"camelia" poems
you were laid up in guadalupita
with camelia la tajena from la junta
and her tonto from la plata-
hiho-yo
shootin' tequila with pancho villa
jefe of the bandidos mc locos
- tweakin and twerkin chicas and cholos
and vatos ridin' with the vagos -
they were singing -
"*con cuerno de chivo y bazooka en la nuca
volando cabezas a quien se atraviesa
somos sanguinarios, locos bien ondeados
- nos gusta matar*"
you were kickin - breathing quickened
- bravo television tunnel visioned
to the tonto/pancho episode
en camera - exposed
pronto - camelia shot her tonto
dead - a perfect rose upon his head -
i like killin - she said
hiho-yo, tonto
we sang narcocorridos
all night long -
on the blue mesa.
r ~ 10/25/14
*song excerpt from:
"Sanguinarios del M1” (Bloodthirsty Men of the M1)” (2010)
"Translation: "With “goat’s horn” (AK-47) and bazooka at our necks/Sending heads flying if anyone tries anything/We’re bloodthirsty, crazies deep in the scene/We enjoy killing..."*
Oct 25, 2014
Oct 25, 2014 at 7:28 PM UTC
When she met him
for the very first time
a crown of daisies
laid perfectly on her head
and a smile was splayed across her lips
the radiant sun taken from the sky
and placed all around her
illuminating her silhouette
against the setting horizon
He looked at her with those piercing eyes
immediately creating flowers in her lungs
and growing
She tried to breathe
but was unable,
for his flawless self
took her breath away
replacing them with wild flowers
of beauty
and awestruck
The Christmas roses in the pit of her stomach
held graceful butterflies on their stems
fluttering about
and spreading their beautiful,
wonderfully delicate wings,
flying up into her entire being.
He made her this way,
a beautiful mess
because who wouldn’t
if they met you?
A perfect work of nature
created from the prettiest of flowers
a Primrose to behold,
and a Camelia to hold.
Nov 6, 2014
Nov 6, 2014 at 1:36 PM UTC
No quiero amar a nadie porque cualquier persona podría ser mi padre, cualquier persona podría ser mi madre.
No es el miedo al error de Edipo.
Es el miedo a ser humano.
Porque todos somos sacos huesos. Y yo no sé si amo tu cara neblinosa, tus manos que tiemblan o la mecánica de tu rodilla o el lunar escondido en los pliegues de tu nuca.
Tal vez no es la piel. Tal vez es tu hígado, el color de la sangre machucada en los talones, la uña mal cortada.
Si Edipo hubiese sido mandado al extranjero, a hacer crecer los números en la Bolsa de Valores, jamás hubiese odiado a su padre, jamás hubiese amado a su madre.
Pero lo criaron para llorar, para pelear, para morir bajo el asfixiante peso del destino.
Yo no quiero amar a nadie porque es aceptar esa divinidad lejana, la negligencia de la carne, que somos débiles, tristes, pequeños, hermosos en detalle y nada más.
Vistos desde el monte Olimpo nos volvemos nada y piedras y musgo al lado de una camelia muy roja. Opacos, imperceptibles.
Yo no quiero amar, yo no quiero morir ni llorar ni sudar ni orinar bajo la sombra de un árbol resignado.
Yo no quiero ser humano.
Oct 29, 2012
Oct 29, 2012 at 4:05 PM UTC
I saw you bloom in winter,
bright, luminescent, the silk of fresh petals.
And I never bought any gloves, though I said I would;
hands all but frozen,
canvas shoes damp through
in the mud and wet of a french winter on the coast.
But you looked hardly discouraged,
fresh and new under the rain.
You amaze me still.
And I am never prepared anymore:
I left my pocket knife across the ocean
and my hat in a friend's purse in another city.
I wasn't ready to see you
arrayed in all your enthusiasm;
wasn't ready to pick you,
place you next to my bed
and tell you all my midwinter thoughts each morning.
I walked past, left you in the park,
asked myself why I thought you'd opened for me.
I'll think of you at Christmas, and at New Year's,
and there will be others, poinsettias and orchids.
But you showed yourself to me in the park, in that cold rain.
You
you amaze me still.
Apr 11, 2010
Apr 11, 2010 at 2:56 PM UTC
She denies every heartbeats
Bury the love but revisit the tombs..
Love can be killed...
But feelings...
can't be buried deep
The scars of love is fresh
the wound breathes.. and alive..
Stubborn heart...
reluctant to leave Camelia's soul...
Tormenting her heart, body and soul..
A lifetime longing...
For her lost love...
the deepest grief only she understands...
Camelia's love ...
sad and painful ...
Jul 4, 2013
Jul 4, 2013 at 4:16 AM UTC
once upon a clock
my house was but a pile
of cards
dealt badly to me
or so i thought
but as time rolled by
riding a mossless rock
i was inclined to think
i could rebuild my deck
using a straighter arrow
and some crazy glue
and make a cosy nook to
theorize and dissertate
on the new and better
portion, for to sit on
my plate.
for as the wind blows
it can bring fortunate things
of gilded dust and dedelian
wings.
sonetimes it is the choice that matters.
and somtimes it is ok
to just sit on the dock
and watch it all blow away
but don't watch kettkes.for they are just introvert and shy... now the toaster however
is a pop up kinda guy.
ok so now this garden path is leading somewhere a tad weird
down past the zen all calm and white mountains
to the quirky and a little bezerky secret garden
wall and locked where all the gnomes have ned kelly beards, and the lions are dandy and a titch randy.
the dragon snaps are snippity and the roses
are just **** posers and the camelia's would **** for a good cup of tea.
but enough of the garden tour,
we needs must be giving attention to the
matter at hand tho sleight as it be
we have a house of cards to rebuild
Apr 29, 2014
Apr 29, 2014 at 10:07 AM UTC
She was named "Camelia"
when she was born
but we called her "Rose"
because of her thorns
not on her skin
but those within
And still we cherished
her petals even
as they fell
deep soft velvet
in our arms
Dec 11, 2013
Dec 11, 2013 at 4:38 PM UTC
slept in
awoke to the smell of pancakes
and the sound of little blucat purring.
sun shines through
scattered wispy clouds
is cool enough for slippers
and fluffy robe
but not yet a wood fire.
kitchen table set with
vase of camelia's bright pink
and snow white blooms
my boys busy flippin hotcakes
i pour coffee, and sit to watch....
this is my utopia.....
May 17, 2014
May 17, 2014 at 6:21 PM UTC
as the tea leaf's
sacrifice
their essence
to the swirling hot water creating
a glorious steam
i look at the camelia's
pink green and unruly
next door.
i can't help but, think.
they are in serious want
of deadheading....
Jun 19, 2014
Jun 19, 2014 at 7:45 AM UTC
the amber liquid
pours into the fine
porcelain bowl
swirls and settles
a few leaves dark
and sombre settle
at the bottom
and remain
unfathomable
i drink of it's heady
fragrance
the steam a line of
smoky memory
again i inhale
and again the years
fall away
the first sip
is bitter
tasting of tannin
and loss
the fine china
sings at the touch
of my tongue
and my memory
hums with words
of wisdom and friendship
i drink down to the
recumbant leaves
and the swirl the fortune
twist and tip the cup...
and read the leaves
with the same wonder
as i read the clouds...
unsuprisingly,
the leaves
speak to me of you....
as the scent of smoke and
camelia lingers on the evening breeze
Feb 23, 2015
Feb 23, 2015 at 1:01 AM UTC
Look at the sheer beauty of the camelia;
Hot, yet delicate pink petals contrast against the lush green of the Spring grass
How long she waited for her buds to burst into bloom
Patiently waited through stark Winter frost
To hold centre stage on the first day of Spring
Oh, how short lived was the fame of the sweet camelia
Her hot pink heads scattered all too soon on the dewy grass beneath;
How much thought we waste on how things may have been and what the cost
While the camelia patiently sways in the breeze
With no remorse for what is lost.
Apr 2, 2017
Apr 2, 2017 at 7:26 AM UTC
two small gifts
as i head to bed
a new friend, lending
an ear and broad shoulder
a gift recieved and a burden
shifted and lifted
the second, a shaft of light
from the full moon, catching
possoms at play, on the front
lawn...snacking on stolen camelia heads.
so daintily nibbling with
tiny hands and feet
and big suprised eyes
and ears a' twitching....
and then they were gone
to the darkness again....
and i to bed ....to sleep
and slumber...
May 20, 2014
May 20, 2014 at 9:18 AM UTC
Out there...
where greens of every color and shade evade Winters hand
And the land swells with verdant beauty
as the swallowtail finds me once more
Camelia and Violet, Iris and Ivy
the ladies of the garden speak and dance their way skyward
And the rhythm in natures song
plays melodically to the hearts of all who admire her
The song, oh, the song
Aug 21, 2018
Aug 21, 2018 at 4:44 PM UTC
Every day, as the clock ticks
and I sit to write a poem,
all I receive is an interruption
and another interruption.
So whenever,
I pick up my pen to write a poem,
I get interrupted.
My mother shouts from a corner of her room.
Her voice crashes to every notorious wall
that claps with its ears.
She asks me to do her a favour
and every time this happens,
the favour she asks me to do,
somehow slit the throat of the wire
that holds the chandeliers of my words.
In the end,
my words fall into the wells of my eyes
and my poems turn me blind.
So every day, I sit to write a poem,
all I receive is interruptions.
So whenever,
I turn to a blank page to write a poem,
I get interrupted.
The clouds race with each other
and the sun becomes their referee.
They chase the wind that carries out the Great Prison Escape organised by Bushell.
The lightning cheers for them in awe
and thus pauses in Argentina for 16.73 seconds.
When they finally reach across the finish line,
It looks like my negative 1 has turned
into positive after crossing 0.
They shed all their sweat like a camelia bush.
My words disappear and what remains is a wet page,
Still blank.
So every day, I sit to write a poem,
all I receive is interruptions.
So whenever,
I sketch some lines and curves to words,
to write a poem,
I get interrupted.
My thoughts begin to perform flamenco.
They lift their filters in the air
so that I can see my imperfections,
to which I chose to turn blind
as the pieces of the chandelier have left nothing in my eyes.
So when my thoughts finally conclude their performance.
My pen stands dried
as if someone stole the gold thread,
I was going to perform kintsugi
on my paper with.
So every day, I sit to write a poem
all I receive is interruptions.
So whenever,
I begin penning my words to write a poem.
I get interrupted.
My surrounding performs an orchestra,
While I run to my words like
two lovers separated by fate.
My hair race with the clouds that just stopped,
for they were tired.
I jump through the hurdles that
the leaves outside
and the people inside my window create,
and while I jump,
They pull my hair
and a few strands fall.
With every strand,
my poem disappears.
So by the time I reach
and kiss my words,
I become full of words
but 'poem-less'.
So every day, I sit to write a poem
all I receive is interruptions.
Jun 27, 2020
Jun 27, 2020 at 10:38 AM UTC
Sombra, trémula sombra de las voces.
Arrastra el río ***** mármoles ahogados.
¿Cómo decir del aire asesinado,
de los vocablos huérfanos,
cómo decir del sueño?
Sombra, trémula sombra de las voces.
Negra escala de lirios llameantes.
¿Cómo decir los nombres, las estrellas,
los albos pájaros de los pianos nocturnos
y el obelisco del silencio?
Sombra, trémula sombra de las voces.
Estatuas derribadas en la luna.
¿Cómo decir, camelia,
la menos flor entre las flores,
cómo decir tus blancas geometrías?
¿Cómo decir, oh Sueño, tu silencio en voces?
476
got up,
had coffee.
showered, dressed
drove to work.
sat at a desk,
shuffled papers,
moved a mouse.
took some bathroom breaks.
came home,
deheaded camelia's.
fed the cat.
and the family.
read a bedtime story.
made love, in a desultory way, while watching telly.
went to bed.
and still.....
in that, there was poetry,
if you look....
between the lines.
May 19, 2014
May 19, 2014 at 8:48 PM UTC
Chove en Santiago
meu doce amor.
Camelia branca do ar
brila entebrecida ô sol.
Chove en Santiago
na noite escura.
Herbas de prata e de sono
cobren a valeira lúa.
Olla a choiva pol-a rúa,
laio de pedra e cristal.
Olla no vento esvaído
soma e cinza do teu mar.
Soma e cinza do teu mar
Santiago, lonxe do sol.
Ãgoa da mañán anterga
trema no meu corazón.
409
Ay voz secreta del amor oscuro
¡ay balido sin lanas! ¡ay herida!
¡ay aguja de hiel, camelia hundida!
¡ay corriente sin mar, ciudad sin muro!
¡Ay noche inmensa de perfil seguro,
montaña celestial de angustia erguida!
¡ay perro en corazón, voz perseguida!
¡silencio sin confín, lirio maduro!
Huye de mí, caliente voz de hielo,
no me quieras perder en la maleza
donde sin fruto gimen carne y cielo.
Deja el duro marfil de mi cabeza,
apiádate de mí, ¡rompe mi duelo!
¡que soy amor, que soy naturaleza!
308
The weather speaks its wintery tale
On this last day of April
Sending mayhem into bush and tree
Shaking the blossoms in their break
For bud.
The Bride drops her veil
Under Flowering Cherry wings
Red Camelia broaches
Fall as from a night at the theatre
Lost forever in a carpet of dreams.
Around the perimeter
Everything sways
And the blue cloaked conductor
Orchestrates from
The washing line .
Love Mary
Apr 30, 2018
Apr 30, 2018 at 12:44 PM UTC
I came from the valley of memories
travelled through the corpse of forest
saw the brook flowing so beautifully
Sparkling like a cookery
I came from the river of life
travelled with time
flowing so brightly
Just like a camelia
I came from the hidden caves
As wide as the canes
lived in the dark
Just like a cork
Mar 18, 2018
Mar 18, 2018 at 9:44 AM UTC