"cana" poems
I am from VapoRub,
From Goya
And morisoñando.
I am from the traffic
And loud horns,
From the Caribbean heat,
And the city lights,
From the buildings
And the towers.
I am from the palm trees
And the coconut trees,
Dancing bachata
And merengue
In the beach,
From yaniqueque
Y plátano,
From tostones
And fish.
I am from Sunday gatherings
And loud family members,
From Jose, Maria, and Primos,
And the hardworking
Payamps clan.
I am from the
Madera’s baseball team,
From Canó, Sosa, y Ortiz,
From the long summer rides
To ***** Cana
And Samana’s beach.
From “work hard
Cause life is not easy”
And “family before friends.”
From Christianity
And Saturday morning sermons,
From God is good
And He brings joy.
I am from Santo Domingo
And Monción,
From Santiago
And Spanish ancestors,
From mangú con salami,
From rice and beans.
From the grandpa
Who owns the village
Surrounded by
Chickens, cows, and bulls,
From the business owner
And the well known uncles
In my hometown.
I am from the only flag
With a bible.
From the red, blue
And white.
From the most beautiful
Island in the Caribbean,
From Quisqueya y
Libertad.
I am from the
Dominican Republic,
The country that holds
The people I love and
Miss the most.
I am from the
Little Paris box
I keep next to my bed,
Filled with precious
Gifts and letters
That make me feel
A little closer
To them.
Aug 18, 2017
Aug 18, 2017 at 11:54 AM UTC
Accidents and misfortunes crowding my life
choking out pleasures reserved for a lucky few.
Not realizing that they were there for me too, just to look for
passed by as I chose to look back, blinded to what could have been.
Running in circles skirting the truth
looking for lost moments, ticking into eternity.
My hope is in this new life that I’ve found
awakening the child I’d lost, now born again in you.
You’ve taught me to live, to look now for the simple and pure;
a glass of ***** Cana or a flock of cranes grazing on a hill.
Moving together in the rhythm of jazz
in the early morning sounds and light reflecting on you.
Your beautiful face, angelic in the morning light.
Aug 21, 2012
Aug 21, 2012 at 9:47 PM UTC
A marriage,
a miracle,
a story
to tell
of Christ
transforming
water from
the well.
His first miracle,
her gentle request,
wine was needed
for all of the guests.
He is still trasforming
in different ways,
and
miracles happen
everyday.
Apr 5, 2016
Apr 5, 2016 at 1:43 PM UTC
When I describe you to a stranger,
I do not mention your flawless makeup
Instead I think of your eyes, the window to your soul.
I describe the love that flows through soft hazel gaze that only a mother can produce
When I describe you to a stranger,
I do not mention your perfectly done hair
Instead I see you reading a novel on a hot summer day,
As if it were your true reality in that moment.
I see the power that literature holds
I describe your mesmerizing voice repeating the lines of Eloise in Paris to me,
I mention the soothing way in which you read the Velveteen Rabbit,
And I credit you for making me fall in love with words and the way they can make people feel.
When I describe you to a stranger,
I do not mention your schooling history
Instead I picture you and I see a symphony around your soul that courses cannot teach
I see Mozart's Sonata No.11 and Bach’s Brandenburg Concertos
I see Monet’s Water Lilies, Veronese's Wedding at Cana and Michelangelo’s David
I describe the joy in your eyes when we saw the Sistine Chapel and the Champs-Élysées
I describe the vast knowledge and art that makes up your personal mosaic.
When I describe you to a stranger,
I do not mention your professional accomplishments.
Instead I mention your ability to hold someone and make them feel loved
I picture the times you embraced me while I silently sobbed over circumstances that you tried to protect me from.
I picture the words that you gave me at just the right times
I see the comfortable silence you provided when I couldn't bear to hear words through the pain.
When I describe you to a stranger,
I do not mention your clothing or the way you dress
Instead I mention the way you clothe yourself in humility before God
I see the verses that you have sown into my heart since I was young
I speak of the way you clothe yourself with the armor of God
I remember the scriptures that you so carefully knitted on my heart
When I describe you to a stranger,
I describe you as
A woman after God’s own heart.
A woman who understands that beauty is vain but a woman who fears the Lord is to be praised,
A woman who teaches wisdom and kindness and serves with joy,
A mother who clothes herself in strength and dignity and laughs without fear of the future,
A mother who encapsulates the love of Christ here on Earth.
I describe you as everything that I hope to become.
Aug 12, 2021
Aug 12, 2021 at 12:42 AM UTC
He ido a ver el parque de Lezama
en el atardecer de un día cualquiera,
y me he encontrado uno diferente
al que por tantos años conociera.
Era aquél un jardín ya carcomido
por lloviznas y líquenes y amores,
flexuoso de raíces y de lianas
y envenenado por extrañas flores.
Contraluces de manos vagarosas
de caricias visibles o furtivas.
Generaciones, ¡ay!, que en él buscaron
frondas podridas para bocas vivas.
Cuando la noche lo llenaba todo
y cuajaban en ella las parejas,
erguidas en recónditos senderos
o desmayadas en las altas rejas.
No está siquiera aquel jarrón de bronce
en que cierto crepúsculo dorado
pusimos los levísimos sombreros
y unos versos leímos de Machado.
"A ti, Guiomar, esta nostalgia mía..."
Y en la tarde agravada tu voz honda
estremecía la hoja de los árboles
y el cristal de la brisa y de la onda.
Era hora de estrella y media luna,
de pío agudo, de croar de rana,
de guardián gigantesco y solapado
y de visera en la pelambre cana.
Cada estatua era Venus palpitante,
cada palmera recta era el Oriente,
mientras afuera el tránsito zumbaba
su ventarrón de coches y de gente.
Cuando se entrecerraba la corola
sobre la dulce gota del estigma,
cuando se ahondaban como dos aljibes
en mí la ingenuidad y en ti el enigma.
Ni la vieja escalera de ladrillos
húmedos, desgastados y musgosos.
Todo es argamasa y pedregullo
y barnices espesos y olorosos.
Patricio, enhiesto parque de Lezama
cortado y recortado a mi deseo,
verdinegro por donde te mirase
salvo el halo de oro del Museo:
desde un bar arco iris te saludo
ahito de café y melancolía,
dejo en la silla próxima una rosa
y digo tu elegía y mi elegía.
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while all the folks will be off beach-drinking
at ***** cana, or cartagena, or hiking through
a coast and helicoptering blindly into canyons,
i just want to be at home, cooking for you,
studying up new recipes, because i know you
pretend to like my chinese takes on western food
a little more than you actually do; you want me
to be happy, but my happiness stems from your
healing health and your returning appetite, so know:
a smile on your face and a happily-emptied plate
would beat the pride of reaching any himalayan peak
and warm my heart more than any southern sun or beach
Feb 28, 2024
Feb 28, 2024 at 1:15 AM UTC
.few people don't know, unless they read Sienkiewicz... but the Marienburg Castle at Malbork... was originally constructed from white, & ghostly grey brick... not red brick... the red bricklayers came with it being destroyed from the German erasing their shame at it being, claimed... the whole structure used to be a ghostly shaman color of fog... partly white, partly grey... but never... exactly... red brick...
did you know that the Teutonic Order
was the first to invigorate /
or rather instigate the primordial
concept of a... post office?
well... i guess somehow had to write
out the demise of the concept,
or be caught up in it, reaching
the 100m finish line.
those monks really invented /
invested / investigated
the premise of a post-office...
shame, really,
that the post-office is
lying on the death bed...
and the only "thing" that cana
rekindle it is...
a relapse into postcards...
which will never happen...
just as hand writing will
collapse into:
nothing more than a scrawly
stature of pseudo-literacy -
of a signature.
Sep 17, 2018
Sep 17, 2018 at 5:26 PM UTC
Randy was a roach
Of the american cockroach variety
He was a deep brown and had a sickly shine
To his wings and antennae
And he studied both of us
From a perch in our suitcase
In my girlfriend's East Harlem apartment
In the early hours of a sunday morning
**** it! Get it out of the suitcase!"
My girlfriend yelled
Flailing her arms
As Randy reclined on our valuables
His antennae twitching
As in most crisis
I hesitated
And Randy burrowed into the suitcase
Past the underwear, collard shirts, and sunscreen
I dug in a frenzy
Rending my girlfriend's meticulous packing plan
And scattering clothes about
All in the name of meaningless destruction
But I couldn't find Randy
"He's probably in the collar of one of your shirts, or in a pair of my shoes"
My girlfriend speculated
And I started shaking the clothes wildly about the room
Wanting more than anything to extinguish Randy's life
To sterilize our newfound stowaways presence
But I never found him
And Randy boarded the plane with us to ***** Cana
While our plane painted dizzying contrails over the ocean
We speculated about Randy's
Most likely devious activities
"I bet he's eating the granola bars under my bikinis"
"I bet there is more than one in there"
"Maybe he's dead?"
"I bet he's laying eggs"
We both pondered over the fact that Randy could be Rhonda
And that we would open the suitcase to a scattering of near microscopic progeny
And we clutched each other in the cold, recycled air of the cabin
When we got to the room
Past all the tin shacks and open air bars
Where the locals sat in plastic lawn chairs
Staring at the tourist shuttles
That carted pale skin behind tinted windows
To decadently decorated rooms where the towels were folded into swans
We opened the bag to see if Randy
Had surfaced, died, or multiplied
But Randy was no where to be seen , a phantom
We unpacked everything under the utmost scrutiny
Not trusting any of the items we had packed so lovingly and repacked
Shaking cover ups and tee shirts like the wind shakes the leaves in autumn
But he never presented himself
And we saw none of his foul brood
We even unzipped the lining
But Randy had simply vanished
Evaporating into the humid, tropical air
I like to think that Randy is somewhere on the island still
That he has impregnated or has been impregnated
That he spends his days under the intense sun
And cottony wisps of clouds
Sipping Presidente
Sitting under an umbrella made of dried palm fronds
Happy to be away from the honking horns and crowded subways
Just like we were
Jun 19, 2016
Jun 19, 2016 at 3:25 PM UTC
El puño labrador se aterciopela,
y en cruz en cada labio se aperfila.
Es fiesta! El ritmo del arado vuela;
y es un chantre de bronce cada esquila.
Afílase lo rudo. Habla escarcela...
En las venas indígenas rutila
un yaraví de sangre que se cuela
en nostalgias de sol por la pupila.
Las pallas, aquenando hondos suspiros,
como en raras estampas seculares,
enrosarian un símbolo en sus giros.
Luce él Apóstol en su trono, luego;
y es, entre inciensos, cirios y cantares,
el moderno dios-sol para el labriego.
Echa una cana al aire el indio triste.
Hacia el altar fulgente va el gentío.
El ojo del crepúsculo desiste
de ver quemado vivo el caserío. ,
La pastora de lana y llanque viste,
con pliegues de candor en su atavío;
y en su humildad de lana heroica y triste,
copo es su blanco corazón bravío.
Entre músicas, fuegos de bengala,
solfea un acordeónl Algún tendero
da su reclame al viento: "Nadie iguala!"
Las chispas al flotar lindas, graciosas,
son trigos de oro audaz que el chacarero
siembra en los cielos y en las nebulosas.
Madrugada. La chicha al fin revienta
en sollozos, lujurias, pugilatos;
entre olores de urea y de pimienta
traza un ebrio al andar mil garabatos.
"Mañana que me vaya..." se lamenta
un Romeo rural cantando a ratos.
Caldo madrugador hay ya de venta;
y brinca un ruido aperital de platos.
Van tres mujeres.. ., silba un golfo... Lejos
el río anda borracho y canta y llora
prehistorias de agua, tiempos viejos.
Y al sonar una caja de Tayanga,
como iniciando un huaino azul, remanga
sus pantorrillas de azafrán la Aurora.
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O tempo é escasso e o espaço, amplo.
O prazo é laço e engancha o pampo**.
o BERRO é surdo sem algum alcance
pra que o ouvido mudo do Universo dance.
Galanteiam nebulosas em destino infante
e trazem, ao eterno, singular instante.
Cada transição traçada a que avance
é passo dado em falso a fortuito lance.
Aferir feridas de um pleno plano
levará o homem a estado insano:
a narcose de saber um objeto nulo.
Na movimentação estática do engano,
toda teoria traz na cura um dano
entoado na garganta que, portanto, engulo.
* bestia cupidissima rerum novarum - animal ansiosíssimo por coisas novas.
**Pampo - rebento tardio de cana de açucar: pampos de cana caiana (Dicionário UNESP do Português contemporâneo)
Sep 8, 2010
Sep 8, 2010 at 5:05 AM UTC
En la tranquila casa donde la tía vive
Todo evoca el recuerdo del tiempo que pasó:
La sirvienta ya cana y el patio con su aljibe,
Y los cuadros y espejos que un siglo deslustró.
El salón aun conserva los tapices de antaño,
Do ninfas y pastores van danzando un minué:
Y en sus ojos parece brillar el fuego extraño
De amores de otro tiempo, tiempo feliz que fue.
Del clavicordio antiguo, que en un rincón reposa,
A veces un suspiro se alza y huye al azar,
Como un eco de tiempos lejanos, cuando hermosa
Tocaba ella romanzas de Glück y de Mozart.
Un armario de sándalo luce en la oscura estancia...
¡Cuántas reliquias guarda, tesoros de su amor!
Cartas, retratos, pomos que respiran fragancia...
¡Parece que de un siglo se aspirara el olor!
Entre aquellos recuerdos de ternura infinita
Que hay entre las gavetas, vese un libro, y en él
Hace ya sesenta años duerme una flor marchita...
Es el libro Zaíra, y es la flor un clavel.
Con el libro, en los días del estío radiante,
A la ventana se hace rodar en su sillón,
¿Es el sol lo que anima y enciende su semblante?...
¿Por qué con fuerza siente latir el corazón?
Sobre el clavel marchito la blanca frente inclina,
Pues teme que al tocarlo se pueda deshojar,
Y en su mente un recuerdo canta canción divina,
Mientras las ayes cantan en el vetusto alar.
Piensa cuando el fragante clavel recién cortado,
En las hojas del libro guardó un amigo fiel,
Y humedecen sus lágrimas el libro siempre amado
En donde sesenta años ha dormido el clavel.
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Paseábase el rey moro - por la ciudad de Granada
desde la puerta de Elvira - hasta la de Vivarrambla.
-¡Ay de mi Alhama!-Cartas le fueron venidas - que Alhama era ganada.
Las cartas echó en el fuego - y al mensajero matara,
-¡Ay de mi Alhama!-Descabalga de una mula, - y en un caballo cabalga;
por el Zacatín arriba - subido se había al Alhambra.
-¡Ay de mi Alhama!-Como en el Alhambra estuvo, - al mismo punto mandaba
que se toquen sus trompetas, - sus añafiles de plata.
-¡Ay de mi Alhama!-Y que las cajas de guerra - apriesa toquen el arma,
porque lo oigan sus moros, - los de la vega y Granada.
-¡Ay de mi Alhama!-Los moros que el son oyeron - que al sangriento Marte llama,
uno a uno y dos a dos - juntado se ha gran batalla.
-¡Ay de mi Alhama!-Allí fabló un moro viejo, - de esta manera fablara:
-¿Para qué nos llamas, rey, - para qué es esta llamada?
-¡Ay de mi Alhama!--Habéis de saber, amigos, - una nueva desdichada:
que cristianos de braveza - ya nos han ganado Alhama.
-¡Ay de mi Alhama!-Allí fabló un alfaquí - de barba crecida y cana:
-Bien se te emplea, buen rey, - buen rey, bien se te empleara.
-¡Ay de mi Alhama!-Mataste los Bencerrajes, - que eran la flor de Granada,
cogiste los tornadizos - de Córdoba la nombrada.
-¡Ay de mi Alhama!-Por eso mereces, rey, - una pena muy doblada:
que te pierdas tú y el reino, - y aquí se pierda Granada.
-¡Ay de mi Alhama!-
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***On this day we will set forth
The glory
The pleasure
Our love celebrated
Through thick
Through thin
Our love will never turn sour nor scorned
Through health
Through sickness
Our hearts will grow fonder
I promise to make you happy
When you are blue
I promise to hold you dear
When you are hurt
I promise to be dear to your kindred heart
Making sure to fill our lives with magical moments
Taking the bad
Taking the good
Through our miraculous journey
That this day has set forth for us
Though it may be overbearing
To get through
Remember our love still grows strong
Daily Weekly Monthly
On this day we shall set forth***
Jun 14, 2010
Jun 14, 2010 at 11:03 AM UTC
Qué dulce, si lloviera de repente...
No sé por qué, porque tú estás lejana,
pero en la soledad de esta mañana
hay algo de tu amor que no está ausente.
Y yo sonrío, extraño adolescente
de ojos cansados y cabeza cana,
yo, que aún puedo asomarme a la ventana
y ver la luna que no ve la gente...
Ah, sí, qué dulcemente llovería
con ese sol, para olvidar un poco
mi prematura gran pasión tardía...
Y yo cierro los párpados huraños
pensando en ti, yo, extravagante y loco
adolescente de cuarenta años.
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Estando yo en la mi choza pintando la mi cayada,
las cabrillas altas iban y la luna rebajada;
mal barruntan las ovejas, no paran en la majada.
Vide venir siete lobos por una oscura cañada.
Venían echando suertes cuál entrará a la majada;
le tocó a una loba vieja, patituerta, cana y parda,
que tenía los colmillos como ***** de navaja.
Dio tres vueltas al redil y no pudo sacar nada;
a la otra vuelta que dio, sacó la borrega blanca,
hija de la oveja churra, nieta de la orejisana,
la que tenían mis amos para el domingo de Pascua.
-¡Aquí, mis siete cachorros, aquí, perra trujillana,
aquí, perro el de los hierros, a correr la loba parda!
Si me cobráis la borrega, cenaréis leche y hogaza;
y si no me la cobráis, cenaréis de mi cayada.
Los perros tras de la loba las uñas se esmigajaban;
siete leguas la corrieron por unas sierras muy agrias.
Al subir un cotarrito la loba ya va cansada:
-Tomad, perros, la borrega, sana y buena como estaba.
-No queremos la borrega, de tu boca alobadada,
que queremos tu pelleja pa' el pastor una zamarra;
el rabo para correas, para atacarse las bragas;
de la cabeza un zurrón, para meter las cucharas;
las tripas para vihuelas para que bailen las damas.
896
the bride and groom
unseen
prepare to unite
two become one
in joyful celebration..
might we ask
what came before
this place and time..?
an earlier chapter
of everyone's story
is told with wine..
when those barrels
of water transform
one becomes two..
old Adam alone
becomes Adam with Eve
our birthing story
unfolds again..
this split for creation
a delivery dramatic
all with accompanying
complaint and pain..
stands now a
reminder from Cana
of our separation..
with some news
of joy's return...
Jan 16, 2013
Jan 16, 2013 at 11:44 AM UTC
In the beginning, John revealed the light
and said, "Let men repent."
And John's Aunt Mary saw that was good.
-
And John declared to the crowds, "Behold
Sin is taken away by the Lamb of God."
And there was water
and over the water there was the Spirit
hovering;
heaven tore down, and Mary saw
that this was God.
And God was well pleased.
-
Then
Jesus called Andrew
Andrew called Simon
Jesus called Simon, Peter.
And there was evening and there was morning, a very full First Day.
-
Jesus called, "Follow me, Philip".
Philip saw the Law and the Prophets fulfilled.
Philip called Nathaniel
and after a bout of doubt
and a lesson routed in a fig tree
Nathaniel came to see
a teacher and his God and his King.
-
And there was faith
and the promise of a great adventure.
More than enough for the Second Day.
-
-
There was a wedding in Cana
and Mary nudged her son:
'The wine has finished
This - is - not - good.'
And Jesus said, 'Mum. Not now'.
-
And Mary said
'Listen to your mother.'
-
And Jesus sighed.
-
And Mary told the servants,
"Do whatever he tells you."
-
Then Jesus saw that it was no use to argue.
And he said, "let there be water".
And they rolled across the stone jars in front of him.
-
And Jesus said, "let there be wine".
And it was so - very - good.
-
And Mary smiled to herself,
thinking how Joseph would have loved this,
and whispered to Jesus:
'This just the start you know.'
And he did,
and it was.
-
And there was a Mother's faith
and there were gallons of glorious wine.
And Mary kept on smiling, so proud of her son
and of this start of his new-vintage Kingdom
with this original third day, rolled-stone, miracle.
-
And there was a party,
and singing
and there was much laughter,
and the Son danced
with his mother through the night.
-
There was evening and there was morning,
a Fine Third Day.
Jul 13, 2016
Jul 13, 2016 at 5:12 AM UTC
Esta luz de Sevilla... Es el palacio
donde nací, con su rumor de fuente.
Mi padre, en su despacho. -La alta frente,
la breve mosca, y el bigote lacio-.
Mi padre, aún joven. Lee, escribe, hojea
sus libros y medita. Se levanta;
va hacia la puerta del jardín. Pasea.
A veces habla solo, a veces canta.
Sus grandes ojos de mirar inquieto
ahora vagar parecen, sin objeto
donde puedan posar, en el vacío.
Ya escapan de su ayer a su mañana;
ya miran en el tiempo, ¡padre mío!,
piadosamente mi cabeza cana.
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Este hombre del casino provinciano
que vio a Carancha recibir un día,
tiene mustia la tez, el pelo cano,
ojos velados por melancolía;
bajo el bigote gris, labios de hastío,
y una triste expresión, que no es tristeza,
sino algo más y menos: el vacío
del mundo en la oquedad de su cabeza.Aún luce de corinto terciopelo
chaqueta y pantalón abotinado,
y un cordobés color de caramelo,
pulido y torneado.
Tres veces heredó; tres ha perdido
al monte su caudal; dos ha enviudado.Sólo se anima ante el azar prohibido,
sobre el verde tapete reclinado,
o al evocar la tarde de un torero,
la suerte de un tahúr, o si alguien cuenta
la hazaña de un gallardo bandolero,
o la proeza de un matón, sangrienta.Bosteza de política banales
dicterios al gobierno reaccionario,
y augura que vendrán los liberales,
cual torna la cigüeña al campanario.Un poco labrador, del cielo aguarda
y al cielo teme; alguna vez suspira,
pensando en su olivar, y al cielo mira
con ojo inquieto, si la lluvia tarda.Lo demás, taciturno, hipocondriaco,
prisionero en la Arcadia del presente,
le aburre; sólo el humo del tabaco
simula algunas sombras en su frente.Este hombre no es de ayer ni es de mañana,
sino de nunca; de la cepa hispana
no es el fruto maduro ni podrido,
es una fruta vana
de aquella España que pasó y no ha sido,
esa que hoy tiene la cabeza cana.
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1
Black beans
The earths hair
The roots of her body
Gazed at my blue horizons
Like endless hills of wheat.
2. We ran away in
This red convertible
Your arm smiled
Like the way
That Bonnet you wore
Shun with your smile
In the front seats warming leather.
3. I can't believe the elm trees
Welcome a rattle of wind like the way their leaves
Leave his midsummer dreams.
How Cana boy
Finally
Return
With his crazy lover
Like the American dream
Was all about her desire.
4. I told ya she took all I had and I'm still
Dancing
Like the wide rivers
Releasing the passion
Inside of crying glaciers.
To keep my river fresh and blue forever
Like generations
Of salmon returning home.
Sep 11, 2014
Sep 11, 2014 at 12:44 AM UTC
"On the third day a wedding took place at Cana in Galilee.
Mary was there with Jesus
and she nudged her son:
'The wine has finished. This - is - not - good.'
And Jesus said, 'Mum. Not now'.
And Mary said 'Listen to your mother.'
And Jesus sighed.
And Mary told the servants,
"Do whatever he tells you."
Then Jesus saw that it was no use arguing. And he said, "let the jars be filled with water".
And they rolled the stone jars in front of him.
And then Jesus said, "Let there be wine".
And they poured the wine.
And it was so - very - good.
And Mary smiled to herself,
thinking how Joseph would have loved this,
and she whispered to Jesus:
'This just the start you know.'
And he did, - and it was.
There was a mother's faith
and gallons of glorious wine.
And there was a mother's smile
at the sight of her son
and of this start of his new-vintage Kingdom
with this original third day miracle.
A sign of things to come.
And there was a party and singing
and much laughter,
with the Son dancing with his mother
into the evening - a Fine Third Day.
Jul 24, 2024
Jul 24, 2024 at 8:42 AM UTC
Love something I cherish to the end of my days
Keeps me happy and sane
In particular
He keeps me happy and sane
Through the good and bad
Through the happy and sad
We do have ‘fights’
But good fights like whose cuter
Whose more perfect
Who can send the most emojis
Love Cana make you do stupid things
Such as staying up past 1am
And knowing you have a test the next day
Or going out too late with that person
But something that is sad about love is
When they’re 1,000 miles away
You miss them
You long for their touch
You lust for just one night
But it still keeps you happy
It makes that whole in your heart filled
Filled with joy and delight
When they call,
When they text,
Your stomach gets butterflies
Because love is perfect
Love is life
Love is knowing your with the right person
And Love
Is beautiful.
Feb 23, 2018
Feb 23, 2018 at 1:34 PM UTC
La abuelita guardaba, con olor de vainilla
Su guitarra en estuche forrado en verde pana.
¡Hace ya tantos años!... Era en la edad lejana
De contradanzas lentas, mantón y redecilla.
La abuelita tocaba, siempre alegre y sencilla;
Y con cuánto donaire, su cabecita cana
Iba el compás llevando, al tocar la pavana
Que bailaba en sus tiempos de noviazgo en Sevilla.
Y tocaba y cantaba la abuelita. Su canto,
De lo que ha muerto y vive tenía el dulce encanto,
Y siempre el estribillo decía: «¿No te acuerdas?»
Y una tarde -la última- «¿No te acuerdas?» cantaba,
Bajó los ojos tristes, mas la vi que lloraba;
Y sus cabellos blancos cayeron en las cuerdas.
380
You had been invited
to a wedding feast.
Your mother's friend's son
was the groom.
It was busy
and after the ceremony
the feast began.
Some of Your friends
had been invited too
and gathered around You.
Tables were full with food
and wine jars.
After the speeches
and laughter,
people sat to eat.
Your mother
came over to You
anxiously.
They have run out
of wine, she said.
You looked at her.
What is it to do with me?
You said,
my time is not yet.
Your friends looked at You,
then Your mother.
Your mother gazed at You.
She walked to the men
who were helping the host.
Do as my son tells you,
she said in a soft voice.
You heard her words.
You could never not do
as she asked.
You walked
to the men.
Fill the empty jars
with water,
You said.
Water?
One man asked.
Yes, water,
You said.
They filled the large jars
with water.
You touched
the jars with Your hands.
You walked away.
One of the men
poured from one
of the jars.
Wine, he whispered.
He took the wine
around the tables.
Later a friend
of the groom said:
Most pour
the best wine first
and later give out
poorer wine,
but you have saved
the best until last
Your mother
smiled at You.
It had begun:
water and wine.
But did she see
where it would end?
Or did she
just see You
as her son?
Dec 23, 2017
Dec 23, 2017 at 4:05 PM UTC