"empanadas" poems
Extraordinary eggs eat elephants' empanadas
exact erasers enlist every eagle
earlobe extract exit each elf entrance
Evil envelopes e-mail England
Easy eccentrics etcetera etcetera
exiting end!
Apr 16, 2010
Apr 16, 2010 at 4:16 PM UTC
spring time
is
root root root
for the home team
but more importantly
ernies coffees
made exactly the way I like
mango
and
Mediterranean
empanadas
and
endless stories
from uruguay
Apr 25, 2011
Apr 25, 2011 at 12:42 PM UTC
(Memories of a Far Away Land)
I miss the mornings when I could listen to the roosters that loudly crowed.
Open the window to the scent of fresh tortillas, from the abarrotes it flowed.
Everyday I would wake engulfed by mountains and their fresh fresh air.
Alonzo's voice carrying loudly, "Empanadas, Empanadas, get them here."
Daily cruises through the streets of Juarez Mexico I often will reminisce,
Ending up in Downtown Centro to buy whatever, it was anyone's guess.
I miss going to the little grocers to buy, mandarins, avocado and mango,
The long waits in line on the Bridges of America trying to cross to El Paso.
Bathing in metal tubs, washing clothes by washboard with your bare hands,
I'll forever keep the precious memories safely in my heart, of a far away land.
Lopez ©reationz 2014
Jun 14, 2014
Jun 14, 2014 at 10:57 PM UTC
The invitation comes
in the form of a hotel room keycard
The venue
a back hallway where a half dozen gather
Music
a playlist from Spotify
The high priestess officiates
and the priest in a belly dancer’s outfit
ties a silk ribbon around the happy couple’s hands
a fine pagan tradition
Giggles over his jingling bangles
set the mood
Afterward we go to Rosa’s
still dressed in our finery
(except for the priest
who has found a sweatshirt)
The happy couple share a margarita
while the rest of us dine on tacos and empanadas
In the room we share with the new spouses
I rest with the best of royalty
By midnight
I am asleep on the priestess’ lap
Feb 22, 2016
Feb 22, 2016 at 11:23 PM UTC
Mi padre, apenas
en la mañana pajarina, pone
sus setentiocho años, sus setentiocho
ramos de invierno a solear.
El cementerio de Santiago, untado
en alegre año nuevo, está a la vista.
Cuántas veces sus pasos cortaron hacia él,
y tornaron de algún entierro humilde.
Hoy hace mucho tiempo que mi padre no sale
Una broma de niños se desbanda.
Otras veces le hablaba a mi madre
de impresiones urbanas, de política;
y hoy, apoyado en su bastón ilustre
que sonara mejor en los años de la Gobernación,
mi padre está desconocido, frágil,
mi padre es una víspera.
Lleva, trae, abstraído, reliquias, cosas,
recuerdos, sugerencias.
La mañana apacible le acompaña
con sus alas blancas de hermana de la caridad.
Día eterno es éste, día ingenuo, infante
coral, oracional;
se corona el tiempo de palomas,
y el futuro se puebla
de caravanas de inmortales rosas.
Padre, aún sigue todo despertando;
es enero que canta, es tu amor
que resonando va en la Eternidad.
Aún reirás de tus pequeñuelos,
y habrá bulla triunfal en los Vacíos.
Aún será año nuevo. Habrá empanadas;
y yo tendré hambre, cuando toque a misa
en el-beato campanario
el buen ciego mélico con quien
departieron mis sílabas escolares y frescas,
mi inocencia rotunda.
Y cuando la mañana llena de gracia,
desde sus senos de tiempo,
que son dos renuncias, dos avances de amor
que se tienden y ruegan infinito, eterna vida,
cante, y eche a volar Verbos plurales,
jirones de tu ser,
a la borda de sus alas blancas
de hermana de la caridad, ¡oh, padre mío!
958
I wake up early
the tropical squall outside
turns the beach blue-grey
outside our hotel
the bay looks rather bizarre
so quiet and still
I get dressed quickly
we pack our bags just as fast
glancing at the paper
we check out quickly
before realizing that we
still had three hours left
so we drive downtown
past the tropical art deco
to get some breakfast
two empanadas
tea for me, coffee for you
watching the local news
there's not really anywhere
where we can go for an hour
and be back in time
so you just drive 'round
I guess this seems strange because
It's usually busy
Streets filled with tourists
spring breakers and the partiers
are now near silent
a wet, grey Sunday
the streets no longer bustling
we wait to meet mom
May 11, 2016
May 11, 2016 at 5:21 PM UTC
The 3 Crucifixes sit,
atop this city like a tombstone,
but this grave feels so alive,
so vibrant in it’s Post-Colonial glory,
the Spaniards came & went,
well “came & went” is too courteous a term,
but hey either way wherever your beliefs may lay,
they left & when they did they left behind their language & La Ermita Church,
now what’s left is gift wrapped & embodied in Native Blood & Colonial Skin,
ancient wisdom lost in translation all in the name of The Cross,
sacred status melted down for the gold they contained,
I wonder if Colombians or any South Americans for that matter,
think about the past past but the remnants that were left when speaking Spanish,
I guess the Spanish never really left,
& the Inquisition is finished but still I must confess,
Native Blood & Colonial Skin is a pretty good combination,
because 200 years after they left look what we get,
a vibrant culture a wonderful mix,
late night Salsa fiestas at Zaperoco,
hot weather hot food hot women hot music,
& vibes so alive you’d almost forget about the looming tombstone,
watching everything like it’s on replay,
like everyone is already gone which they as in we will all be one day,
when Nature finally returns to reclaim,
what was rightfully Hers in the first place,
in the same way Colombians reclaimed Colombia once the Spaniards went away,
but until Nature comes back to reclaim it’s arepas salsa & coffee,
it’s a beautiful day in Cali let’s have a lively debate over empanadas panela & pollo,
partying from sunset & on in to the humid Cali night,
making such amazing memories that we temporarily forget about the crucifix tombstones,
but all the while there those 3 Crucifixes sit,
atop this city like a tombstone,
but this grave feels so alive,
so vibrant in it’s Post-Colonial glory…
∆ Aaron LaLux ∆
Oct 31, 2018
Oct 31, 2018 at 2:00 AM UTC
Rich rigid bricks,
your sheen green cat eyes.
Your mom’s huevos rancheros -
spilling into noons.
Fireplaces off the window panes,
crisping open a warm chest
for a bed of new delights.
Dozing in my ice sheet hands -
I was meant to be bitten,
then bitter.
Lips pushed their forgetful illusions,
His rememberable forehead lines -
tasking away at lost minutes
of too many 14 hour days.
Here between long firm legs
lying in your large white cottons,
over collections of moles,
and forests of scars.
Wondering if she hurt you
in the same ways
that he hurt me.
Apr 17, 2018
Apr 17, 2018 at 1:02 AM UTC
I am from the apartments, from sharing a room and living cramped
I am from the loud arguments, the bitter taste in my mouth
I am from the cactus, its’ prickly thorns attached
the dark rose, its’ petals slowly wilting
I am from eating dinner together and a loud volume
From John and Sonia and Gloria
I am from the stress and expectations
From not letting it get to you and ignoring it
I am from self taught Christianity, and talks with God at night
I’m from Portugal, Venezuela, and Columbia
Cheese Bread and Empanadas
From the forklift accident, the recovery, and the epileptic Grandma
I am from the strength of the women in my family
I am from the stacks of paperwork
I am from a course of self-discovery and awareness
I am from the first generations journey to succes
Aug 27, 2023
Aug 27, 2023 at 11:34 AM UTC