"cervantes" poems
In the last months of March 2014,
Soldier Othello the Moroccan moor
Was in Stratford-upon-Avon at the graveside
Of William Shakespeare the English bard,
He was observing the anniversary
Of Shakespeare and his European brother Cervantes,
He had in his pocket another charm and amulet
Given to him by his paternal grandfather,
This time round not a charm for love portion,
But a mystique totem to raise the dead from dusts,
As Othello himself has hitherto over-matured
Above the painful torture of *** with aristocrats,
He has left it for the Jewish aristotrash; Frantz Kafka,
Whose torturous appetite for *** with German women,
Was the sorriest eyesore of his thespic efforts.
Like Jesus at the grave of Lazarus
Othello groaned by shouting; William the son of John!
No response, he shouted again; Shakespeare the bard!
Then the mystique powers of Othello’s amulet
Electrified Shakespeare back to life,
What is your problem you black moor,
The ***** of Morocco, the soldier
Who beguiled Desdemona into betrothal,
Not because of glory of your work,
But due to charms of your love portion
Bequeathed to you by your witch mother,
What brings you to my sepulchre,
For only to perturbed my purgatorial peace,
What brings you!?
Questioned Shakespeare the bard.
Am no longer the moor, blackness is class
But not the race, as race is bankrupt,
I come here to salute you with good news,
That your European brother, Alfred Nobel,
Currently rewards thespic bards like you,
Whether black or white, blue or green,
The ***** bards from the natural forest,
He also rewards, so wake up and pick the prize!
Retorted Othello in virtue of truth,
And also tell me the native bricks
Of your beautiful architecture;
Where and how did you mold thy bricks?
Your brown English bricks that walled your culture;
***** clown, leapfrog, mercurial, oxymoron,
Falsitafity, Shyllocking, colleaguery and window,
Cauldron, graymalkin, woo, betroth, infatuation and so on.
From underneath his sepulcher Shakespeare broke
A violent gaggle of laughter as if he was ten English skeletons,
You Othello you are still a beautiful moor
Whose foolishness time has not condemned to oblivion,
You are as a fool as I created you ; I will only teach you
One brick, the window , that you go and put on
Your wind disturbed African huts,
Put the wind door on your hut,
And be flexible in your tongue
To give it English elegance
Combine and shorten wind and door
To get your cultural brick of; window !
Apr 11, 2014
Apr 11, 2014 at 9:39 AM UTC
I was brought into this house
Ordered from the local furniture shop
Made to order according to specifications
I am a wingback,
Upholstered in full-grain leather
True to my rich heritage
I was placed in the library
Amongst the illustrious works of famous writers
Half- a - century have passed, providing support
To the backbone of the family
Although tired, he finds solace in my cozy embrace
I give him my wings to fly into the world of literature
Cervantes, Bunyan, Bacon, Goehte, Dostoevsky, Chekov, Tolstoy
Some of the names from the illustrious collection
Not all were privileged to have a seat here
He was transported to each era, savoring the rich legacy
Of literature down the centuries
I was privy to the mind-boggling debates
Which he conducted with himself
Trying to reason each work of literature
A mere wingback rose to be a companion
Providing sturdy support on the mahogany legs
One fine day the reading session ended in deep slumber
Five decades of bonding and companionship came to an end
Now, I stand here, forlorn, at the corner of the library
Reminiscing the reading sessions, and siesta
The wingback does not have the wings to fly away from this bond
© Amitav (Radiance)
May 26, 2014
May 26, 2014 at 2:35 PM UTC
You lived alone in the solititude
Of pure hundred years in Colombia
Roaming in Amacondo with a Spanish tongue
Carrying the bones of your grandmother in a sisal sag
On your poverty written Colombian back,
Gadabouting to make love in times of cholera,
On none other than your bitter-sweet memories
Of your melancholic ***** the daughter of Castro,
Your cowardice made you to fear your momentous life
In this glorious and poetic time of April 2014,
Only to succumb to untimely black death
That similarly dimunitized your cultural ancestor;
Miguel de Cervantes, a quixotic Spaniard,
You were to write to the colonel for your life,
Before eating the cockerel you had ear-marked
For Olympic cockfight, the hope of the oppressed,
Come back from death, you dear Marquez
To tell me more stories fanaticism to surrealism,
From Tarzanic Africa the fabulous land
An avatar of evil gods that are impish propre
Only Vitian Naipaul and Salman Rushdie are not enough,
For both of them are so naïve to tell the African stories,
I will miss you a lot the rest of my life, my dear Garbo,
But I will ever carry your living soul, my dear Garcia,
Soul of your literature and poetry in a Maasai kioondo
On my broad African shoulders during my journey of art,
When coming to America to look for your culture
That gave you versatile tongue and quill of a pen,
Both I will take as your memento and crystallize them
Into my future thespic umbrella of orature and literature.
Apr 20, 2014
Apr 20, 2014 at 4:57 AM UTC
Now upon Age my Ripe Lantern will give
The Rose of Thirty-Four for his Best Joy
Sister, the Token of my Purpose, live,
Brother, the Promise of a Knighted Boy
Which Rose, purple or red, will compensate
A Decade's Sin I rehearse to atone
Pride, one Raven crowed I pluck without Hate
And gently shift my Psalms for her Behold
How another Labour I justly Failed
Must submit to her Needs before my own
For me the Decoding Concept derailed
The Troll called Pity transforms your Heart to Gold.
You both planned to defer in New Year's Lift
Still for you both I sing this Sterling Gift.
Mar 9, 2013
Mar 9, 2013 at 4:31 AM UTC
the Hail Mary transgression:
falling in love with me when it crosses over the line
*guilty of the same, so even when I condemn the errant woman,
with an ice block from a Northeastern pond of no soft forgiveness,
which is still and yet, the only cutoff ending appropriate
but you woman, deserve to learn that
emboldened fantasy that crosses broken bold lines,
is a jagged rot that doesn’t cure the dreamy unreality of
the-cannot-be,
it’s pouring hot water on scalding burns entrenched
guess time to share that your fantasy is the
number one commandment
that this boy also violates routinely so he has a phd of experience,
and the burn proofs when he thot he too could be,
Cervantes, the knight errant, lover of the impossible woman
I, guilty as charged by “The Duke,” am an idealist and bad poet,
so many poet-women here I secret cherish at levels that are nonsensical, absurd, ludicrous
and hold the fantastical fantasty of them dear,
so close and so near, so mine
wrote them each love poems, and they know it,
now, here, in my confessional booth,
my priestly punishment always the same,
ten thousand Hail Mary’s,
but I cheat the cohen priest,
and just write another poem,*
this one is about the line that never can could will be
crossed, hail mary!
Feb 11, 2019
Feb 11, 2019 at 11:48 AM UTC
The cello sings Ave Maria.
Distilled calm; blister packs
In a wet July.
There is peace in every grain,
So fine. Wore away the stone,
Three drownings in the sea.
Annihilation
To build a monument
We settle upon:
Our paradise recovery.
There is warmth after the rain.
Ukulele played on the
Gran Cervantes balcony.
Off-white scars;
Pyramids with no eyes.
Every stoner sleeps.
Every kind heart cries.
The Arc of Life sings a lullaby,
Still I cannot get calm.
In a wet July
A comfort to staying inside.
We tried, wore away our lungs,
Three renewals in the sea.
A leap of faith,
An old keepsake
We contrived upon:
Our lunatic discovery.
There is movement in death.
Pollen falls to the ground;
Exhale of recovery.
Dead-end joy,
Statuettes with no eyes.
Every criminal weeps,
Every kind heart lies.
The cello sings Ave Maria.
The strings that heal
In a wet July.
Jul 14, 2016
Jul 14, 2016 at 9:28 PM UTC
Must we rub elbows, Post-Dated Brother
Because of my Drama to her commit
I know my Roles; Her tongue was the other
For my Radar to pick the Better of it
Perhaps our Wine seeps better with Age
On my Canter I drink less of Question
Why? For her, Heart's Duty for joy her page
Quill my Weak Signature's uncondition
Your Cross-Founder states we all must Forgive
And His Baptist turns those Elders from stone
Meaning, my Tarnished History did live
Of which I murdered to leave me alone.
Easy to say, as long as I draw breath
And that is my Purpose to Act in Health.
Mar 15, 2013
Mar 15, 2013 at 5:10 AM UTC
I seek in Prayer that you would Forgive
This Uttering Whisper cense your Penance
By the Cross and Wheel for this Dharma, live
My own Locked Fortress that Demon's Seance
Mindful do the Scriptures from Heaven remind
That once a Duty to my Sister's Lord
Invoke this Baptist; To Salvation find
The Enfavoured Trust to your Bandaged Word
Then by your God's Hopeful Mercy relay
My added Petition you both be well
Across the White March Doves mirror that Day
You and his hand - Magnificent we tell.
Such was his Title. And Excelled at that
Knowing your Wound heals, I tip-off my Hat.
Mar 15, 2013
Mar 15, 2013 at 5:21 AM UTC
Everything is such fun in the beginning,
when it’s new and undiscovered.
i’ll try almost anything.
What is meant by almost?
All these stupid sick **** roles we play,
all this pretending, why?
i want to believe there’s something
behind the curtain
besides a windowless stone wall
Something inexplicable
his/her majesty of everything/
living/dead/never existed.
William Blake said, “Either be a poet or a painter.
Being both muddies audiences, and discredits one or the other.”
Actually, Blake didn’t say that. i am lost.
is it possible to love after what has happened?
the rage, hurt, disappointment of betrayal.
my ex still stalks
as recently as two mornings ago,
all her exaggerations, over-reactions, fury.
Why so desperate to return to crime scene?
An admission of her own guilt?
Excessive compulsive wound licking (psychogenic alopecia)?
Another excuse for getting drunk?
When we waited for the elevator going down
You said, “Let’s just get this over with.”
i understood completely.
i, who worships my own death.
i, who ****** on my own grave.
i, who gets bored faster than speed of light.
i, who suspects killing around every corner.
i, who sleeps restless.
i, who worries.
i, who loves women.
i, who does not understand women.
i, who is a woman.
i, who bangs the dude in L.A. to advance my career.
i, who is a nobody.
i, a man with no place to stand.
i, who belongs to a family of
blustering flirts, flatterers,
kidders, thieves.
We sit at the table,
monkey-wrenching hand over fist lives.
Forget about the eyes.
Watch the fingers.
Don’t listen to the speeches.
Words are intentional distractions.
Where’s your wallet?
Gypsies? No, we’re not gypsies,
more upper-crusty, yes, very well-connected secrets.
Do the names Dante, or Cervantes, or Nabokov mean anything to you?
No, none of them are our kin,
but we know people who know people,
infidelities in very high places.
All i’m saying is,
once you reach a certain level,
we’re all family.
i will make success happen,
with or without you.
Mar 10, 2013
Mar 10, 2013 at 12:23 PM UTC
My name is Pablo Cervantes
But you can call me Quinton Saint Clair
I’m something rare like turquoise tangerines
Or crystal cathedrals and blistering sunbeams,
My stare is a raw gaze full of awe like ocean’s dawn
I ride ******** on polar bears in the dead Alaskan air
Slay undead corpses, a tantalizing career
Drink the tears of Jesus to make life clear
Eat waterfalls for breakfast, mountains for lunch, and last, but not least I feast on shooting stars before I go to sleep
Just call me Quinton Saint Clair savior of all quintessential affairs
Mar 23, 2010
Mar 23, 2010 at 6:59 PM UTC
*Cruel Summer
It’s a long cruel summer
since you’ve been gone;
starless skies
greet dreamless nights
and shadows eat my sight.
I thought it would be easy
not ever seeing you,
but everything I do
calls me to unsaid words
unwritten
unspoken
in many colors, but mostly blue.
~~~
Life is mostly hard,
filled with pain
abuse that makes no sense
and leaves us hollow sometimes.
Whether it’s at the hands
of those who raise us,
or the one who promises
to love us forever.
And worse, we sometimes lose
the ones we love the most-
gone
like mourning dew
on a warm summer’s day.
~~~
I know all this,
honestly I do.
Yet I never thought
it was you I would lose.
Don’t ask me why
I can not explain
my Daliesque dream
that you would remain.
Perhaps it was my penchant
at windmill jousting;
or reading too much into
Cervantes’ and his chivalrous
Dulcinea desires
that imaged you
dancing from chandeliers
or around those gypsy fires
on cool spring nights;
teasing me into submission
and confessing my “sins”
of falling for you.
I have no words
or rationale for any of this.
I just know
it’s a long cruel summer
since you’ve been gone,
leaving me all alone.
~~~
Maybe today,
while it’s sunny and warm,
I can find my sanity,
the rationale
to get out on my own
and sing some silly
80's songs.
Aztec Warrior/redzone 6.26.16*
Sep 19, 2016
Sep 19, 2016 at 2:55 PM UTC
Fue Cervantes quien relató con su pluma sabia
la extraña historia de dos amigos florentinos
que por amor forzaron sobre sí la desgracia
al maniobrar con impertinencia y desatino
en el ánima de una recogida muchacha.
El esposo con el amigo la puso a prueba
pidiéndole que a su mujer hiciera la corte
sin prevenir el impertinente a dónde lleva
la duda cuando no cuenta con ningún soporte.
Y el que pretendía sólo simular amor
para satisfacer al esposo empecinado
y comprobar de la mujer lealtad y honor,
termino, al fin, de sus virtudes enamorado.
De tal modo que el marido quiso probar la honra
colocándole acechanzas a la castidad
de aquella desprevenida y sosegada esposa,
las que fatalmente minaron su voluntad.
Lo que comenzaron como una prueba fingida
terminó en calamitoso engaño verdadero
porque quien pone trampas a la luz y la vida
termina transitando por oscuros senderos.
(Jorge Gómez A.)
Jun 21, 2012
Jun 21, 2012 at 5:22 PM UTC
She is scared by the
long slow dwindling of
the heart's manouevres
towards the end of the night,
or of life.
So she tugs on its clammy fingers
tries to get it to waltz again.
I tell her:"Live with me between
a name and anonymity."
I say nothing.
There's no foyer in a one-room kitchenette,
but I stand in the foyer anyways,
holding half a poem -
or half a person.
And tilting at windmills.
She is a page and then some
a rough border - shaggy corners.
Glue chafing from the binding.
And maybe she is older than me.
But nobody ever learned to hunt
by watching vegetables being chopped,
and we both agree that since we're
pledging allegiance, we can put our hands
anywhere, right? I just haven't
mentioned which country.
The point is this:
Tomorrow is a mystery creature,and I refuse to guess
whether it wears fur or feathers.
Oct 23, 2010
Oct 23, 2010 at 2:18 PM UTC
That day, the sun as bright as yellow-white,
the day Robinhood met Cinderella
on the fairgrounds at Montezuma
and Cervantes white steed was neighing
tied to the fence
and both them,
)Robin and Cindy(
at the same time
went over to try and calm him
and Cervantes tilted ( a bit high drunk stupored )
he was. Spilt the horse's water
all over both of them.
Cinderella's white shirt
became transparent.
Nubs soft curves
all apparent.
Robin stood,
impressed by the display before him.
Then, Maid Marion showed up,
grabbed Robin by the scruff of his neck.
And Cervantes saw Don Quixote
approaching.
Quickly he threw
the horses blanket
over Cinderella's beauty.
He whispered in her ear,
I know this abandoned windmill
near, we might
have a tilt or two,
Cinderella lost a shoe running
to the horse to mount
with Cervantes
whipping reins and dust flied
as they disappeared
to never ever be
seen again.
Sep 1, 2017
Sep 1, 2017 at 10:57 PM UTC
No cojas la cuchara con la mano izquierda.
No pongas los codos en la mesa.
Dobla bien la servilleta.
Eso, para empezar.
Extraiga la raíz cuadrada de tres mil trescientos trece.
¿Dónde está Tanganika? ¿Qué año
nació Cervantes?
Le pondré un cero en conducta si habla con su compañero.
Eso, para seguir.
¿Le parece a usted correcto que un ingeniero haga versos?
La cultura es un adorno y el negocio es el negocio.
Si sigues con esa chica te cerraremos las puertas.
Eso, para vivir.
No seas tan loco. Sé educado. Sé correcto.
No bebas. No fumes. No tosas. No respires.
¡Ay, sí, no respirar! Dar el no a todos los nos.
Y descansar: morir.
1.1k
¡Desgraciado Almirante! Tu pobre América,
tu india virgen y hermosa de sangre cálida,
la perla de tus sueños, es una histérica
de convulsivos nervios y frente pálida.
Un desastroso espirítu posee tu tierra:
donde la tribu unida blandió sus mazas,
hoy se enciende entre hermanos perpetua guerra,
se hieren y destrozan las mismas razas.
Al ídolo de piedra reemplaza ahora
el ídolo de carne que se entroniza,
y cada día alumbra la blanca aurora
en los campos fraternos sangre y ceniza.
Desdeñando a los reyes nos dimos leyes
al son de los cañones y los clarines,
y hoy al favor siniestro de negros reyes
fraternizan los Judas con los Caínes.
Bebiendo la esparcida savia francesa
con nuestra boca indígena semiespañola,
día a día cantamos la Marsellesa
para acabar danzando la Carmañola.
Las ambiciones pérfidas no tienen diques,
soñadas libertades yacen deshechas.
¡Eso no hicieron nunca nuestros caciques,
a quienes las montañas daban las flechas!
Ellos eran soberbios, leales y francos,
ceñidas las cabezas de raras plumas;
¡ojalá hubieran sido los hombres blancos
como los Atahualpas y Moctezumas!
Cuando en vientres de América cayó semilla
de la raza de hierro que fue de España,
mezcló su fuerza heroica la gran Castilla
con la fuerza del indio de la montaña.
¡Pluguiera a Dios las aguas antes intactas
no reflejaran nunca las blancas velas;
ni vieran las estrellas estupefactas
arribar a la orilla tus carabelas!
Libre como las águilas, vieran los montes
pasar los aborígenes por los boscajes,
persiguiendo los pumas y los bisontes
con el dardo certero de sus carcajes.
Que más valiera el jefe rudo y bizarro
que el soldado que en fango sus glorias finca,
que ha hecho gemir al zipa bajo su carro
o temblar las heladas momias del Inca.
La cruz que nos llevaste padece mengua;
y tras encanalladas revoluciones,
la canalla escritora mancha la lengua
que escribieron Cervantes y Calderones.
Cristo va por las calles flaco y enclenque,
Barrabás tiene esclavos y charreteras,
y en las tierras de Chibcha, Cuzco y Palenque
han visto engalonadas a las panteras.
Duelos, espantos, guerras, fiebre constante
en nuestra senda ha puesto la suerte triste:
¡Cristóforo Colombo, pobre Almirante,
ruega a Dios por el mundo que descubriste!
1.1k
Yo deseo estar solo. Non curo de compaña.
Quiero catar silencio. Non me peta mormurio
ninguno a la mi vera. Si la voz soterraña
de la canción adviene, que advenga con sordina:
si es la canción ruidosa, con mi mudez la injurio;
si trae mucha música, que en el Hades se taña
o en cualquiera región al ***** Hades vecina...
Ruido: ¡Callad! Pregón de aciago augurio!
Yo deseo estar solo. Non curo de compaña.
Quiero catar silencio, mi sóla golosina.
Como yo soy el Solitario,
como yo soy el Taciturno,
dejadme solo.
Como yo soy el Hosco, el Arbitrario,
como soy el Lucífugo, el Nocturno,
dejadme solo.
Mi sandalia (o mi abarca o mi coturno)
no los piséis, tumulto tumultuario,
dejadme solo.
Judeo, quechua, orangutánida, ario,
-como soy de la estirpe de Saturno-
dejadme solo.
Decanto en mi rincón mínimo canto,
silencioso; alquimista soy señero,
juglar oculto, absconto fabulante.
Dejadme solo.
Buen catador (soto mísero manto)
Buen tañedor (sin Amati o Guarniero)
Alto cantor (aunque bajo cantante)
Dejadme solo.
Dejadme solo. Non quiero compaña.
Dejadme esquivo. Non gusto coreo.
Non paventad: non presumo de Orfeo
desasnador de cerril alimaña.
Dejadme solo soplando mi caña
silvestre. Non pétame pueril ronroneo.
Non son adamado. Non son sigisbeo.
Son áspero, másculo. Son rudo, sin plaña.
Sin queja. Más mudo que Beethoven sordo.
Sin laude. Más zurdo que Cervantes manco.
Sin pathos. Más seco que no Falstaff gordo.
Solitario. Adusto. Voy único a bordo.
Espíritu en ***** Corazón en blanco.
Y esquivo dejadme. Soy notas-arranco
de mi clavecino. Soy fábulas-bordo
sobre el cañamazo de mi pentacordo.
Soy facecias-urdo. Por dentro me estanco.
Dejadme señero: jamás me desbordo.
Como yo soy el Solitario,
como yo soy el Taciturno,
como yo soy el Hosco, el Arbitrario,
como soy el Lucífugo, el Nocturno,
dejadme solo.
Como soy Leo Atrabiliario,
como soy Sergio el Estepario,
como soy Proclo Extravagario,
como ya tengo el Cuervo y el Vulturno
de los acerbos choznos de Saturno,
dejadme solo.
Dejadme solo. Non quiero compaña.
Dejadme esquivo. Non gusto coreo.
Non paventad. Non presumo de Orfeo
desasnador de cerril alimaña.
No viene a mí, ni voy a la montaña.
Ni vasallo ni César, Juez ni Reo:
Sergio Estepario, Estrafalario Leo.
Con mi tonel. De mi cruz cirineo.
Rey de Burlas, soberbio: cetro o caña
pares le son a mi elación huraña.
Dejadme solo.
1k
Suddenly my heart comes back from it's long sleep, but just to face pain and a strange emptiness. As if I had been missing something, you.The agony of knowing we are so close but can never be together leaves in my throat the oh so known sore of unshed tears, because every day since I knew of your existence it has been there, reminding me of the world that separates us from each other.I love you with every inch of my broken heart, and yet we could never be together, because reality doesn't mix well with fantasy.But knowing you, changed my whole existence, that's why my world seems grey now, and I walk around with apathy, like something's dead inside of me. This doesn't make me proud, how could you love a ghost?Smiles appear in my face to hide the excruciating pain that is not having you to share everything with. But life goes on, days pass me slowly as only a sad soul can feel.It takes my best effort not to go insane and start confusing the two worlds I now live in...I don't want to re-enact Miguel de Cervantes' most famous character. But I love you. I will always love you. And if it's only at night when I fall into Morpheus' arms that we can be together, then I shall be there and wait for you every night in my dreams, for the rest of my life, we belong to each other, always.
Dec 22, 2013
Dec 22, 2013 at 1:33 PM UTC
La Mancha y sus mujeres... Argamasilla, Infantes
Esquivias, Valdepeñas, La novia de Cervantes,
y del manchego heroico, el ama y la sobrina
(el patio, la alacena, la cueva y la cocina,
la rueca y la costura, la cuna y la pitanza),
la esposa de don Diego y la mujer de Panza,
la hija del ventero, y tantas como están
bajo la tierra, y tantas que son y que serán
encanto de manchegos y madres de españoles
por tierras de lagares, molinos y arreboles. Es la mujer manchega garrida y bien plantada,
muy sobre sí doncella, perfecta de casada. El sol de la caliente llanura vinariega
quemó su piel, mas guarda frescura de bodega
su corazón. Devota, sabe rezar con fe
para que Dios nos libre de cuanto no se ve.
Su obra es la casa -menos celada que en Sevilla,
más gineceo y menos castillo que en Castilla-.
Y es del hogar manchego la musa ordenadora;
alinea los vasares, los lienzos alcanfora;
las cuentas de la plaza anota en su diario,
cuenta garbanzos, cuenta las cuentas del rosario. ¿Hay más? Por estos campos hubo un amor de fuego,
dos ojos abrasaron un corazón manchego. ¿No tuvo en esta Mancha su cuna Dulcinea?
¿No es el Toboso patria de la mujer idea
del corazón, engendro e imán de corazones,
a quien varón no impregna y aun parirá varones? Por esta Mancha -prados, viñedos y molinos-
que so el igual del cielo iguala sus caminos,
de cepas arrugadas en el tostado suelo
y mustios pastos como raído terciopelo:
por este seco llano de sol y lejanía,
en donde el ojo alcanza su pleno mediodía
(un diminuto bando de pájaros puntea
el índigo del cielo sobre la blanca aldea,
y allá se yergue un soto de verdes alamillos,
tras leguas y más leguas de campos amarillos),
por esta tierra, lejos del mar y la montaña,
el ancho reverbero del claro sol de España,
anduvo un pobre hidalgo ciego de amor un día
-amor nublóle el juicio: su corazón veía-. Y tú, la cerca y lejos, por el inmenso llano
eterna compañera y estrella de Quijano,
lozana labradora fincada en tus terrones
-oh madre de manchegos y numen de visiones-,
viviste, buena Aldonza, tu vida verdadera
cuando ta amante erguía su lanza justiciera,
y en tu casona blanca ahechando el rubio trigo.Aquel amor de fuego era por ti y contigo. Mujeres de la Mancha con el sagrado mote
de Dulcinea, os salve la gloria de Quijote.
868
My boy Eli, poet extrordinaire, punked the jura today. He made a lot of sense so the pigs had a fit and squeeled off....rolled his windows up like a "punk *** ***** cop". Dumb ****** rookie looking for sapos and a snitch...STOP!
Eli was just looking out for his fellow man....also his cousin, blood in part of the Garcia Cervantes, clan...he needs the help. He needs his family with millions of dollars to take the initiative and help their own people.
But since they've ignored their responsibilities, Eli was hoping the police, would step up...."protect and serve" the public's interest but **** those putos who only protect and serve their own...... ***** *** ***** **** THE COPS! **** THE PIGS! WHATCHOO GOT?
Aug 29, 2018
Aug 29, 2018 at 10:55 PM UTC
Horas de pesadumbre y de tristeza
paso en mi soledad. Pero Cervantes
es buen amigo. Endulza mis instantes
ásperos, y reposa mi cabeza.Él es la vida y la naturaleza,
regala un yelmo de oros y diamantes
a mis sueños errantes.
Es para mí: suspira, ríe y reza.Cristiano y amoroso y caballero
parla como un arroyo cristalino.
¡Así le admiro y quiero,viendo cómo el destino
hace que regocije al mundo entero
la tristeza inmortal de ser divino!
644
Gigante oso bailarin en el muelle me sopia beso en Valencia
Los turistas se detienes no me emociocan
Pero hay momentos entre congelado en vigor e inteligente
Mi espanol fue apreciado y aplaudido
Sevilla fue impersonante
Granada y Toledo asombras
Luego vinieron disturbios in Barcelona y una vida Francesa quitado
Espana me tienes El Prado y Valencia
Mi corazon siempre esta contigo y con Cervantes
C@rainbowchaser2021
Aug 1, 2021
Aug 1, 2021 at 2:07 PM UTC
A bit mystical
or like
flamenco on the
classical
and it's
all beyond me.
I try to hotwire some
love from
the bush that's on fire
while Moses,
a face set like stone
stood all alone
takes tablets
for his
indigestion.
And I have a question
for him
unformulated as yet,
but I don't want to forget so
I write him a memo,
somehow in Toledo where
the steel is so sharp
a girl plays the harp at
the feet of Cervantes
and the windmills go round
in my head.
Oct 8, 2016
Oct 8, 2016 at 11:39 AM UTC
Dijo cervantes que la historia
es el depósito de las acciones
y yo / salvadas las distancias / creo
que es un nomenclátor de expectativas
el historiador era para schlegel
apenas un profeta que miraba hacia atrás
y yo / salvadas las distancias / creo
que suele ser estrábico y a veces hipermétrope
por su parte el saber congelado sostiene
que los pueblos felices nunca tienen historia
y como en realidad todos la tienen
vaya sacando usted las conclusiones
a menudo la historia se vale de utopías
algunos aprovechan para erigirle estatuas
y luego es consagrada como infancia del mundo
o como fotocopia del futuro
la historia colecciona pálidos nomeolvides
lápidas de homenaje con hollines y mugre
y en su amplio muestrario de desdenes
figura hasta el humilde que vivió sin codicia
la historia está maltrecha / quebrantada
hace dos o tres siglos que no ríe
que no llora / no habla / acaso porque ahora
ya no hay quien le peine las mentiras
614
I sit in the dayroom of
cell block one in the county jail at
4:30 am. It’s quiet, almost serene.
All the other inmates are asleep.
I wait for breakfast: two hard boiled eggs,
a doughnut, juice and milk.
Once a week we can order books.
They will deliver them today.
I’ll get Bukowski, Steinbeck, and Cervantes.
The remaining six days will
fly by.
When I’m released, I’ll go under
the bridge—steal wine and
stay drunk.
I’ll eat every three or four days.
It’s January with record setting
frigid temperatures.
Survival will be a challenge.
There will be the ex-girlfriend to
contend with.
I’ll try to get what little
clothes that I left at her place,
that is, if she didn’t throw them away;
she’s somewhat of a **** like that.
My two best friends that stayed under
the bridge with me, died a day
apart two months ago,
so, nothing but
ghosts and memories there now.
I’m going to miss jail.
Mar 3, 2023
Mar 3, 2023 at 6:43 PM UTC