mar 7, 2015
Mar 7, 2015 at 10:56 PM UTC
Some days I wake up with my neck slick
beads of sweat soak the pillowcase,
my hair as though I've been bobbing for apples.
Perhaps I should be.
I'm starving, I think,
for the kind of knowledge which is dubbed
forbidden or shrouded,
hidden.
Written in redwoods,
eyes like nebulae
and sandstone futures.
If I could read the Andes like braille, what revelations would
erupt?
I'm yearning to greet the haunts and beetles once my clock
runs out.
But I lie
awake
and am greeted by
no one.
I'm frozen, now,
with molasses
feet
like running from the Golem in a January dream.
My fingertips leave damp, checked cotton, reaching out with an earnest desperation, and
I'm left sticky, swatting at vapors.
Apr 29, 2017
Apr 29, 2017 at 4:48 PM UTC
I may have forgotten some things about you
but there are some things I could never forget
They are ingrained in all I do...
I wear green as much as I can
It's my favorite color because it shows
off my green eyes that I inherited from you
You always said my eyes and smile are my best features
I can still see your long legs in the bathtub
Bent in like a happy frog just trying to relax
Yet you still had time for a conversation with me
I wish I would have inherited those long legs of yours :)
I wash my face with nozema
because when I smell it I think of you
When Christmas comes around I buy Andes
chocolate mints and make spice tea
because they both remind me of you
As long as I live and breathe
you will always be remembered
I love and miss you always ~ Dear Mama
Merry Christmas
Dec 19, 2017
Dec 19, 2017 at 9:30 AM UTC
Across from the border of Eden
On a stone where I sat down
This led to me to ponder
From afar I saw your beauty
First thing that came to my mind
What does your lips taste like
Is it what fell from the skies,
A honey nectar from the garden of gods?
Beyond that invisible line where you stand beyond
Forbidden to steal across that line
Oh thunder, lighting, sleet, and crashing waves
There's something Gods would never let me have
I gotta brush aside all the obstacles
You're within my reach, but there's just no way
When I'm down on hard luck, there's a way of getting off the ground
All you know is what I want, and I want to grab your hand
Steal you when nobody's watching, it's what my heart desires
It's That I want to go around and around the world with you, only you...
Run away from the troubles that's abrewin'
Reach the edge of the world
Travel the rough seas and you'd know
Rappelling the cliffs of the Andes
Drink hot chocolate with the yeti
Clash with the monsters that lurk from the darkness
Just imagine, just imagine
What the world would turn out if you ran away with me
There's nobody else like you, only you I cannot deny
Grab the fleeced sandals along the way
Use the wings to fly away
Let the gods throw their fury at me
I've got the armor to deflect it all
Only to have that moment with you
To be frozen in stone with you in a everlasting kiss
~Steven~
Oct 3, 2010
Oct 3, 2010 at 7:36 PM UTC
Bring me wine, but wine which never grew
In the belly of the grape,
Or grew on vine whose tap-roots, reaching through
Under the Andes to the Cape,
Suffer no savor of the earth to scape.
Let its grapes the morn salute
From a nocturnal root,
Which feels the acrid juice
Of Styx and Erebus;
And turns the woe of Night,
By its own craft, to a more rich delight.
We buy ashes for bread;
We buy diluted wine;
Give me of the true,
Whose ample leaves and tendrils curled
Among the silver hills of heaven
Draw everlasting dew;
Wine of wine,
Blood of the world,
Form of forms, and mold of statures,
That I intoxicated,
And by the draught assimilated,
May float at pleasure through all natures;
The bird-language rightly spell,
And that which roses say so well.
Wine that is shed
Like the torrents of the sun
Up the horizon walls,
Or like the Atlantic streams, which run
When the South Sea calls.
Water and bread,
Food which needs no transmuting,
Rainbow-flowering, wisdom-fruiting,
Wine which is already man,
Food which teach and reason can.
Wine which Music is,
Music and wine are one,
That I, drinking this,
Shall hear far Chaos talk with me;
Kings unborn shall walk with me;
And the poor grass shall plot and plan
What it will do when it is man.
Quickened so, will I unlock
Every crypt of every rock.
I thank the joyful juice
For all I know;
Winds of remembering
Of the ancient being blow,
And seeming-solid walls of use
Open and flow.
Pour, Bacchus! the remembering wine;
Retrieve the loss of men and mine!
Vine for vine be antidote,
And the grape requite the lote!
Haste to cure the old despair,
Reason in Nature's lotus drenched,
The memory of ages quenched;
Give them again to shine;
A dazzling memory revive;
Refresh the faded tints,
Recut the aged prints,
And write my old adventures with the pen
Which on the first day drew,
Upon the tablets blue,
The dancing Pleiads and eternal men.
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Land of the mummies,
Not at all the mothers,
The fabled dead people,
Draped in crepe bandages,
Appearing creepy to kids,
Ranging from Aegyptus,
To high above the Andes.
Jan 8, 2016
Jan 8, 2016 at 3:43 PM UTC
the fog
is home
to me.
I close my eyes,
I am still standing in Santiago Chile.
business people are
rushing back from the lunch break.
the outside restaurants
teaming with customers.
I look up,
the Andes Mountains are head of me
a weak pink fog veils them.
my mom turns to me,
‘honey, that’s pollution’
I’m glad we have the real fog
back home
I close my eyes,
I’m flying back from Atlanta Georgia.
my fellow San Franciscans and I
waiting to see our home, I almost tear up.
our water had gone out that Atlanta summer
and I remember there wasn’t a day under 105 there.
the fog looks so tasty
like I would be fully
refreshed and rehydrated
after only one bite.
I close my eyes,
I’m living in Boston for five weeks.
a storm passes by now and again.
the east coasters complain that
the fog is ruining their city’s
sunny reputation.
the southerners complain
that summer isn’t actually there.
I just smile and smoke,
I love watching the smoke drift into the fog
mingle, then disappear.
I close my eyes
I am standing in Rome
my family- taking cover in a store overhang
there was heavy rains and over cast
, but no fog ever descended for a meet and greet
on that day.
I close my eyes ,
I am looking at the tall slender buildings in Vietnam
along side the main highway of ** Chi-Man city
it is overcast- the storm last night brought down
a tree, crushing a poor shop with a sheet metal roof.
the overcast hangs, and I am feeling
a little nostalgia for home
I open my eyes,
I am back in the sunset district.
I’m laying on my reservoir,
looking out at the Pacific Ocean.
the wind blows inland
whatever weather on the westward horizon
blows in in a couple of hours
the fog sits at the horizon gathering itself up
for it’s long strut to the beach
and I wave to my old friend
it’s good to be home.
Feb 19, 2015
Feb 19, 2015 at 11:41 PM UTC
Before she got on the plane
She wondered what the Andes would be like
High in the mountains.
And she worried
That her silver-spoon belly wouldn't handle
Whatever it is they eat there.
And she worried
That the kids would cut her pack and take
Whatever it was she was carrying.
And she worried
That the hot Amazon air would scorch her lungs
Whatever the temperature is in the rainforest.
But she didn't expect
That Avocado ice cream
Would be the best kind there is.
And she didn't expect
The shy village girls
To play with her long braided hair
And she didn't expect
That the sweet, warm jungle air
Would turn her city into a castle-
Princesses don't belong in towers.
Apr 19, 2015
Apr 19, 2015 at 9:18 AM UTC
I arrive in Lima
The sweat-sogged poverty
lumped onto concrete
pushes at my heels
The tight black air
swallows the nakedness
of prostitutes and thieves
Pockets empty like a traveler’s stomach
growling beneath the world of Los Incas
In Cusco
My head throbs in the thin air
with the sound of boys
trying to shine my boots, my sandals
my bare feet
no problemo
women sell fresh papaya and guava
sweaters and trinkets
Hawkers surround me
like a tightly stitched T-shirt
Cusco
The Navel of the Earth
A bulging belly
throbbing
digesting
living
Sunset
I spread my toes
over the evaporated flood waters
of the Rio Urubamba
where it once flowed
from the fingers of Manco Inca
over the fleeing conquistadors
at the top of Ollantaytambo
Momentary brilliance
before you retreated to the jungle
Spain, always gnawing at your heels
It’s a mouth-full-of-coca-leave’s journey
to Macchu Picchu
I enter the dream
spitting wet leaves
on the silence of a dead kingdom
Gasping for air that once filled lungs
of Inca messengers
carrying news of defeat and conquest
over the great Andes
Los Incas Caminos
The cloud-dripped mountains
spread green across my eyes
I see ghosts
a steady move of feet through the depleted air
Porter, takes my backpack
carries it against his brown crusty skin
ancient, sun-baked descendant
of the Earth’s naval
A toothless, painless smile
It must have been different
before we came
with money the color of unpicked rice
Now I hear your belly-groan
Between the perfectly fitted stones
of Sacsayhuaman
My voice bounces circular
off invisible walls
because your magic has survived you
Macchu Picchu
Unknown and majestic
Hidden from blood
from the stink of vultures
No more
Black raven feather
drops on my skull
floats on the shiny gray stone
under my feet
which are wrapped in dried, brown skin
naked, without a heartbeat
It’s past sunrise
the tourist bus has arrived
and the flat shadow of the crowd
blocks the light of the ascending sun
that tries to penetrate
the perfect holes
of a perfect wall
in an imperfect dream
Aug 13, 2014
Aug 13, 2014 at 3:28 PM UTC
on the wind
wild flame is my muse
i write on frozen wasteland
the colors that i choose
i write in the Andes
of mystic glowing things
i write in the deepest ocean trench
of a fish with wings
i write in blackest dungeons
of painted birds of blue
i write on walls of paper
of my love for you
soulsurvivor
(c) 6/11/2015
Jun 11, 2015
Jun 11, 2015 at 6:44 AM UTC
"236 miles into the Atlantic.." the captain crackles,
I find the foils of snow and sand here,
dust and ridges etched ashore on Andes
mountain tops and the way
the wind seduces the elements to dance only
for her to laugh and slap down.
The escargot and garlic alligator
shift, below in crates. The drunken
feet stumble to the jazz of the
ocean and the timbre of the coconut ***
on their way to the formal dinner promised
in this passage of escape. They saunter
but the ocean's sighs harmonize with her laughter.
"At night the opal blue sinks beneath black
but," she says, "I still see the jovial mist's blue dance."
So we toast with Shiraz and join the drunken
music with our drunken neighbors, souls drunk
and eyes feasting on oil candles and neon CARNIVAL
shot glasses that aid us, the broke, to run harder
into the night and away from the damnation of land.
I, you all, know that is what this is,
what vacations, rest, water, Advil, sunscreen
all promise and whisper and ****** until
they force your feet to dance so they
can laugh as they slap you down ashore,
awake, thirsty, throbbing, burnt into the reality
you left for the past five glorious days.
Ah, and glory- you see?
The majesty of the waves and allure
of purple and green fade when compared,
remember? Nature is symmetry and
the depravity of pain pales in comparison
to the glory of salvation. Look to the sea,
see where Christ walked.
Apr 25, 2013
Apr 25, 2013 at 10:51 PM UTC
991
She sped as Petals of a Rose
Offended by the Wind—
A frail Aristocrat of Time
Indemnity to find—
Leaving on nature—a Default
As Cricket or as Bee—
But Andes in the Bosoms where
She had begun to lie—
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If I had a mountain for every time I thought of you
I would have a mountain range twelve times the size of the Andes,
So long it could wrap around the earth twice
And then some.
A lifetime of plate tectonic ruminations,
The lithosphere colliding where I fell in love with you;
That’s what I would have.
And I could spend another lifetime traversing
All of the ridges and the pinnacles and the icefalls of you.
I would reach every summit and look out
Across the endless expanse of you laid out before me,
And it would be the most spectacular view.
As I traveled through my mountain range
I would make a map because, while I don’t particularly mind
Getting lost in the thought of you,
I would like to be able to find my way back to my favorite places.
But like any good cartographer,
I would include copyright traps -- Things that don’t actually exist;
Valleys and cliffs that only I could have projected --
So that no one else could ever duplicate this.
Aug 13, 2013
Aug 13, 2013 at 2:16 AM UTC
i straightened my hair today
for the first time in three weeks.
my mother was happy
but i was not.
--
last night
she said,
i know you're an artist,
pero no andes como una loca.
don't go around looking like a crazy person.
--
i kept touching my hair today.
missing the stray curl that stayed behind my left ear.
missing the space my hair used to take up,
wild and free.
feeling smaller.
in a body that was not my own.
--
this hair, mami,
does not belong to an artist,
y no es de locas.
es mío; con él nací.
in it i carry the waves
that carry me
that carried the bones
of my ancestors all the way here.
--
these curls, mami,
they are big enough to hold me,
to hold all that i am.
they are a garden in which beauty grows.
they are rivers that lead to the ocean.
Aug 10, 2017
Aug 10, 2017 at 10:40 PM UTC
translation from russian by rolanda
E.К
I write you from ex-colonia
grounded twenty centuries ago
by romans-sounds like a symphony
for hyperborean ear, hundred time
increased distance till addressee.
Looks like Agrippa knew what she did
the sister, worth by her madness of her brother.
Further cinematograph-nude body
bent and etc..accordingly screenplay
maid lapping in marble bathtube
horns leads triumphal aria
with a long sound. On the backstage
usual complaining on the fate,
tangent glance to the east,
muscle of cease walk
the female wolf her concrete ******
snapping, moving back to the building of arsenale
lost fatten twins.
I recollect what you didnt finish to say me
closing second door on the bolt,
on same spot there is a snow, cover up Prachechnij bridge
panorama of river, filled up by ice,
something with tear through two thousand miles
or old age with saged belly.
In our age, verticals are
soaring unreachable, slipping to result
of life, just right to dress on sandals
but hardly happens to slip into toga.
Invariable law of falling drops
down, no matter- fontain, rain, ******
Harbour of postscript...rats storm the ship.
Funeral office offers moire
from spring collection for upholstery of
coffins, grief on the faces of personals,
just in time served coffee with cream
soften disaster of final account.
I write you, for what? - after victory
of foreign football team
from the closeness of prosperous summer,
connected Alps and Andes
by wave of psychose from tv,
inflicted by joy of superiority
above..(not clear what of), and their poses
of victors is sign of ugliness
from point of view of observer-
old neurasthenic and misantrope.
Contemplating fly of pterodactyl
by eye of stamped cyclop,
gilded **** on short spike of chirch
scream by voice of Luter:
"Be blessed folks cars!",
and morning flow down by sunrise on wood
by Dmitrij Poparev
Jan 15, 2014
Jan 15, 2014 at 10:27 AM UTC
I trained myself to hold my breath
beneath the surface of the nut-brown river
for three minutes and more.
My companions would watch
as I slipped from sight,
their own breath held as the seconds wore on.
Above and around them the riverbank was a lens
refracting a swarming jungle,
macaws paired and perfect splitting the blue,
tangles and torrents of green
and the liquid burble of oropendulas and caciques.
Why should anyone depart from this,
deliberately descend into the murk
for no more than a party-piece, a prank?
Because,
the river carried news,
the river throbbed with hidden life
it was the Andes and the ocean and all points in between
and down below the light and beauty
it was mine alone.
Feb 6, 2011
Feb 6, 2011 at 9:59 AM UTC
Shouldn’t I be in the Alps or Andes not in a baby crib?
So scared to leave the comfort of home, that I never lived.
Why can’t I grow mature and find my true self?
As the rest of society puts money and fame on the top shelf.
Passing time by, to pass the time.
Rationalize life-hindering decisions, even if the work is part-time.
Don’t let reality get in the way of your dreams,
and play into the schemes and themes of the powerful thieves.
Materialism bogging down thoughts of freedom.
Want to fly like an eagle, But the money is all spent.
How are we all so content?
Jul 6, 2016
Jul 6, 2016 at 6:41 PM UTC
They say we have two halves of a whole brain.
Two sections that govern our actions
Like tyrants that ride horses with reigns made
Of nerves and weald weapons that shoot out sparks
Of neurons across our synapses
The lands of our minds that dips and rises like the Andes mountains
Amoung cerebellum fields
Where nervous horses hoofs trample
Nervous systems flowers and bend their stem
Into an L shaped pendulum that swings
Unevenly over corpus callosum oceans
That separate left and right.
Art and reason.
Two separate sets of war torn warriors fighting,
One with methodically measured maps
Marked with red flags between concurred lands of logic
And one with holistic metal armor that clinks and clanks
Around soldiers making music for them to march to
They fight over proper ways of reason
And creative formulations
Of treasons that ought not be crossed
Their trenches the rivens in our brains
That wet rot their feet with slimy blood and
Membrane juices
The left speaking in tongues
That right cannot hear when not
Set on staff lines
Or painted onto animal skin canvas
That once covered similar brain battles
Between right and left
Only to be cut and sectioned off
In improper fractions that yearn to be whole.
If only the sides would sign treaties of peace
With pens that pinch fibers together and bind
Halves into wholes.
Apr 21, 2013
Apr 21, 2013 at 6:44 PM UTC
How bombastic is the traditional English breakfast, as she spreads her colorful and cardiac enticements across the span of our traditional expectations.
We have far surpassed the golden age of steam, my gorgeous friend of midnight festivals.
Their truly is an eerie silence which is deafening, when seaweed caresses the surface of oceanic intrepidity. So, my brother of anthropological inseparability – kiss the breeze of this powerful and enigmatic mysticism.
I praise the shamanic divinations of Bolivian forests, where entrails are the delight of Haruspex and the Erythroxylum Coca bends her rigid stem on the West face of the Andes.
I have one question to ask of thee: How do we truly interpret Mesopotamian liver?
Dec 31, 2013
Dec 31, 2013 at 3:35 PM UTC
mood is king
I obey
every thought
ever invented
is present
they are a crushing weight
myth
creativity
the pegboard
of the human psyche
everyone pretends
to understand
a shack by the sea
the tide setting pace
gentle waves
that never cease
bleached palms
tower overhead
in the soft breeze
passion is selfish
desire comes and goes
laziness
an undeserved reputation
hard work
barely noticeable
in the din
the suns rays
light up the snow banks
obliquely with a pink tinge
the Andes in miniature
there exists
a warm place safe
from the sting
of a world
built on irony
explain yourself to no one
coldness meets coldness
there is no room for us all
success cannot be measured
either or
that is where the mistake was made
the error of duality
man, those nuns were killers
once I began a list
of principles deemed important
it was to help serve
as a guide as I steered
my way through the world
why are we so alone?
how does the time pass
so very slowly to allow
our doubts to surface
strong, impregnable, concrete
well, I hope I have given you something to disagree with
I hope that by expressing my ideas in these poems
has offered you the opportunity to cut and tear down
the sentiments and allow to see yourself, your actions
in a better more secure light, as if that was possible
Thanks and good night
Jan 24, 2014
Jan 24, 2014 at 8:51 AM UTC
catatonic patagonia rumbles off beyond the tilt in world spheres unknown unproven
a wasteland
not there, here but who wastes land decides where the waste lands as mist obscures trees like it knows its aesthetic knows the beating heart the focused eye rolling forming subversive lands and wanderings unmasked only by forward march and direct sunlight move like mist feel the fog crawl up rock faces and empty spaces foot calf hamstring submerged in secrecy
shoot bearings lose bearings shoot bearings lost bearings the bering strait rushes further than the south andes get strait to the point the peak the top unfolding dips and precipices, teetering on the edge of identity can't see can't see where what
but the fog relents revealing a why that sits a while then crumbles like a letter left in the laundry or the will to lift both feet from this earth
Oct 15, 2014
Oct 15, 2014 at 6:33 PM UTC
The copper Sun
piercing through a warrior-skin:
red Spirit raised
echoes of the Andes
across this wide, wide space --
A kingdom bathed in waterfalls:
rainbow-droplets cape
green Palm Valleys --
Ancient breaths breathe golden mist,
plume
an up-draft for our trembling
Dreams a-flutter
in the fullness of the night,
birds singing lovesongs,
nestled in the arms, of Old Acacia Sprites
Silver Fur ridges
on the black back of a Jackal --
howling, moon-light calls,
to an ultra-violet sky
Ears pull back, heads turn upward
gazing at blue eggshells
and trigger-painted speckles,
We gather flying bullets,
fold them into butterflies --
Scale upon beautiful scale,
twirling in a Trident Maple --
intricately pattern the purest truth:
to feel
My heart is shaped like Africa,
immaculately loved
Your heart is shaped, like Paradise,
Warm, within the wings,
of a common Turtle Dove
Dec 20, 2012
Dec 20, 2012 at 4:04 PM UTC
Yo soy el coraquenque ciego
que mira por la lente de una llaga,
y que atado está al Globo,
como a un huaco estupendo que girara.
Yo soy el llama, a quien tan sólo alcanza
la necedad hostil a trasquilar
volutas de clarín,
volutas de clarín brillantes de asco
y bronceadas de un viejo yaraví.
Soy el pichón de cóndor desplumado
por latino arcabuz;
y a flor de humanidad floto en los Andes,
como un perenne Lázaro de luz.
Yo soy la gracia incaica que se roe
en áureos coricanchas bautizados
de fosfatos de error y de cicuta.
A veces en mis piedras se encabritan
los nervios rotos de un extinto puma.
Un fermento de Sol;
levadura de sombra y corazón!
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Love is like oxygenated blood which pumps through vascular decades of sensual experience.
Soaring upon the thermals of the Andes, the flight of the Condor reveals perspective of the land, where events are perceived in their complex entirety.
I am fully aware that music can be hypnotic in its ever-flowing stream of rhythmic nourishment. So, there are many parts which make the whole.
Therefore, in the height of our carnivorous quest for survival and intermittent gratification, let us bow in reverence to the many elements of vaginal rituals. It’s a rhythm and blues encore with wings which are not comparable to those of Icarus.
Nov 6, 2013
Nov 6, 2013 at 11:10 PM UTC
Dá me uma razão para ficar e então Eu ficarei.
O Mundo lá fora não me atrai.
Quero passar a eternidade no teu quarto.
Quero passar a eternidade a falar contigo até tu me odiares a mim e as minhas ideias conservadoras fruto de uma eternidade passada no teu quarto.
Quero que o mundo se foda tanto como o mundo me fodeu a mim.
Quero passar a vida dentro desses filmes que tanto adoras.
E não me importo que não seja real. E nem me importo que não seja a sério.
Passei a minha vida a brincar com crianças.
Quero te a ti acima de tudo.
E perdoou o te o vício do tabaco.
E perdoou o te o vício de odiares tudo que me faz viver.
Eu só te quero bem!
Quero que te cases e nem têm de ser comigo.
Eu só te quero bem!
E perdoou o te o vício de não acreditares em mim.
E perdoou o te o vício de amares sempre o mesmo tipo de homem.
Porque eu só quero é que dances. Porque disseste que adoravas dançar.
Porque eu só quero que andes com quem te faz andar.
E nem me importo que me mintas.
E nem me importo que me ignores.
Não quero que te apresses por mim.
Não quero que me peças desculpa.
Se um dia morrer que seja pelas tuas mãos.
Põe me fora do teu quarto e dá me a comer aos leões.
Diz ao mundo que te traí eu não te desmentirei.
Mesmo tendo passado a eternidade no teu quarto.
Diz que não me queres e faz-me ter filhos contigo.
E diz aos nossos filhos que não sou pai deles.
Diz me que nunca na vida serei teu.
Mas dá me uma razão para ficar.
Que Hoje...
Hoje Eu faço o Jantar.
Apr 24, 2014
Apr 24, 2014 at 9:30 PM UTC