"coronas" poems
Morning Rainbow
Myriad prismatic crystals,
refract the morning sun-streams -
painting layers of spectral arches
across the misted horizon.
Eyes turned to the western skies,
we suspend our meteorological selves
acquiescing to miracles unveiled before us -
un-beckoned and scarcely earned,
proffering thanks for the radiant epistle
of healing, hope and promise,
artfully encoded in transfigured light.
Synthetic Refractions
A luminary ballet takes center stage
when synthetic refractors come to play:
crystal pendants bathe our foyers
with dazzling swaths of color.
Hazy coronas encircle streetlamps
discovered by headlights through the fog.
A science class prism slices light rays
into pre-ordered spectral strata.
If the sky denies us a rainbow,
we can always fashion one of our own
and we do!
Spectral Sound
Before there was music,
bird songs brushed our souls
and the murmur of woodland streams
held us captive by their banks.
Soon we learned to sing and tint the air
With prisms of wood and wire and metal
and to color soundscapes in our spirits
With songs of wonder, joy and longing.
Before there was music,
bird songs brushed our souls.
Robert Charles Howard, 2019
Feb 25, 2019
Feb 25, 2019 at 1:14 PM UTC
Aye,..Uhh
where the weed...Where..(Where the2)..drinks..(Where the2)..weed..(where the2)..drinks..Uhh..Let's have some fun tonight mane, Yeah let's have some fun Aye..(Where the3)..weed, where..(where the2)..drinks,..Where..(Where the2)..weed..(Where the3).. Drinks..(Aye, let's have some fun tonight mane2)..(Yeah..let's have some fun*2)..Aye..
Burn up, Blaze up..Yeah burn up, Yeah Blaze up, Yeah po up, Yeah drink up, Yeah burn up..Yeah po up..Yeah..Blaze up, Yeah drink up.. let's (turn up2)..Yeah..let's..have (some fun2)..Yeah have fun mane..Aye..(Where the3)..weed..Yeah..where..(where the2)..drinks..(Yeah let's have some fun2)..tonight mane,aye..(Where the2)..weed..Yeah..(Where the2)..drinks..(Aye let's have some fun3)..Tonight mane..Aye..Po up Yeah, Blaze up Yeah...drink up ***** & burn up man..(let's have some fun..Yeah*3) man..Aye
OFTR, we throwing a house party like we in the 70s era dawg, yeah we gonna have this **** jumping like Kid n Play dude.., mane
The whole crib gonna foggy filled up wit hella smoke, aye..Yeah ***** that dope..Yeah that good kush aroma dawg..The only thing you can really see is the fire at the end of the roll up..Everybody drinking yeah Everybody rolling up, Yeah everybody coughing & choking & (having fun*3).. Yeah..my nigaa..Yeah we puffing on funky, Uhh.. Homie leave all the stress at the front door man..so
Don't bring no drama, don't bring no problems, don't bring no ******* don't bring no false ones, & don't bring no stank ho's please dawg..forget blowing ****** we got sticky icky grown organically, no pesticides Yeah mane..just straight THC Thats it..home grown , Yeah we..(having fun*3)..relaxing kicking back Yeah kicking back a young ***** had a long *** tiresome day, now its time to unwind get high & have some fun..Yeah..man..Uhh..
Yeah, its time to roll up,Yeah, its time burn up, Yeah its time to po up..Yeah, its time get super drunk..
(Yeah just having fun*2)
(Have fun*3)...man..
Yeah, we gone turn up tonight dawg, Aye we got 40s OEs, Aye we got champagne, clicquot mane,Aye..we got Budweiser, bud lights,coronas & 2,11s by the case load,..also ***** gin, & vsop..Yeah we getting ****** up like a white fraternity, please don't throw up mane,..make sure you eat..Aye mane, **** what people think about me I just live my life, who's the **** to tell me I ain't living right..nobody **** right..
(We having so much fun yeah*3)..tonight should be here dawg , come now, Noo we ain't stopping till the morning.. That's how OFTR party dawg..Uhh Yeah we party hard Aye..
(Where the **** at mane,Yeah where the drinks at,Aye4)...(burn up, po up, twist Yeah, don't stop..Uhh,Yeah3)..
/Don't stop,3../3...
ever nigga..let's go..
Noo I ain't done wit this song no not at all
...Ohh, that's what you thought dawg, **** I still got some more turning up to do.. Man I still got kegs & bags of marijuana that ain't even half way through we getting throwed ,like a football, Yeah we so gone mane..(Ohh*3)..Yeah dawg, Let's go..
(burn up, po up, twist Yeah, don't stop..Uhh,Yeah*3)
/(Have fun3)..Yeah mane/2
(Have fun*3) Yeah..Uhh
where the weed...Where..(Where the2)..drinks..(Where the2)..weed..(where the2)..drinks..Uhh..Let's have some fun tonight mane, Yeah let's have some fun Aye..(Where the3)..weed, where..(where the2)..drinks,..Where..(Where the2)..weed..(Where the3).. Drinks..(Aye, let's have some fun tonight mane2)..(Yeah..let's have some fun*2)..Aye..
Burn up, Blaze up..Yeah burn up, Yeah Blaze up, Yeah po up, Yeah drink up, Yeah burn up..Yeah po up..Yeah..Blaze up, Yeah drink up.. let's (turn up2)..Yeah..let's..have (some fun2)..Yeah have fun mane..Aye..(Where the3)..weed..Yeah..where..(where the2)..drinks..(Yeah let's have some fun2)..tonight mane,aye..(Where the2)..weed..Yeah..(Where the2)..drinks..(Aye let's have some fun3)..Tonight mane..Aye..Po up Yeah, Blaze up Yeah...drink up ***** & burn up man..(let's have some fun..Yeah*3) man..Aye
We doing what we want Yeah..we having so much fun man, we twisting & drinking we living free Yeah..we living freer..than they want us to be , Yeah..we breaking all the rules like **** Dat **** Noo, we don't care about polices, noo, we don't give a **** about nothing, like **** all the laws homie, Naw mane,
/we just do what we want..(Yeah2..)/2
we gone kick back & roll up the whole pacc, Yeah man,we gone wake up tomorrow & do the same **** again..Yeah man, we gone live it up..(Yeah, we gone have some fun3)..tonight.. (Yeah2)..Aye..Uhh
Where..(where the3)..weed at...Where..(Where the3)..drinks at..Uhh..(Where the2)..weed..(where the2)..drinks..Uhh..Yeah
Let's have some fun tonight mane, Yeah let's have some fun Aye..(Where the3)..weed, where..(where the2)..drinks,..Where..(Where the2)..weed..(Where the3).. Drinks..Aye, let's have some fun tonight mane..
(Yeah..let's have some fun*3)..Aye..
(Uhh..Yeah, Blaze up, burn up, drink up , po up, Yeah Blaze up, burn up, turn up, drink mo*3)
(Have fun6)..(Yeah have fun4)..
Man..
Let's have some fun..Aye
Dec 29, 2015
Dec 29, 2015 at 2:42 PM UTC
Echos expand the ice crystals in my mind
Coronas of galactic dust feed into my pupils
My eyes are moons leaking white fire
My heart explodes into a supernova for it cannot bear the things I did to you
The guilt kills the sun inside my chest
The guilt is Jupiter and my vision is a slave, for auspicious moons have not gravity to compete with astronomical planets
Here my limbs are constellations that drift from one another
Here my fingers bend into uncomprehendable wavelengths
Here I float, empty, into space.
When I saw what could have been
what would have been
and what is now
I became an Earthen Absense.
Oct 29, 2017
Oct 29, 2017 at 6:25 PM UTC
Carnitas on the pit
Oranges searing as they hit the grill
Carne asada marinating
Waiting to be sampled
Coronas add lime
A **** shot of jacks
Laughing kids running around
Saturday morning was meant
For memories like this
Searing their own grill marks on our brains
Trampoline backflips into pools
Picking a lemon off the tree
Charcoal growing white
Familiar goodbyes and laters
Maybe another time joy will reach
This house that never seems to smile
Oct 17, 2016
Oct 17, 2016 at 5:52 PM UTC
Seven New Poems For Seven Days #6 & 7: Live like you're dying
Perhaps you know the lyric, the song?
Live like your dying.
Dying caught my ear, my eye, can't imagine why.
Con-Textual emendation, Natalino style.
Live like your writing.
Yes, that makes sense...
Embrace with passion each new session
Charge every second stanza with ruminating rhythms,
Cut the wires to the air traffic control sensory tower, go solo,
Pulse each word, beat all into a plowshare, even the anger,
Even the hate, dressed to **** in words, forgivable...
Grant the mundane, the insane, even the pain of tragedy,
You refuse so hardily to glorify, grant it and
Record it all - a moment,
A royal audience with all
Your writing parts.
No fancy footing, keep it simple.
No jesters in rain puddles,
Let images of clouds of sand
Born and perish in other's eyes and sighs, let verbal games bedevil other
Wooden puppet princes drinking fairy ales.
Huh?
Write clean and clear,
Let the sheerest wonderment of a new combination,
Be the titillation of the tongue's alliteration,
No head scratching at oblique verbal gestation,
Let words clear speak, each letter a speck,
That gives and grants clarification, sensational.
You, afternoon quenching Coronas, white T shirts,
Sun glazes and later, a summer eve's Sancerre,
Wave gazing on the reality of rusted beach chairs,
Babies sandy naked, washed in waves of Chardonnay,
The traffic-filled word-way highways and bay ways,
Exiting at the Poet's Nook, for exegesis & retrieval.
Write of:
Body shakes and juices, skin-staining tongues,
Taking her, afternoon, unexpectedly, her noises your derring-do!
Broken tear ducts, the Off switch, so busted, write about
Real stuff.
Write not in fear of dying
Angels delivering bad news in vacuum tubes,
Write joyous, psalms of loving life,
Live like your writing,
Write like your living,
So you may die well.
Aug 1, 2013
Aug 1, 2013 at 6:06 PM UTC
Ex-insomniac
Has passive dreams
Yet still seems
Aggressive and unhealthy
As the two people who made him
Who share similar traits
But different personas
One sips on coronas
While the other ingests the *****
And that guy thinks he's my papa
But never showed me real love
I mean where was he when I used to sit in the bath tub
And lacerate my forearms and shoulders
When my mom cries I hold her
But when I cry
I curl up
And shed tears
And lay here
Alone
I sleep
And when I wake up its all fine
Because the past is behind
Me
All I get is rest to heal my ******* wounds
And on rare occasions
I get to watch the freaking moon
Yes that is the most
That I'll ever really get
And if I comatose
It'll be a situation I won't regret
But for now I'm really cold
And the people around me are all so late
The next time I choose to rest
I'm going to ******* hibernate!
May 12, 2014
May 12, 2014 at 11:56 AM UTC
ALL THE IMPORTANT POETS
One day I found all the important poets -
Shakespeare, Bukowski, Dickinson and Rilke
partying in the park drinking Coronas,
feeding pigeons on the green.
Astonished I queried,
"You are all my thought heroes, and yet you laze about.
"Shouldn’t you be writing something famous?"
And they erupted in a literate cacophony of guffaws,
their eyes tearing,
their cheeks shining red with mirth.
Shakespeare turned to me and said,
"Forget it kid !
Meter, metaphor, rhythm and rhyme -
it’s all just groundlessness.
All the adjectives in the world divined just so
only lead to a place in your heart
you’ll never really understand anyway.
It’s simply a mystery, ineffable."
Bukowski tried to ask Rilke about the letters
he'd written to that frustrated young poet,
but he was so drunk on cooking sherry
he could only mumble, gesticulate and grin.
And then sweet Emily said,
"Yes. William is right.
Rainer Marie tried to explain it.
Charles tried to drink into it,
yet it remains the glass bead game -
ungraspable by dearest turn of phrase.
So we have decided to put down our pens
and take a breather."
She quietly handed me the bag of crumbs,
suggesting I toss a few here and there
for the pigeon's lollygagging by.......
"They're hungry, the simple little dears," she said.
Jan 4, 2012
Jan 4, 2012 at 11:19 PM UTC
Arms flesh spirals rocketing
Climbing bursting over through cloudsspace dust particles
Explosive birth
Coronas starlights fast
Grasped in the black
Clasped together
In the sparkling
Universe
Oneness symmetric
A glimpse
Oh my love,
Heaven.
Aug 26, 2018
Aug 26, 2018 at 2:31 PM UTC
These special summer afternoons
have no time markers,
no human dividers,
no watches watching
or clocks clocking,
just grins and smiles,
divining the divide,
painting lovely
the one canyon
of humanity and nature
attending to each other
These summer afternoons
have no time markers,
but drift perfectly sequentially
from sun to nap to
black striped grilled franks,
and red watermelon,
orange cantaloupe,
cold coronas,
and desserts of
indeterminate beach walks,
and quiet talks
These summer afternoons
are as close
as I remember,
what it was like to
be seven or eight,
years of age,
knowing only
carefree summer months
that were
carelessly treasured,
thinking there is
always another,
looking forward to tomorrow
to do nothing in
exactly, happily,
the same way innocently
I am an adult
and that means,
cares are ever present,
ever fair or fear not,,
they lurk and
attack the goalie,
with noisy or subtle unrelenting attacks
but as I overlook the waters,
scenario soul gentling me
under the cooling coverlet of
the perfect breeze and
what lurks
is the moment
the eyes and heart
are fulfilled,
satisfied by what they see
The bay,
dotted with the boat traffic
not too much,
but just interesting,
a right tiny armada
to entertain,
all of us,
inattentively observing
the submerging
descent of
summer daytime friends,
and I think of you only,
at this perfect second
and I am besotted
with grief
and guilt
why can I not grant you the moment,
that I desperate wish to share
my arm is not, not,
careless slung, but
grasping firm with squeezes tight,
finger under chin chucking,
come friend be with me,
and for just this moment
your anti-toil tool here,
your plight beyond my comprehension,
though I live a life on the unknown edge,
what matters is the relativity of us,
and I relate to your weariness,
I weep with desperate knowledge
transporting you here is still an
impossibility
though my eyes see glory,
though my heart cannot refuse
the scene's peace invading me,
it is not fair, it is not fair
and I want you
to have this more than me
so I can keep it too
until then it is a glaze,
surfacing the coating,
that is me
but substance is untouched
until this guilt morphs into a
shared pleasure
Jul 4, 2014
Jul 4, 2014 at 4:36 AM UTC
I.
Summer began when you appeared
Friday night and too many Coronas
You took over my body on her couch
I knew it was bad – but I was had
My stupid-drunken-self stumbled home
And your arm was around my waist
In twenty minutes you convinced me
In twenty minutes you unraveled me
In twenty minutes you ravished me
For that month you hardly left the bed
I could smell you hours later
And welcomed it back every time
II.
We ******
You rambled
You left
I cried
(My friends hate you)
You came back
It happened once again
(but I drank the rest of your wine)
The Month was over
III.
Too much cheap ***
Too much cheap tequila
Too much cheap beer
I danced in a cage
A Pink Lady called at 1am
Aladdin answered
Or was it Genie?
IV.
Beauty and delight, talking to you
Beauty and delight, ******* you
I want to love you, but the idea is far better
You’re the worst kind
Completely right in every way
Completely wrong in every way
I can handle it, I swear
You just need to shut up
V.
The smell of your skin lingering
The silk of your hair tingling
It’s all I feel walking home
Such a shame, the two of us
Mar 10, 2013
Mar 10, 2013 at 6:03 PM UTC
before the world ends
begin.
that you may not love
is the haunting.
where your ghost is rain
your mind clouds.
and nothing is foreseen
like the past.
II
in the long watch of this blindness
we are surely rogue begonias
needling the impenetrable nethers
of our low coronas
we jest in the rage of our humors
gilding the uvula
of our golden throats
trilling in the infinite sublime
and gain no quarter
note.
unabridged, we straddle the span
of our chasm.
and there,
we seek to stand apart
from whatever wounds
we fathom.
Dec 12, 2013
Dec 12, 2013 at 12:47 AM UTC
these are the sleeping roses that dream of thorns and candy
a plume of ludicrous rubes ramping up the drivel
a shanty town that shan't not blot out the sun with it's moon
but rather a rambling brook of gorgeous boredom
swimming upstream to get down there....
please go...you might arrive before you leave.
even so, this is a private conversation that must be broadcast
as lavishly as night blossoms
this is the dead space, shuffling down the alley ~
seeking brackish wisdom and polished dust
these are the genuine barnacles of faith; clinging to the hull of a derelict
an underground stream of punctual devastation
a zero, dividing without regard ~
these are the chilling suns, slathered in ice and muslin
a false door to a fiction
wretched with beauty and comely coronas
Thorns and Candy.
Oct 25, 2012
Oct 25, 2012 at 12:02 PM UTC
I'm a one man army
Running solo cold like the polo
Oh no don't test me ***
**** you slow in a choke hold
Alone droping like a one ton stone
Please check yo mouth
You barking loud?
Leave you dead in the crowd
Like a one hit wonder
Striking down like thunder
Left dead six feet under
So don't mention my name
You can keep all the fame
I'm in the game, with only one aim
To shower down like rain
So everything's getting hit & wet
Now you know what to expect
Shout outz to my nut dweller
Spit you *** out like acapella
Placing you on your knees
Duct tape thick rope no hope
At ease tough mind no sweating
Drilling killing blood spilling
Ripping gripping blood dripping
Torture I introduce my culture
Tie your arms and legs
It's too late to beg
When I'm cutting off both legs
And your arms
They will soon be disarmed
I'm sorry I didn't mean no harm
But I felt threatened
Almost taken, surely mistaken
Keep this in mind
You'll be left behind
What a shameful crime
It's time for coronas & lime
At last, just a thing in the past
I never intended for problems
But it's the only way
I could solve them, toss them
Now I lost them...
Jan 7, 2015
Jan 7, 2015 at 11:04 PM UTC
Snowfall gently covered Belleville
in a blanket of softest down –
iridescent in the gaslight coronas.
A carriage pulled up at City Park Hall where
the coachman took white-gloved hands
and eased the ladies gently down the steps.
Some paused to pat the horses
in thanksgiving for the lift.
Top - hatted men offered arms to their wives,
escorting them up the snowy stairs
and into the buzzing lobby.
Trays of wine circled the room -
their cargo reduced at every stop.
Each raconteur spoke of celebration for the
Philharmonic had turned a decade old that week.
Programs in hand, people claimed their seats
while musicians on stage
practiced random admixtures of
excerpts that would come to order soon.
Then by the light of gas chandeliers,
Julius Liese raised his arms and brought
Haydn’s symphonic London to Illinois -
a citizen orchestra led by the local lumber czar.
After the final echoes melted into applause
and coats were lifted over shoulders;
the time had come for the waiting carriages -
snow still swirling in the gaslight glow.
The clopping of hooves on cobblestone
drifted into the passengers’ ears
and co-mingled with the echoes of
strings, drums and wind blown music
still singing in their memories
and irradiating their souls,
January, 2007
Sep 29, 2013
Sep 29, 2013 at 3:40 AM UTC
He danced in light, son of the Wind,
And colored the minds below.
She was too deep, locked in herself,
But he still had inarticulately tried
To convey his longing in light.
When he asked the girl
What her name was, she replied,
"I am the Marianas Trench,"
And he blinked, smashing lashes
In a vain effort
To extract an answer not forthcoming.
She gazed blankly, concealing
Three million dying hopes
Faintly sparkling within her depths.
He bashfully cast his eyes
Downward to conceal his own
Inner turmoil.
"I am the Aurora Borealis,"
He finally yelped as his fingers drummed
Notes in the tension between them.
A light flickered across her
Black eyes, flitting to his own.
Quickly extinguished, it
Carried within it her slipped
Composure and raw yearning.
He drew breath, and the coronas
Of his eyes slid to meet hers,
Blank once more.
Before she could bolster
Her dwindling courage,
He was leaving, taking with
Him all her color.
"Don't!" She pleaded.
Her cheeks flushed magenta.
He blanched, his eyes dark.
But he was far from her,
Shrouded in light
That could never color
The stone walls she built.
Miles high, she hoped
They touched his sky someday.
Until then, she was hidden,
Sound, and he was brilliant, lost.
May 30, 2013
May 30, 2013 at 2:35 AM UTC
A mad stone mask waits
in memorized frost on the
blood heavy curtains of ****
Backstage are the petrified
coronas of silver babies whose
ghostpaper hands whisper
wreaths of slavery
Dec 23, 2011
Dec 23, 2011 at 2:09 AM UTC
A un niño, a un solo niño que iba para piedra nocturna,
para ángel indiferente de una escala sin cielo...
Mirad. Conteneos la sangre, los ojos.
A sus pies, él mismo, sin vida.
No aliento de farol moribundo,
ni jadeada amarillez de noche agonizante,
sino dos fósforos fijos de pesadilla eléctrica,
clavados sobre su tierra en polvo, juzgándola.
Él, resplandor sin salida, lividez sin escape, yacente,
juzgándose.
Tizo electrocutado, infancia mía de ceniza, a mis pies, tizo yacente.
Carbunclo hueco, ***** desprendido de un ángel que iba para piedra nocturna,
para límite entre la muerte y la nada.
Tú: yo: niño.
Bambolea el viento un vientre de gritos anteriores al mundo
a la sorpresa de la luz en los ojos de los reciennacidos,
al descenso de la vía láctea a las gargantas terrestres.
Niño.
Una cuna de llamas de norte a sur,
de frialdad de tiza amortajada en los yelos,
a fiebre de paloma agonizando en el área de una bujía;
una cuna de llamas meciéndote las sonrisas, los llantos.
Niño.
Las primeras palabras abiertas en las penumbras de los sueños sin nadie,
en el silencio rizado de las albercas o en el eco de los jardines,
devoradas por el mar y ocultas hoy en un hoyo sin viento.
Muertas, como el estreno de tus pies en el cansancio frío de una escalera.
Niño.
Las flores, sin piernas para huir de los aires crueles,
de su espoleo continuo al corazón volante de las nieves y los pájaros,
desangradas en un aburrimiento de cartillas y pizarrines.
4 y 4 son 18. Y la X, una K, una H, una J.
Niño.
En un trastorno de ciudades marítimas sin escrúpulos,
de mapas confundidos y desiertos barajados,
atended a unos ojos que preguntan por los afluentes del cielo,
a una memoria extraviada entre nombres y fechas.
Niño.
Perdido entre ecuaciones, triángulos, fórmulas y precipitados azules,
entre el suceso de la sangre, los escombros y las coronas caídas,
cuando los cazadores de oro y el asalto a la banca,
en el rubor tardío de las azoteas
voces de ángeles te anunciaron la botadura y pérdida de tu alma.
Niño.
Y como descendiste al fondo de las mareas,
a las urnas donde el azogue, el plomo y el hierro pretenden ser humanos,
tener honores de vida,
a la deriva de la noche tu traje fue dejándote solo.
Niño.
Desnudo, sin los billetes de inocencia fugados en sus bolsillos,
derribada en tu corazón y sola su primera silla,
no creíste ni en Venus, que nacía en el compás abierto de tus brazos.
ni en la escala de plumas que tiende el sueño de Jacob al de Julio Verne.
Niño.
Para ir al infierno no hace falta cambiar de sitio ni postura.
1.1k
Diré cómo nacisteis, placeres prohibidos,
Como nace un deseo sobre torres de espanto,
Amenazadores barrotes, hiel descolorida,
Noche petrificada a fuerza de puños,
Ante todos, incluso el más rebelde,
Apto solamente en la vida sin muros.
Corazas infranqueables, lanzas o puñales,
Todo es bueno si deforma un cuerpo;
Tu deseo es beber esas hojas lascivas
O dormir en esa agua acariciadora.
No importa;
Ya declaran tu espíritu impuro.
No importa la pureza, los dones que un destino
Levantó hacia las aves con manos imperecederas;
No importa la juventud, sueño más que hombre,
La sonrisa tan noble, playa de seda bajo la tempestad
De un régimen caído.
Placeres prohibidos, planetas terrenales,
Miembros de mármol con sabor de estío,
Jugo de esponjas abandonadas por el mar,
Flores de hierro, resonantes como el pecho de un hombre.
Soledades altivas, coronas derribadas,
Libertades memorables, manto de juventudes;
Quien insulta esos frutos, tinieblas en la lengua,
Es vil como un rey, como sombra de rey
Arrastrándose a los pies de la tierra
Para conseguir un trozo de vida.
No sabía los límites impuestos,
Límites de metal o papel,
Ya que el azar le hizo abrir los ojos bajo una luz tan alta,
Adonde no llegan realidades vacías,
Leyes hediondas, códigos, ratas de paisajes derruidos.
Extender entonces una mano
Es hallar una montaña que prohíbe,
Un bosque impenetrable que niega,
Un mar que traga adolescentes rebeldes.
Pero si la ira, el ultraje, el oprobio y la muerte,
Ávidos dientes sin carne todavía,
Amenazan abriendo sus torrentes,
De otro lado vosotros, placeres prohibidos,
Bronce de orgullo, blasfemia que nada precipita,
Tendéis en una mano el misterio.
Sabor que ninguna amargura corrompe,
Cielos, cielos relampagueantes que aniquilan.
Abajo, estatuas anónimas,
Sombras de sombras, miseria, preceptos de niebla;
Una chispa de aquellos placeres
Brilla en la hora vengativa.
Su fulgor puede destruir vuestro mundo.
1.1k
The god-being
takes off her jacket
and
sits down on the edge of my bed.
She cradles a crinkling,
noisy bag of twinkling
cold coronas.
The god-being says:
"I got two for you,
one for me."
The god-being
is wearing one of my black beaters
and the pin-up nurse
on her left-shoulder
is splayed and exposed.
The nurse's body opens up
into a flaring
of too-long legs
and distended ****
The god-being
is curled away from me
her whole being is
wrapped up
in holding the bag.
Wrapped up
in holding those sounds contained.
The god-being
unfurls herself
finally
and reveals the three
golden bodies.
The nurse
is no longer bloated
and stretched.
The god-being turns
to me,
two coronas in her right
one in her left.
The god-being spiders
up to me.
Crawling over the bed,
making space-time
dimples
in the scratchy fabric
with the two sap-colored bottles
in her tiny creative hands
and the sadness
that she has created me
to look at her.
Nov 19, 2011
Nov 19, 2011 at 12:51 AM UTC
by the river
in the tall grass
under the moon
poles in the sand
on a blanket
lantern on a branch
sipping ice cold coronas
hand in hand
Jun 29, 2014
Jun 29, 2014 at 1:36 AM UTC
Rey de los hidalgos, señor de los tristes,
que de fuerza alientas y de ensueños vistes,
coronado de áureo yelmo de ilusión;
que nadie ha podido vencer todavía,
por la adarga al brazo, toda fantasía,
y la lanza en ristre, toda corazón.Noble peregrino de los peregrinos,
que santificaste todos los caminos
con el paso augusto de tu heroicidad,
contra las certezas, contra las conciencias
y contra las leyes y contra las ciencias,
contra la mentira, contra la verdad...¡Caballero errante de los caballeros,
varón de varones, príncipe de fieros,
par entre los pares, maestro, salud!
¡Salud, porque juzgo que hoy muy poca tienes,
entre los aplausos o entre los desdenes,
y entre las coronas y los parabienes
y las tonterías de la multitud!¡Tú, para quien pocas fueron las victorias
antiguas y para quien clásicas glorias
serían apenas de ley y razón,
soportas elogios, memorias, discursos,
resistes certámenes, tarjetas, concursos,
y, teniendo a Orfeo, tienes a orfeón!Escucha, divino Rolando del sueño,
a un enamorado de tu Clavileño,
y cuyo Pegaso relincha hacia ti;
escucha los versos de estas letanías,
hechas con las cosas de todos los días
y con otras que en lo misterioso vi.¡Ruega por nosotros, hambrientos de vida,
con el alma a tientas, con la fe perdida,
llenos de congojas y faltos de sol,
por advenedizas almas de manga ancha,
que ridiculizan el ser de la Mancha,
el ser generoso y el ser español!¡Ruega por nosotros, que necesitamos
las mágicas rosas, los sublimes ramos
de laurel Pro nobis ora, gran señor.
¡Tiembla la floresta de laurel del mundo,
y antes que tu hermano vago, Segismundo,
el pálido Hamlet te ofrece una flor!Ruega generoso, piadoso, orgulloso;
ruega casto, puro, celeste, animoso;
por nos intercede, suplica por nos,
pues casi ya estamos sin savia, sin brote,
sin alma, sin vida, sin luz, sin Quijote,
sin piel y sin alas, sin Sancho y sin Dios.De tantas tristezas, de dolores tantos
de los superhombres de Nietzsche, de cantos
áfonos, recetas que firma un doctor,
de las epidemias, de horribles blasfemias
de las Academias,
¡líbranos, Señor!De rudos malsines,
falsos paladines,
y espíritus finos y blandos y ruines,
del hampa que sacia
su canallocracia
con burlar la gloria, la vida, el honor,
del puñal con gracia,
¡líbranos, Señor!Noble peregrino de los peregrinos,
que santificaste todos los caminos,
con el paso augusto de tu heroicidad,
contra las certezas, contra las conciencias
y contra las leyes y contra las ciencias,
contra la mentira, contra la verdad...¡Ora por nosotros, señor de los tristes
que de fuerza alientas y de ensueños vistes,
coronado de áureo yelmo de ilusión!
¡que nadie ha podido vencer todavía,
por la adarga al brazo, toda fantasía,
y la lanza en ristre, toda corazón!
1k
¡Ya viene el cortejo!
¡Ya viene el cortejo! Ya se oyen los claros clarines,
la espada se anuncia con vivo reflejo;
ya viene, oro y hierro, el cortejo de los paladines.Ya pasa debajo los arcos ornados de blancas Minervas y Martes,
los arcos triunfales en donde las Famas erigen sus largas trompetas
la gloria solemne de los estandartes,
llevados por manos robustas de heroicos atletas.
Se escucha el ruido que forman las armas de los caballeros,
los frenos que mascan los fuertes caballos de guerra,
los cascos que hieren la tierra
y los timbaleros,
que el paso acompasan con ritmos marciales.
¡Tal pasan los fieros guerreros
debajo los arcos triunfales!Los claros clarines de pronto levantan sus sones,
su canto sonoro,
su cálido coro,
que envuelve en su trueno de oro
la augusta soberbia de los pabellones.
Él dice la lucha, la herida venganza,
las ásperas crines,
los rudos penachos, la pica, la lanza,
la sangre que riega de heroicos carmines
la tierra;
de negros mastines
que azuza la muerte, que rige la guerra.Los áureos sonidos
anuncian el advenimiento
triunfal de la Gloria;
dejando el picacho que guarda sus nidos,
tendiendo sus alas enormes al viento,
los cóndores llegan. ¡Llegó la victoria!Ya pasa el cortejo.
Señala el abuelo los héroes al niño.
Ved cómo la barba del viejo
los bucles de oro circunda de armiño.
Las bellas mujeres aprestan coronas de flores,
y bajo los pórticos vense sus rostros de rosa;
y la más hermosa
sonríe al más fiero de los vencedores.
¡Honor al que trae cautiva la extraña bandera
honor al herido y honor a los fieles
soldados que muerte encontraron por mano extranjera! ¡Clarines! ¡Laureles!Los nobles espadas de tiempos gloriosos,
desde sus panoplias saludan las nuevas coronas y lauros
-las viejas espadas de los granaderos, más fuertes que osos,
hermanos de aquellos lanceros que fueron centauros-.
Las trompas guerreras resuenan:
de voces los aires se llenan...-A aquellas antiguas espadas,
a aquellos ilustres aceros,
que encaman las glorias pasadas...
Y al sol que hoy alumbra las nuevas victorias ganadas,
y al héroe que guía su grupo de jóvenes fieros,
al que ama la insignia del suelo materno,
al que ha desafiado, ceñido el acero y el arma en la mano,
los soles del rojo verano,
las nieves y vientos del gélido invierno,
la noche, la escarcha
y el odio y la muerte, por ser por la patria inmortal,
¡saludan con voces de bronce las trompas de guerra que tocan la marcha triunfal!...
928
Qué hicisteis vosotros, gidistas
intelectualistas, rilkistas,
misterizantes, falsos brujos
existenciales, amapolas
surrealistas encendidas
en una tumba, europeizados
cadáveres de la moda,
pálidas lombrices del queso
capitalista, qué hicisteis
ante el reinado de la angustia,
frente a este oscuro ser humano,
a esta pateada compostura,
a esta cabeza sumergida
en el estiércol, a esta esencia
de ásperas vidas pisoteadas?
No hicisteis nada sino la fuga:
vendisteis hacinado detritus,
buscasteis cabellos celestes,
plantas cobardes, uñas rotas,
«belleza pura», «sortilegio»,
obras de pobres asustados
para evadir los ojos, para
enmarañar las delicadas
pupilas, para subsistir
con el plato de restos sucios
que os arrojaron los señores,
sin ver la piedra en agonía,
sin defender, sin conquistar,
más ciegos que las coronas
del cementerio, cuando cae
la lluvia sobre las inmóviles
flores podridas de las tumbas.
804
¡Salve llama creadora del mundo,
lengua ardiente de eterno saber,
pero germen, principio fecundo
que encadenas la muerte a tus pies!
Tú la inerte materia espoleas,
tú la ordenas juntarse a vivir,
tú su lodo modelas, y creas
miles de seres de formas sin fin.
Desbarata tus obras en vano
vencedora la muerte talvéz;
de sus restos levanta tu mano
nuevas obras triunfante otra vez.
Tú la hoguera del sol alimentas,
tú revistes los cielos de azúl,
tú la luna en las sombras de argentas,
tú coronas la aurora de luz.
Gratos ecos al bosque sombrío,
verde pompa a los árboles das,
melancólica música al río,
ronco grito a las olas del mar.
Tú el aroma en las flores exhalas,
en los valles suspiras de amor,
tú murmuras del aura en las alas,
en el Bóreas retumba tu voz.
Tú derramas el oro en la tierra
en arroyos de hirviente metal;
Tú abrillantas la perla que encierra
en su abismo profundo la mar.
Tú las cárdenas nubes extiendes
***** manto que agita Aquilón;
con tu aliento los aires enciendes,
tus rugidos infunden pavor.
Tú eres pura simiente de vida,
manatial sempiterno del bien;
luz del mismo Hacedor desprendida,
juventud y hermosura es tu ser.
Tú eres fuerza secreta que el mundo
en sus ejes impulsa a rodar,
sentimiento armonioso y profundo
de los orbes que anima tu faz.
De tus obras los siglos que vuelan
incansables artífices son,
del espíritu ardiente cincelan
y embellecen la estrecha prisión.
Tú en violento, veloz torbellino,
los empujas enérgica, y van;
y adelante en tu raudo camino
a otros siglos ordenas llegar.
Hombre débil, levanta la frente,
pon tu labio en su eterno raudal;
tú serás como el sol en Oriente,
tú serás, como el mundo, inmortal.
786