"ernesto" poems
Bilang na ang aking maliligayang araw.
dalawa na lang. Kung isasama yung pangakong panlilibre ng lomi
ng mga kasamahan sa pabrika sa unang restday matapos ang endo-
tatlo. At ganito pala ang feeling ng may taning.
Para kang nasa nilulumot na aquarium na walang oxygen
at goldfish kang kasama ng dalawang golden arowana.
Hindi ka makahinga.
Sa a kinse, matuloy man o hindi ang balitang super-bagyo
Tapos na ang limang buwang kontrata.
Matatapos na rin ba ang hindi naumpisahang pagsinta?
Tulad ng paghahanap ng mga skater sa kanilang skate park,
matatagpuan ko rin ba ang lakas loob at habambuhay na hindi na?
Kaya naman kaninang tanghalian, wala akong kwentong maihain sa iyo.
Parang habambuhay ko ngang uubusin yung inorder kong BBQ
kanin at RC.
Paano ko ba sasabihing baka isa na ito sa huling dalawang tanghalian na sabay tayong kakain?
Paano ko ba sasabihin na sa maraming pagkakataon na sabay tayong kumakain,
nagtitipid ako at hindi naman talaga ako nagugutom.
Gusto lang kita makasama kasi parang gusto na kita.
Pero tulad ng inililihim kong pagtatapos ng aking kontrata
Hindi mo alam.
Hindi mo alam na ikaw ang dahilan kung bakit masarap ang simoy ng hangin sa loob ng pabrika
kahit wala naman talagang bintana at inuubong industrial fan lang ang meron tayo.
Hindi mo alam kung anong kapanatagang nararamdaman ko
tuwing sinasabihan mo akong mag-iingat ako
tuwing uwian kahit ang totoo, hindi natin kakilala ang kaligtasan
at kapanatagan sa pabrikang walang fire exit
at benefits.
Yun talaga yun, hindi mo alam.
Pero alam mo naman sigurong salot talaga ang kontraktwalisasyon?
At maramot talaga sa mga lovestory nating mga below-minimum-wage-earners
at contractual workers ang sistema ng paggawa sa Pilipinas.
Sa mga susunod na bukas, ikaw naman ang mag-e-endo.
Baka mapunta ka sa Savemore na tadtad din ng kontraktwal.
At masnatch ang numero mo at hindi na kita matatawagan.
At ako, baka sa hirap humanap ng trabaho maisangla ko ang aking telepono.
At isang monumentong singlaki ng Mall of Asia ang itatayo sa pagitan nating dalawa.
Kasalanan ito ni Ernesto Hererra.
Aug 2, 2015
Aug 2, 2015 at 12:53 PM UTC
As I let my mind wander into time, and release these binds that have me confined, I began to feel a great energy, like the sun had been compressed and put into me, and as time tic tocs and unwinds into its trail of infinity. I realize a trinity mind body soul, they burn as a whole, for the mightiest of goals. and as time unwinds it'll leave you behind. unless you get your spot in, a line of legacys never to be forgotten
Confucius, Isaac Newton, Albert Einstein, Martin Luther King Jr, George Washington, Ernesto ‘Che’ Guevara, Nelson Mendala, Mohandas Karamchand Gandhi, Steve Jobs, Stephen Hawkins, Leonardo Da Vinci, Wolfgang Amedeus Mozart, nikola tesla, Wael Ghonim, Jimi Hendrix, Joseph Stiglitz, Reed Hastings, François Rabelais, Archimedes, Sigmund Frued, Charles Darwin, Aryabhata, Bob Marley, Garrett Morgan, George Washington Carver, Aristotle, John Locke, Johann Wolfgang von Goethe, Plato, Galileo Galilei...and many many more...
Stand for something. Think outside the box. Evolve and express yourself. Make a difference #STEM #LegacyToIfinity
Nov 28, 2014
Nov 28, 2014 at 5:31 PM UTC
Dear Ernesto Hugo de Castro,
Keep breathing and keep thinking,
we'll **remember that somewhere,
along the lines, you were there**,
since you have something to gain.
I like reading your poems and poetry,
I also like that you express yourself clearly,
I also like that you know how life does hurts
and I like your ruthful and inspiring works.
I love knowing your writing and trueness,
I also love how reaching perfection you do,
and, last but not least, I also love you.
- Ludapoetry
Dec 13, 2014
Dec 13, 2014 at 9:51 AM UTC
1. Silence always means he's thinking about his deep and everlasting love for me.
2. Farts are his way of glorifying my existence. And burps always get a "God bless you."
3. Him and Gary the get-well-gorilla want me to be happy.
4. On OKCupid, the opening line of his first very first message to me was "Bonjour! While reading your profile, I noticed you're into gaming."
5. He found that street, you know, with the black mailbox at the end of it.
6. I have never wished for him to "find an antique rocking chair to die in." (ESOTSM)
7. We will have a hammock in our attic. And a room for our four cats, named Fiona, Penelope, Montozo, and Ernesto.
8. We will kiss in a tent in a woods, and then kiss in Paris, and finally settle which is more romantic.
9. [R]Otman's Ottomans is our future enterprise.
10. Oh, and, uh, I guess I love him, and stuff.
Feb 28, 2013
Feb 28, 2013 at 5:17 PM UTC
May we touch the infinite compassion
that is there within us all,
and the whole world will
feel our healing light.
May we be our most loving selves
with one another
in your memory,
Ernesto.
Blessed journey,
brave poet brother!
Into the Light
of perfect,
Infinite Love
we commend you,
Ernesto.
Your sisters and brothers
around the world,
we embrace your spirit
always, and forever,
Ernesto.
Sep 24, 2015
Sep 24, 2015 at 6:12 PM UTC
Well Ernesto you're leaving us in body
But your spirit will always live on
Through the beautiful words you have left us
Sep 24, 2015
Sep 24, 2015 at 1:30 PM UTC
i.
Ernesto L. Gonzales
Aka "DedPoet";
A prayer up to heaven
As the angel's awaiteth and knoweth.
ii.
Thou hath blessed us all
With thy beauty and difference;
Not like the rest, one of the great's, the best
A man, a king, an angel amongst the innocent.
iii.
This is not thine death
This is thy new birth;
Put thy faith in god, not creature's nor human facade's
For seraph's and cherub's awaiteth thee,in the creator's church.
iv.
This is for thee, one of mine dearest supporter's
Thou art a friend, though didst not talk much;
I still felt thine pen, thine hand of gratitude
Thine family is blessed, to hath known a being of beatitude.
v.
Thy word's shalt liveth on, thither the great paradise
Thou shalt not be forgotten, thou art worth more in ourn eye's;
As thy life, is not worth material money nor gem's
Thy life is priceless, because it's from God, awaiting thee friend.
vi.
Ernesto L. Gonzales, a Godsend to Hellopoetry
Ernesto L. Gonzales, half divine messenger, part mortal breed;
Ernesto L. Gonzales, I thanketh thee for all thou hath done
Ernesto L. Gonzales, Jehovah's eternal poet, a chosen one.
May god bless you and your family ernesto, as remember poet friend Ernest, what a doctor said isn't always a death sentence, only Christ and god the father is your doctor, Christ heals ernesto all!!! Though if he does take you friend, may your soul rest in heaven, may the angel's bless you on your journey, and may you continue to speak your poetry in soul and spirit form,
May God bless you dedpoet, and have faith,
Your friend.
Brandon Cory Nagley...
©Brandon Nagley
©Lonesome poets poetry
©Ernesto L. Gonzales[aka DedPoet) dedication
Sep 25, 2015
Sep 25, 2015 at 12:14 PM UTC
We're driving on the road at night
through the desert
between Ajo & Gila Bend
a place my Dad called
Crater Range
he told me lots of people died out there
he saw lots of scary stuff out there
and I would stare out the window
into the desert.
The headlights lighting up
the shrubs and rocks
the full moon in the sky
taking care of the rest
the arroyos
the rusty train tracks
the vast
neverending
stretch of white rocks, shrubs, and sand
illuminated and glowing blue.
And he'd keep talking to me
while my mother and sister slept.
We'd keep talking
forever it seemed
I eagerly awaited these talks
the green light in the radio lighting up his face
his beard moving up and down
telling me about all the family members & friends
that died on this road
he told me about them
as we passed through a large formation of rocks
on both sides of the road
Class of 79'
Martina & Ernesto 4 Ever
Peace signs & pentagrams
were spray painted all over the rock walls.
And from that green, glowing, radio
Morrison's voice
singing
about the killer on the road.
And then it'd get real quiet again
we both would
and I'd just lean my head against that window
staring out
into the darkness
and looking
squinting real hard
looking for something
anything
alive and moving
lit up in the light from the moon
down in the arroyo
or by the tracks.
There was something out there
I knew it.
Jan 26, 2012
Jan 26, 2012 at 3:43 PM UTC
In my heart,
a road travelled, enough,
but still overgrown and walked
in pensive solitude
leads
to a green field of stones
that looks out over white chopped seas
To here I come when my soul is
perplexed beyond belief
when my heart is torn and bruised
This is my field of ragecand grief
where I stand and howl at injustice
beat my breast at lifes inequity
and weep slow salted tears of regret
Today again I come to my field of fallen friends
and etch your name ernesto,
the ded poet, who lived a thousand lives
And I rage and rampage, and set war in my heart
against the gods who took this voice,
this warrior this talent....friend.... and father.
But all is sound and fury set to the wind
to be dispersed as froth and rain...
As my soul quiets, my tear fall softly,
thinking on your moons, your love,
for them, and you love for your life...
Too soon, for you to go...
but the words, you have given them
and us, as well are jewels, cut and faceted
treasures for the darkest of nights.
Oct 1, 2015
Oct 1, 2015 at 7:23 AM UTC
Ernesto got up to get a glass of water from the fridge.
On his way back to the bedroom
he stopped by the closed door to the laundry room.
He could overhear her
talking to him
that man.
He suspected something was up
but he didn't let on
not one bit.
When she came to bed
he smiled
when she smiled
kissed her goodnight
when she kissed him.
Then he lay in the dark
waiting.
When she started
to snore
he snuck her phone
out into the hall
and sat on the floor.
Reading her correspondence
with this other man.
According to the texts
they had ****** two days earlier
and it felt so good
she had said
better than her husband.
She was planning on leaving him
in a week.
He set her phone back on her nightstand
while she snored in her sleep
unaware of the storm building
in her husband's head.
The next day
just after lunch
he walked into the doctor's office
where she worked the front desk.
He quickly made his way through the door
and behind the desk.
She knew what was
going down
the moment she saw the look on her husband's face
and the gun in his hand.
"Ernesto...NO PLEASE! I didn't-"
"You did."
He calmly said
almost whispered
before firing
two shots
into her face
breaking apart her jaw
and the top of her skull
it snapped off
and landed on the desk
brains, blood, and gore
painted the computer.
The entire waiting room
and back office
screaming & running
from the building.
He calmly put the gun under his chin
took of a sip from his wife's
thermos on the desk
and pulled the trigger.
He woke up
in the hospital.
Handcuffed to the bed
face wrapped in gauze
tubes & needles stuck in him.
He would go on to be
the most disfigured man in cell block 9.
A **** shame.
Things rarely
turn out how you envision them.
Marriages
Love
or
Murder-Suicides.
It could go either way.
All of it.
Dec 28, 2011
Dec 28, 2011 at 9:18 PM UTC
Al perderte yo a ti, tú y yo hemos perdido:
yo, porque tú eras lo que yo más amaba;
y tú, porque yo era el que te amaba más.
Pero de nosotros dos tú pierdes más que yo:
porque yo podré amar a otras como te amaba a ti,
pero a ti no te amarán como te amaba yo.
-Ernesto Cardenal, Granada, Nicaragua
________________________________________________________
When I lost you, we both lost something:
I, because I loved you too much
And you, because it is I whom loved you the most.
But between the two of us, it is you who lost the most:
Because I can love anybody the way that I loved you
But you will never be loved the same way that I used to.
-Ernesto Cardenal, Granada, Nicaragua
Jan 14, 2016
Jan 14, 2016 at 12:18 AM UTC
was one of the first poets
to comment on my work
here on Hello Poetry.
He's a fantastic poet
and has been a friend.
I'm dedicating this poem to him.
*SHORES
i
rise
from
the
limpid
waves
aqua
and
sapphire
the
currents
drag
at
my
feet
i
have
stayed
on
the
other
shore
long
only
catching
glimpses
of
a
far
land
but
now
i
am
close
enough
to
see
its
sands
each
grain
a
diamond
sparkling
in
my
mind's
eye
the
sand
is
diamond
the
trees
emerald
the
sky
opal
yet
the
shores
i
left
behind
are
familiar
and
i've
stayed
there
a
little
while
are
there
familiar
faces
here
also?
the
waves
drag
then
i
see
Him
His
hand
beckons
on
the
shore
i'm
approaching
He
stands
before
a
multitude
of
other
faces
some
i
recognize
comfort
comes
and
acceptance
and
serenity
but
He
will
allow
me
time
time
to
say
goodbye*
Sep 25, 2015
Sep 25, 2015 at 11:19 AM UTC
rhyming poetry is out, no vogue there,
what's in is... punctuated poetry...
not poetry afraid of Loci (tricksters that
, ; : ' and - are), sláinte
(~slanché) to the daring!
p.s. the powerful had a monopoly on letters
for too long! so let's approximate in reverse
to what they made power out of style,
forget the existential dittoing macabre and
just plainly state: on the street we say slanché,
in your tomb of holding onto power we
have to write sláinte; better knowing that
than wearing a t-shirt with ernesto guevara
to pretend a cool.
May 8, 2016
May 8, 2016 at 10:14 AM UTC
i see him straightening the
ruffle of his native clothing,
putting words of truth
inside the empty parentheses
of mendacities -
it is through his leonine eyes
that i see the pointlessness
of men. through the
TV's hoarse static i can hear
his voice occupy the space
of obligation without swerving
to paths made available for ease
without clear trudge.
sir, you make it painless
to conceive these cutting truths -
death trembles in these taut attestations. in half-lighted periphery i can see the shadows
threatening to cast us into damnation, and it is in the bright ray of your speech that i have started to uncover the beasts
and their diminutive language.
dark as dark these ploys could be,
now that they are whiter than
ever with their transparencies,
you have handed these people
flames to torch effigies
and use their glare to light
the intransigent paths
to this nation's true calling!
spare us from the debaucher
of this once sacred land, the contortionists of these ill fates.
and preserve our just tillage
over these archipelagos!
save us from the vertigo of these
mangled, twisting roads!
give our speech obdurate
magnitude so we can hammer down
the lies thrown at us and cast them away together with their wretched demagogues!
let us once more, be brave
to withstand the eye of storms
and emerge wizened like
trees in the summer of
our old, resplendent memories
where everything is
and nothing
is speaking loosely
of something far from our hands
to hold, like
prosperity,
or effulgence - altogether!
Sep 18, 2015
Sep 18, 2015 at 9:32 AM UTC
in honor of Ernesto's poem :
COYOTE :
//
broken :
( we who worship phantom grief and phantom sin )
//
We
( the betrayer !)
Pretending to be ---- the betrayed !
Or
Seeking adventure
In the world of morbid love
And the self inflicted wounds
On hearts and skin
//
COYOTE !!!
we traffic in the untold real
Of feelings
Sunken unto death
We do not see the real
We do not see the reality of bodies
We do not dare think
Of those who seek escape
Unto the bloated filthy wealth we live within
••
self indulgent !
( playing with pain )
//
COTOTE !
we carry our poetic scars so proudly
So as to guard ourself
From those are are truly felt
By the children of the world
We sometimes visit
If we are bored
••
Across the borders and boundaries
Of our minds and hearts
//
We
( who are of
AMERICA 's dominion )
Have stated a million times
That we do not care
For more than a quick release
From any sense of responsibility
Simply go on
•
Life itself
All that goes on
All around us every day
Means nothing
•
We have our own slaves
( called ---- " lovers " )
whom we take great pleasure
To mutilate
••
Oh
Ernesto
( Bestower of compassion
And the will
To be reborn and to rise again
Unto true honor and decency )
--
we may try to understand this time
( who can say ? )
//
The power of god
//
The love of love
//
The seed of simplicity
//
Today and tomorrow
//
Trust / peace
//
The long trail
//
The mountain song
That never ceases
//
The light of the eye that does not die
//
The little child
//
You and me
//
All that is good shall survive
//
If people say just what they mean
And live what they say
and put aside
Meaningless lives
Jun 2, 2015
Jun 2, 2015 at 2:42 PM UTC
Se habían encontrado en la barra de un bar, cada uno frente a una jarra de cerveza, y habían empezado a conversar al
principio, como es lo normal, sobre el tiempo y la crisis, luego, de temas varios, y no siempre racionalemente encadenados.
Al parecer, el flaco era escritor, el otro, un señor cualquiera. No bien supo que el flaco era literato, el señor cualquiera,
empezó a elogiar la condición de artista, eso que llamaba el sencillo privilegio de poder escribir.
-«No crea que es algo tan estupendo -dijo el Flaco-, también a momentos de profundo desamparo en lo que se llaga a la
conclusión de que todo lo que se ha escrito es una basura; probablemente no lo sea, pero uno así lo cree. Sin ir más
lejos, no hace mucho, junté todos mis inéditos, o sea un trabajo de varios años, llamé a mi mejor y le dije:
"Mira, esto no sirve, pero comprenderás que para mí es demasiado doloroso destruirlo, así que hazme un favor; quémalos;
júrame que lo vas a quemar" y me lo juró».
El señor cualquiera quedó muy impresionado ante aquel gesto autocrítico, pero no se atrevió a hacer
ningún comentario. Tras un buen rato de silencio, se rascó la nuca y empinó la jarra de cerveza. "Oiga, don
-dijo sin pestañear-, hace rato que hemos hablado y ni siquiera nos hemos presentado, mi nombre es Ernesto Chávez, viajante de
comercio" y le tendió la mano.
-«Mucho gusto -dijo el otro, oprimiéndola con sus dedos huesudos-, Franz Kafka para servirle».
692
I wander in the mists of time
'Mid the spectral ghosts of poets now long gone
Shakespeare, Tennyson, Keats
But now Ernesto walks among them
Bones, now turned to dust
Skeletal remains so few
But written words survive
Bodies crumble, wither, and soon so little remains
But the written word is never lost
And so the memories remain
Oct 14, 2015
Oct 14, 2015 at 6:25 PM UTC
Herido y muerto, hermano,
criatura veraz, republicana, están andando en tu trono,
desde que tu espinazo cayó famosamente;
están andando, pálido, en tu edad flaca y anual,
laboriosamente absorta ante los vientos.
Guerrero en ambos dolores,
siéntate a oír, acuéstate al pie del palo súbito,
inmediato de tu trono;
voltea;
están las nuevas sábanas, extrañas;
están andando, hermano, están andando.
Han dicho: «Cómo! Dónde!...», expresándose
en trozos de paloma,
y los niños suben sin llorar a tu polvo.
Ernesto Zúñiga, duerme con la mano puesta,
con el concepto puesto,
en descanso tu paz, en paz tu guerra.
Herido mortalmente de vida, camarada,
camarada jinete,
camarada caballo entre hombre y fiera,
tus huesecillos de alto y melancólico dibujo
forman pompa española, pompa
laureada de finísimos andrajos!
Siéntate, pues, Ernesto,
oye que están andando, aquí, en tu trono,
desde que tu tobillo tiene canas.
¿Qué trono?
¡Tu zapato derecho! ¡Tu zapato!
394
I caught a glimpse of Che today.
His black eyes bold. Ubiquitous.
I'm sure they must have looked that way,
when the asthma turned his legs to lead.
And the muzzle flash,
fangs copper-cased,
bit hard, and sunk into his head.
Feb 18, 2017
Feb 18, 2017 at 6:54 PM UTC