"gonzales" poems
you're drinking, and then you can't control
the reaction upon entering the tetragrammaton...
one h is for hushed up laughter, for sighs (ah),
and then the alter deja vu
is a cocktail of:
ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha
ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha
ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha
ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha
ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha
ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha
ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha
ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha
ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha
ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha,
yeah, so many, so you can look at it rather than
say it... it's a sunny day, go out and play
or something... leave me with the anchor of ****
humanity dragging us down, or simply basing us
in the underwater fudge of mud to a standstill...
it's sunny, go out and play, ride a bicycle or something...
you know, living 20 odd years in an english society
i never had an english girlfriend, i'm told she's a real
firecracker fortune-cookie... my hands are cold,
i swear by the oath of the old Bailey i never touched
her thighs... scouts' honour, cross my fingers
and wear woman's underwear with a bowler hat
to match my serious demeanour...
yep, an Abbey Road's standstill... a fifth beetle
chatting cheeky chat chat of a chirp...
gurgles of fizz in carbonated wine known as champagne,
well that's me... or as the roadrunner said to
speedy Gonzales... hark a sayonara when changing
the gears to a 100m sprint world record.
the Mayan disease? ah right... excess spontaneous
laughter, unstoppable like a tide;
got chatting to a ms. khan... Genghis' great great...
great great great great great... great great granddaughter...
a doctor from pakistan... nice english accent
gets you all the pleasantries so everything can
go to hell... the sleeping pills prescription is waiting...
now the sick-note... so i don't crash a plane
into the Swiss elevations by "accident"
while sitting on an arm-chair of nails while everyone
else is farting into cushions.
honest to god, the tetragrammaton is like a brick
wall for vowels, you hit the ball against the four
walls, and the vowels are either ****** up
or they extract the consonant stability of the four letters,
and your safest bet to express them is
to laugh;
well, i do call it a Mayan disease... because
my stomach is aching from building a six-pack with
the giggles.
Apr 5, 2016
Apr 5, 2016 at 7:40 AM UTC
Loony Tunes
Bugs Bunny is my favorite rabbit,
watching him became my habit.
He was smart, funny and two steps ahead,
his popularity was very widespread.
His best friend was Daffy Duck,
he never did have the same luck.
Rabbit season, duck season,
rabbit season, duck season,
watching them, I needed no reason.
Speedy Gonzales was so very quick,
this fast mouse was also a *****
Owned his own pizza place,
won a gold metal, at the local rat race.
Yosemite Sam was a short tempered man,
killing Bugs and Daffy was always his plan.
He's a liar, a cheat and a sore loser,
maybe he should have been a drug user.
Tasmanian Devil was a tornado of destruction,
he never needed any kind of introduction.
Foghorn Leghorn never saw a negative situation,
I say, I say boy was his favorite quotation.
Pepe Le Pew was a French skunk,
women loved his smelly *****
Marvin The Martian was from Mars,
his laser gun would leave you with scars.
Tweety was an antagonizing canary,
lived with Granny, and flew like a crafty fairy.
Sylvester was Granny's pet cat,
him and Tweety always went *** for tat.
Road Runner was so very fast,
said beep beep as Wile E Coyote he passed.
Never fell for those Acme supplies,
getting blown up was his ultimate demise.
Porky Pig was just happy to be included,
the, the that's all folks, is how this will be concluded.
Oct 4, 2013
Oct 4, 2013 at 2:18 AM UTC
My name is stolen like a Spaniard
Inquisition,
My heritage barely a patch of fog,
What is the truth of myself unwritten?
" Your name is....You shall be called"
My father once said,
But I sign this name at the end of no poem,
Are you sure this is my name?
Have you navigated the flows
Of lava in my bloodstreams,
My geographical mind that beckons
A deep bitter valley,
Dark beautiful mountains that have
Reclaimed by nature what my people
Claimed her?
Can you see my subterranean pyramids,
My great moist jungles,
Gutting out advanced mathematical models,
Bleeding precise positions of stars,
I can cry the Winter Solstice,
Oh my proud heart pounds
Through my chest with dreams of then,
When the Coyote was sacred and the
Nature of all things was balanced
Even in the darkest days.
Am I Gonzales from the old Spaniard name?
Does my brown skin and hairless
Arms not cry for the Aztec of my ancient
Fathers?
The root of my root,
The flesh of my flesh,
The veiny branches of a family tree
Where wild flowers grow in
The words of the Aztec bark,
Bleeding its sap through me,
Is this Spaniard to you?
(I know the difference)
Let me ask my blood:
Do you not see the fire in my eyes?
Don't you see the fire raining tears
Of embers onto paper,
Every word a burnt offering?
Maybe one does not know of my
Great grandfather in the valley
Of Mixcoatl, there he lived as the last
Nocturne, his great scar along his back,
The last of a warrior
Where he died among the stars of his fathers,
The scar from a knife, a knife that
Stole his true name!
Has Olin and Ehecatl taken it
With a breath of wind?
I will take the Sun Stone with you Octavio!
Take me home.....
And I can see it!
The noble people forgotten
As time forgets all,
My voice of the Warrior grateful
And speaking like a shiny tip of
Spear piercing the night wolf!
I am no longer a riddle in the water,
But a pure flow of immenseness,
A profound respected beast,
I feel the purity of ancient things,
I dissolve into memory's ink,
My combatant blood boils,
The land flames of my fire,
The people of the Sun!
My ancestral blood with calloused feet,
My ancient jungles,
Tamers of beasts,
Oh the Aztec Dream,
Yes, I am what my blood says I am,
What's in a name?
The identity misidentified.
Feb 23, 2016
Feb 23, 2016 at 11:22 AM UTC
Water swept softly, caressing the malecon.
Fisherman hung tirelessly to rods unbent,
Lovers perched next to seagulls,
Looking to distant dreams,
Embracing one another, folding arms against freedom,
Denying the waves flirty approaches.
A place where coloured plates were signs of class,
Fumes of gas enveloped rusty car interiors,
Locals spoke of their better selves,
All a show, an act of unity,
Clothes hung loosely, less is more.
Skin soft from the sun's spirit.
Tourists hummed over finely tipped cigars,
Remains of better days memorilised with frames,
Sweets passed as currency for cemetario tours,
Family tombs, shines, the dog at her side,
Saint Amelia listens to gratitude for answered prayers,
Where gomez, Alvarez, gonzales make hay,
Guantalamera sung gently in the bay.
Queues formed on corners, no end to each line,
Rations existing in such plentiful times,
Disregard for professionals,
Hailing of crimes,
Hemingways cocktail maker still pouring in the Floridita,
Murals of Che plastored to the walls,
Architectural past dotted out in each street.
Jan 19, 2015
Jan 19, 2015 at 12:49 AM UTC
1
full of faith and belief
I prayed and prayed;
and at long last God
(don’t imagine a He or She)
said to me:
“I’m moved by your faith.
Is there something you’d like?”
I shook my head.
And God smiled
and said:
“Would you like
some gold, oil and money?”
“No,” I said
and prayed and prayed.
“A never-ending supply
of food, perhaps?”
asked God.
“No, no,” I said,
and prayed and prayed.
“The gift of poetry, perhaps?”
asked God.
“No, no, never that.
What, you want to ruin me?”
I said,
and prayed and prayed.
“Wealth? Fame?
A good obedient wife
who can’t speak, perhaps?”
said good God.
“No, no, “
I said
and prayed and prayed.
2
“Shall I,” offered God,
“remove all suffering
from the world?”
“No,” I said.
“The world’s already used to it.”
And I prayed and prayed.
“Look, you must tell me
what you want,”
said God, now appearing a little irritated.
“Oh well, if you insist,”
I said.
“I want your job.”
And God disappeared
as fast as speedy Gonzales.
Sep 29, 2010
Sep 29, 2010 at 12:37 AM UTC
I made note of my run
Marked it in the leftmost lane
Speedy Gonzales Saturday mornings
with the radio on
drown out my panic
and the caricature of my self-loathing
with a schedule
song, speech, song
forgetting the nostalgic
High pitched sounds of
Getting anywhere
Too quickly to measure accurately
I'm already halfway there
My destination highlighted
On the map in my dad's old truck
Tucked in the pocket behind the seat
Curled gently and careworn
I know this route
It has your name on it
and I'll be there soon
you just got there in a hurry
fast as lightning
May 13, 2015
May 13, 2015 at 1:47 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
"Casa Gonzales, leave a message."
In this lilting, merry voice,
you can hear her kindness,
even that famous dry wit.
A dusty Sunday afternoon drew me here,
and I knocked shyly on the handmade door.
Stirred from easy conversation with friends
by the energetic, furry little dogs,
a tall, courtly gentleman came to greet me.
In him I saw a graceful manner,
the wisdom of a life well-lived, and kindness too.
Together we walked to the opened door of
the little casita beside their home.
They had been newlyweds here,
began their family in this bedroom
that could be mine.
Looking down at me, more than once,
he said: "You would be safe here."
Words that soaked into my bones,
into my heart.
Time has gone by and I
have made my home here
on this simple, holy ground,
beneath the shining stars,
safe, and deep in joy, beside
Casa Gonzales.
May 29, 2016
May 29, 2016 at 12:44 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
you would never say about a Kandinsky: where's
the Mondrian?
luckily we have enough information
about Goldberg's sardines,
without asking another poet (other than O'Hara)
to sniff out Billingsgate - and so too:
if Burroughs said: all writing limps behind painting
by 50 years - enough said,
hence came speedy Gonzales
with his shotgun and his canned paint...
and i know just as much as sardines in
see-through tins -
well: it was worth a joke,
someone was bound to **** into a champagne
bottle at some point, and celebrate:
in abstract - or to the point:
in concreto - ecce artifex!
at least enough
humility would be worth the same dosage -
specialisations are such:
demanding concepts as aboriginal
in anthropology -
likewise anthropological:
schizophrenics in urbanity - after all...
a concrete jungle - like any half-wit
and butt-naked in the Amazon...
applause for
comrade Gagarin and Laika -
and if Darwin wrote in
cyrilica - then it too would have been
Mohawk and Brain - salutations and applause -
and if ever in doubt:
call it versailles - to denote all forms of
luxury -
i know: versailles better hides luxury
than the hermitage -
or as King Duck could say
being a burden on the Vavel Mount -
even the Vavellian
dragon died from laughter, even though
he was given a sheep stuffed with sulphur -
and drank the Vistulla dry...
but only when King Quack was laid to rest:
and the volk - the naród said:
Katyń 1 - Smoleńsk 3...
and there was even
a composition by wojciech kilar.
so then... 50 years lagging?
disorientating? muddled, spaghetti loops?
well, as the introduction already mentions,
painters can't write - suddenly everything
has to have geometry!
any geometrical instrument
in an art's class is seen like a Sunni in Iran -
or a Buddhist, at a Bar Mitzvah:
boom-town slap-head -
choppy waters, brightly illuminated
by the polished
cranium sheen.
so why except a Mondrain from a Kandinsky
?!
what a brain-drain!
Jan 7, 2017
Jan 7, 2017 at 3:18 PM UTC
On a shaded bench I sit
As large black birds squabble
& squawk
& fly all around my head
Families walk around
Forcing pictures
My family is elsewhere
I enjoy the momentary solace
32 men from Gonzales
Died near where I sit
Yet I can smell no gunpowder
I can hear neither shots nor cries
Only families snapping pictures
And children crying in the Texan sun
Aug 13, 2015
Aug 13, 2015 at 3:12 PM UTC
I will die enormously in San Antonio,
On a day when my poem trends
For the last time, on a day I can
Already recollect.
I will die in San Antonio
- and I won't fake this one-
Perhaps on a Saturday,
As today is Saturday in Midwinter's
Grasp.
It will be a Saturday,
Because today I have written this
Poem, these prophetic lines,
I have been inter-dimensional
For too long, perhaps this fleece
Of flesh was meant to die here
In this verse.
Ernest Gonzales is dead.
He beat himself up like a depressed
Boxer with an emptied punching bag,
Though he rarely fought back,
Life beat him like an ugly dog.
These are the words,
My witnesses, on a Saturday
Reading these lines, the pain
In my chest, the rain, the sorrow,
The lonely roads.....
Jan 30, 2016
Jan 30, 2016 at 1:42 PM UTC
Ztatic on the television
At zeven in the morning
Dark zircles and frizz
Itchez
Talking. Lotz of talking
Alwayz talking
Heart razing
Chucklez from friends
Lotz of people
Zztart of a newer day
Newer friendzz
Conzztantly zztatic
Loudnezz haunted by quietnezz
Zztatic
Zzzweaty palms
Zzztop and zzzmelling the rozzzes
Zzztatic
Buzzzzing
Watching carzzzz pazzzz by
Wonders buzzzzing about
Zzzzzchedulezzzzz
zzzzzztatic
Zzzzzzzztatic on the television zzzzzzzcrene
. . .
-Sierra Gonzales
May 7, 2015
May 7, 2015 at 12:39 AM UTC
i am never travailed
by all afternoons
goading me
to
the door of poetry.
all of them sleeping heavily
shelves, these gods
where i imagine my fates
far-fetched,
perched atop an illusory cypress
like a dove oblivious of home,
Villa
de Ungria
Joaquin
Gonzales
Tiempo
Dalisay
Abad
Lumbera
Gamalinda
these imperious tyrannies
sovereign in speech casting
my storms to drizzle alone,
where all these words go
where all these fates wander
i know not.
all i know is continuing.
Sep 30, 2015
Sep 30, 2015 at 4:49 AM UTC
What is it we are
When we are not?
When are eyes are firmly closed
Held tight by the pressure of the night
Setting itself on our minds
Making us yawn
And driving us to think
That it is time to sleep
What are we in the dreams
We never grasp in the lapse
Of Time our minds race
Against the clock to store
What we long for and think of
Throughout the day we see
The light and all the dust
Dancing in a ray
Emanating out of pillows
And couches as soon as our weight clasps
And we fail to catch
And our hands go past
And we do not remember
The gravity of such
A waste of hastily
Floating particules
Just as much as our cerebral activity
Goes on a never ending cycle
The vicious circle
A train that goes round and round and round
Stops on the usual platforms
Embarks all of the familiar faces
Closes it's doors on strange noses
The rails squeak and whirl
Speed up to maximum speed
Speedy Gonzales
And you are out of the dark gloomy woods
The forbidden paths
Where there are no signs
Are rarely taken
For granted
But when the engine has no choice
But to melt with the hollows
It cuts the road in two
And disperse itself in half of you
Your eyes go blank
And you wonder what felt wrong
Strangely clement
Yet you close your them backwards
For you never face these unknown noses too
They might mistake your head for an entire
map of the world
And they might have a clue
About what you might be
Or might be thinking about
Sep 25, 2018
Sep 25, 2018 at 11:23 PM UTC
They bleed, The walls, They do.
Bleeding from the memories of all those who have walked through.
Where they've been, What they saw
Did they indeed also, see the blood on the wall?
As they stand, residing in these halls .
The Walls, they've seen it all .
Holding the past, and will soon the future
Inscribing each moment, the stories would move you.
If they could speak, imagine what they'd tell
From joyous occasions, to the days kingdoms fell
Sadness, celebrations, secrets never told;
If only you knew, the vaults these walls hold
So when you walk past, just understand, they remember
Every step; every voice; every word spoken;
History's hidden moments, these walls have soaked in .
-Glenn Gonzales
Apr 22, 2016
Apr 22, 2016 at 9:32 PM UTC
Black girls love new musicians
or a woman or a mother at night
or Africa and Australia. There
are problems with the death
of three Americans at the training center
of Saudi Arabia, chieftain of the month or film camp prisoner
in the mountainous area. Among other things,
driving to robot cooling centers, I think of
China's Asia Williams's simpler and simpler museum.
The system is black. Mörkvin now
opens the wildfire store. Bob was a
blind man on a motorcycle with a
young British motorcycle group,
the Tsunami of Satan; Dark
dark pink order was easy to land
and easy to burn in a ***** glass
behind the bar. Honey Irish Jockey,
Jacques, First, do you consider
a conference a partnership?
Archaeologist from Japan,
Tom Douglas Labs, Kimberly
Gonzales, Europe, USA
has Commitments to Tom
and George, Future comrades,
Listen to hot water,
Chocolate child Wonderful Chocolate
Violent ****** Stella Maria is affecting
midlife. Red women this year as a great
sweet girl, great date for the red light,
friend, shooting story, future, warhead,
change of heart, things, ideas,
Christian recipes, hot yellow
problems with the Russian
Romantic Fence;
The beauty of black
and white girls loves
the lives of musicians
or better musicians
Black women love a woman
and her mother in a musical
star of the city and is nothing
new in a big green nightclub
in Africa and Australia. Local
America is dead where
the skin is thirsty for Christ's sake.
Tomasuku is empty, sun, moon
or something hard. The MVD
Prison shows an animal how
to make an animal buy food.
Latin America, light, another king,
X-Radii's friend, the mountains
of the mountains and the soul
of hell for the children. But read
Saudi Arabia. Drag among other
things, the robot bottle is a bright center.
I remember going that the Asian Museum
of China is simply China. Dark and dark
computer wine opens a wild grunge widespread.
The company girls sit in English
and ride bikes on a motorcycle
with a cycling bike. Deep Jack,
Jack, at the Center of the Prophet
Is it a constitutional sacrifice?
June 10, 2012 Administrator
of the Japanese Susu Run,
Monsters and Tom's
Malignant Cancer Sign Labels
Gemma Labels Medium Floor
Old
Boat Hurricane USA USA
Friendship Friendly Fire
at George on the MM Rocket
Art Mouth of Love Field. The Blind Cat Society has committed no crime. Stella Maria was Halfly
Feb 13, 2019
Feb 13, 2019 at 6:52 AM UTC
They can’t see it, all that we do.
Its because of that, they just start to assume.
Truly, we do more than they could ever believe.
However, its in a way that they refuse to perceive.
They’ve called our generation lazy, crazy is that thought.
But our reactions are adaptive so its hardly our fault.
Our generation, we didn’t create this mess.
We’re working on a way to clean up in order to aliveate our stress.
Think about it, we get criticized but what have we done.
As a majority, the problems around today were created when we were young.
Those in charge, are from the past generations.
Then they have the nerve to blame us for problems like inflation.
Accountability is a trait, that people refuse to embrace.
They hate how we act, as we try to survive when they created the place.
We live in a world, that our parents made , as theirs did before.
To hear there arguments against us is a reason to be sore.
We have more college graduates now, than ever in the past.
Grab that statement, and this is where we’ll get started.
They ask why we can’t find work after school, when they created the job market.
They outsource work, to save more in their pockets .
So now I will inform you, there’s power in knowledge.
We’re probably the smartest generation, because of what we’ve had to go through.
Technological advances, disease, war and the world changes so soon.
They can’t see it, yet they say our generation is doomed.
But why do they get to lay claim on the demise of our platoon ?
Truth, it’s because their generation has created the lies, take the lesson.
When we call out government policy, they call us crazy just to mention.
but isn’t it hypocritical, when we were raised to always ask questions?
And the answers, well they won’t give us a minute or even an hour
So they hide the truth, so they can maintain power.
That generation, they don’t like our ideas.
So we’re continued to be oppressed, so they can’t confront their fears.
Stubbornness because they just don’t understand.
If one can’t evolve with time, it’ll be the extinction of man.
They always say, back when, the times were a lot more grand.
But it seems they grew up, without even thinking of a plan.
This plan, is one for the future, food for the thought,
Because this hell that’s been manifested, is where we’ve been brought.
Things were better then or so you claim,
For your parents were smart and they paved the way.
Us, we’re a new generation of minds,
We’ve moved forward, in hopes to leave you behind on the times.
A revolution is coming, and I say that proudly
At they end of the day, make sure you don’t start it without me.
All we want, is a chance to yet again make the pastures green.
If history repeats, like the wind blows on trees,
Its just going to be another thing
They Can’t See.
-Glenn Gonzales
Apr 28, 2016
Apr 28, 2016 at 1:10 PM UTC