"guadalupe" poems
Schwinny, Baby,
You were supposed to be
my
Bicycle.
So I don't ask for anthing special.
No dark Harley divas
To whisk me off into the sunset.
But I thought we were at least
On the same road together.
So please.
Don't go droaning on how
Life got too complicated.
I mean,
You've got one flimsy gear.
And don't go moaning how
The road got too bumpy.
I mean,
You went blind bonzai batshit
over burnt black tar pavement.
You just
Let go.
Threw away your
Chain of reasoning
Faster than I could brace for impact.
So am I bleeding?
Yeah, I'm bleeding.
And the worst part is,
I still need you!
No, No, no.
Not like Pom Pom pammy
Needs her purple-plated pogo stick
Nor like Princess Paris
And her prissy pink prom queen limo,
No.
I mean I need I need you like
Alibaba needs his golden cherub camel,
Like Ben Hur his crimson-fury chariot.
Because work is 37. Blocks. Away.
And it starts in 16 minutes.
And the bus is really unreliable.
So we ride again,
Guts against the wind.
But now I've got all ten fingers and toes
Crossed,
Two by two,
And point in fact,
Racing down Guadalupe with
Forked Philanges
Gets really hairy.
But your suicidal tendancies simply scare me.
Your thirst to incur first degree burns,
Fractured femurs,
And flayed skin whittles my patience
To tire track thin!
Think I'll
Roll my dice with a Segway.
She'd be a quaint, play it safe kind of girl.
Type to show off
To a Mom and Dad
Reveling in rosemary jubilation.
Aw, son.
We knew you'd land a keeper. That's my boy.
But in ten days tops,
I'd begin to miss your fiery imbalanced breath.
I'd yearn for your bipolar 180 turns that
Make my heart skip that terrible, syncopated beat.
So let's just say,
I'll give it one more shot.
But ***** just promise you'll stick around a little longer.
It's storming outside and
We both got a few blocks to go.
Feb 4, 2010
Feb 4, 2010 at 10:17 PM UTC
A new calendar is a map of time
Showing you spaces in which you might live
And setting off the seasons and solemnities
The penances and feasts in order just
Beneath pictures of cafes’ in Water Street
Arctic-wind hiking trails in Ikkarumiklua
A pint of Quidi Vidi in The Gut
And Peter Pan’s statue in Bowring Park
Or maybe
Our Lady of Walsingham
Nuestra Senora de Guadalupe
Notre Dame de La Salette
Or some puppies and kittens
And may you find your heart’s desires this year
Jan 1, 2019
Jan 1, 2019 at 1:14 PM UTC
Yo soy Guanajuatense
Nacida en una sociedad de Mexicanos
Born in a society of Mexicans were everyone is accepted by who they are
Not trapped as a slave or treated different
The American society can’t be compare to a Mexican society
Los mexicanos somos unicos
tenemos caminos hechos por padres mexicanos
Somo bautisados catholicos
nuestra madre es La Virgen De Guadalupe
la cual Juan Diego vio y lo combertio en un santo
Penjamo is city full of colors visible as the rainbow
Our flag known as the tri color is a important figure in Mexico
green signifies hope, joy, and love
white represents peace and honesty
red stands for hardiness, bravery, strength, and valor
the eagle was found by Aztec people
where they would see an eagle on a cactus eating a snake
Tenochtitlan was founded by Aztec people
Which is now call Mexico City
As we believe the history we also believe what
The bible tells us it’s a precious thing for us Mexicans
We tend to speak with god to find solution to problems
Not all cultures have a belief in god
I also find myself in a world full of pain a contradiction to war
Not knowing whether anything could be done
People are dead here and their
Everywhere there is war
Veniendo de México a un mundo con nuevas reglas
saviendo que tu vida a cambiado y estas evolucrado/a
en una cultura que quisas no aceptes
como dise un dicho
mas vale ser aceptado/a por quien eres que por quien te cres
all cultures judge others by the way they are
but we are all humans and have the right to be who we are
only God could judge
when people say you're brown
I said I’m proud
When they say I’ll never learn English
Look at me know your reading my words
Soy 100% Mexicana
con educacion Americana
pero echa y derecha
con cultura Mexicana
Sep 1, 2013
Sep 1, 2013 at 3:21 PM UTC
My sweet Austin Texas ecstasy, my beloved Guadalupe you
gem of the desert. Your family’s a basket-a-bigots but
******* they drink for miles and how near they are to my
heart. This heat’s a drug I swear it. Let's swim in that hole
in the bedrock between two rivers. That'd be nice: me and
you and mobs of Westlake High sophomores with their
blue-raspberry bikinis, a hundred Teen Vogue magazine
covers lined up on the grass like a set of bad church pews.
Imagine that whitewash of a crowd, you and me so alone in
that big static it's better than private. Let’s punch brick, peel
back our knuckles and watch’em clot in the sun. **** gauze,
we’re goin’ to a punk show. I’m puttin’ on short sleeves,
goin’ on parade, gunna flaunt my cigarette burns like a Cadillac:
I want those dorks at the Mohawk to look and love me like
they love gore. I’m gettin’ my black-eye ribbon tonight.
We’re in the Chaos in Tejas show, darlin’, put on Crazy Spirit
and bring your 2x4: skinheads ain’t jumpin’ themselves.
Let's get medicated, hunny, let's get saved. I love watching
Austin bleed out into the sand every dusk. Love the musicians
sailing out grimy and frothing over what night brings:
what a big sky, Texas, you're almost better in the day all
parched ground and azure azure. I love the glass on the high
buildings here, they’re like mirrors. This is God’s powder room.
This is where God sees himself drugged up and beaming in a
beautiful powder room. This is where God goes to remember
youth. I love how youth hasn’t gotten you yet. That unassailable
capacity for charity, that surging belief in belief shouting out
through your temples, I can’t stand how you make me sick of
making myself sick. You slapped the ******** outta me so quick
I’ve never seen grace move that fast. I thought you'd knock the
grapefruit polish right off your nails you hit me so good.
What a sight you are, kid, so proper and fit, Christ, you could
be therapy: so brunette-in-the-Fall, so full-lipped,
unabashed and Aristotelian, frayed like anything but ****
well stitched, impeccable at the seams.
Dec 4, 2012
Dec 4, 2012 at 8:11 AM UTC
Nossa Senhora de Guadalupe
Nossa Senhora de Guadalupe,
Carinho eterno que Cepães por ti nutre,
Pomposa e Mãe celestial,
Rainha dos verdes campos em igual….
Gente simples que trabalha na agricultura,
Os proteges com leveza e doçura.
Tua devoção serena como a natureza,
O trabalho campestre tem nobreza.
Por ti Senhora com enorme devoção,
Apareceste no México ao pobre João,
Tudo no mundo é obra do nosso Deus,
Terra impar de filhos teus…
Aqui em Cepães tens um naturalista com amor,
Um pároco amigo e Bem feitor,
Passeia com alegria pelas vinhas do Senhor,
E labuta por ti Senhora com mestria e valor.
Victor Marques
Cepães, 3 de Junho de 2013
Jun 3, 2013
Jun 3, 2013 at 1:20 PM UTC
"God made Adam and Eve, not Adam and Steve."
But what if God did? What if I showed you
the lost book in that cramped hand some call Moses',
right to left (you read Hebrew, right?), the Book of Steve?
Stefan, if you're Orthodox. Esteban
if you also worship the ****** of Guadalupe,
but never mind those dark madonnas. The Book of Steve:
it's much like the rest of the Pentateuch, you'll recognize
the style, except that it was before Genesis 1
when Steve became a living soul. A lively, friendly soul:
when those animals came questing, Steve was thrilled.
He scratched their ears as he named them, puled
their ticks, asked them what they thought they should be called.
So he was scratching and chatting, naming away,
when up came Adam (Yahweh had been practicing men).
*"Hey, dude." "Hey, Adam. You think this looks
like a crocodile?" "I dunno. More like a fox?"*
They had a few beers (Yahweh's work of the day),
named five kinds of ants: Steve got carpenter,
leaf-cutter, sugar; Adam took fire and soldier.
Probably they made love, probably a lot (the world
Was young then), but the Book of Steve is demure;
Moses, or someone, drew the curtain of discretion.
When the curtain comes up, the snake
Still has brief feet, but Adam is changing the names
To better ones, and Steve’s not there. It seems
There were complaints. Stave talked to much, always on
About feelings, food, the slant of the light; sometimes
he wanted to be on top; he took the remkote, and didn’t
give it back when Adam glare. And his chest wasn’t nearly
enough like a pillow. It ws all too much.
The end of the book is torn out; there are marks of fire.
No one knows who defiled the Book of Ssteve,
But in some stories it is said that Eden has other quadrants
And that Steve is in one of them.
Stevek and the snakes with feet, and other people
Who missed the next book: the roc preening its iridescent plumes,
The unicorn lipping apples, the manticore haveint a dustabth.
They say that somewhere among the leaves of western Eden
was found a helpmeet for Steve, who was not fruitful,
who did not multiply, who had no dominion over the earth.
May 22, 2013
May 22, 2013 at 4:08 PM UTC
I don't care what her name is. I don't care what mine is.
I don't have one.
Names get between people.
I want nothing between us.
Names are a form of language.
Language is a form of alienation.
Language is a desperate tool with which we've desperately clawed each other so we can bandage up and call the process getting to know you.
Language is a barrier between that which we know and that which we wish to share and I've got just enough cigarettes to share for the both of us and Austin at 3am isn't cold and sunrise is just around the corner and Austin's sunrise looks revolution-blood tinted red and Texas blushes in the morning and ain't that just fuckin' beautiful and so tragic it's comedy and thank my sweet Guadalupe she's not one for pleasantries.
Tell me one thing you know for the God-honest truth.
*The ******* isn't good for you.*
Tell me the most brilliant thing you've ever heard.
*You can only know anything when you know you don't know ****
Tell me the worst thing you've ever done.
One time I found a way to tell the truth as a lie. It worked. Beautifully.
Mar 22, 2012
Mar 22, 2012 at 8:04 PM UTC
For Marianne, a woman with an unusual heart
I know her, perhaps by a pinch of night air,
Because we share the same music, same voice that night in Guadalupe,
After a day of toils for hearts climbing upon ladders, unending stairs.
I know her, perhaps half of those golden strings,
Because we share the same air of jollity that day in Enchanted kingdom,
Gasping for air, breathing faintly, yet enthralled by the twists and turns of magic.
The heart most tried is the strongest, like the gold tested in fire,
I know her.
I know her, perhaps the fullness of the orange moon,
Because we share the same water under the canopy of azure skies, that brief reprieve the El Nido offers,
Sharing the same tongue of honesty we speak that night, I respect her.
I know her, perhaps more than she knows herself,
But that’s an unforgivable lie, indescribable it is to fathom a woman with an unusual heart,
Because hers, speaks of metaphors.
May 2, 2016
May 2, 2016 at 8:15 PM UTC
there I was coming back again. running back across that **** freeway and the busy roads of East L.A. past the small bakery and the questionable corner shop, the rainbow guadalupe and baseball park, down dozier, past the barking dog through the fence. there i sat in front of the housing complex on the road. waiting for him to come out. he can’t avoid me know through the receiver and the 2000+ miles. Silence as he stands there watching me, watch the street and the moon. Of course, the tears come and I really have no pin point reason why. But he holds me in the road for as long as he can and his grandmother comes wheeling out all concerned that I am out in the road all alone in this neighborhood. I wish I could speak Spanish, just to lessen her worries and let her know how much she means to me. if only she knew and if only he knew too.
Apr 6, 2013
Apr 6, 2013 at 4:17 AM UTC
Guadalajara,I miss your taste
Puebla, I miss your peoples face.
Texcoco,I miss your ways
Mexico city, I'll be back someday.
Toluca, your people cry
Jiquipilco, please keep those colors, do not die.
Zapopan, where are your men?
Guadalupe, I'm still your friend.
Coyoacan, of my own city
I want to see you, I want no pity.
Paseo de la Reforma, your tower rises,
Viva la raza, viva la Mexico!
Dec 13, 2015
Dec 13, 2015 at 12:37 PM UTC
My curves are not mad.
Henri Matisse, Jazz
when silence gives away its name
birds become electric
darkness is no more a story
in their wooden beaks
I stay at the beginning of thought,
decelerate reality
again and again
bread, pain, blindness
truth visits me in my dreams
sometimes
between desire & dying
shortcuts, blind alleys
Shangri-La and Valhalla
Nirvana & the hunting ground
Guadalupe
untitled self-portraits
fast heights
blinds & shutters
Spinoza's abyss
the chasm of reason
Kant's please mind the gap
pits of harmony
barren grounds
Prigogine's broken circle
lost aesthetic qualities
and the bit moves on
when silence is an unfinished canvas
waters, faces make an offering
and their names grow
when I am confused with the possibility
of the sea level
then I know where
my love
is
splitting every single second
is beauty
unadorned
could I remove the decimal point
from my dying breath
?
Aug 12, 2015
Aug 12, 2015 at 5:22 PM UTC
Their was a bartendress
in a costume
of superlatively
curly
black hair
and a tight body
snugged into
a tight blue dress
that shows off her upper thighs
and exposed
musclely
short legs.
Rests her hand
with splayed fingers
on the wet table.
She asked,
with a long tattoo
of the ****** of Guadalupe
snaking
down her wrist,
"Are you all right,
do you want any more?"
"No."
I tell her.
No,
I don't want anymore.
Dec 9, 2011
Dec 9, 2011 at 10:59 PM UTC
that buzz starts
and my palms flood with
sweat.
the needle hits flesh
and it’s all familiar;
I’ve been here before.
still, it’s all forgotten,
except for the idea
that the images I’ve
asked him to mix up
on my arm are very comforting
to me.
Our Lady of Guadalupe
and an ink pen,
I’ve grown up surrounded
by both,
so to stir them together is safe
in its sacrilege,
not sacrilegious at all;
permissible in fact,
because of their combined power,
a display of faith in my own
ability to create, to destroy
darkness and demons
with notebooks and prayers
offered from a small stage,
through a live microphone,
or in a coffeehouse with
the newsman,
the laureate,
the tiger,
the bundle of nerves,
and the denim-clad
troubadour.
Our Lady of Poetry
will watch over us all,
in our church,
the church of the spoken-word.
***
©P&ZPublications; 2015
-JBClaywell
Dec 12, 2015
Dec 12, 2015 at 2:10 PM UTC
I’d rather be an empire builder
a lonely artisan
in the deserts outside
of Las Cruces
with the sunshine on my back
chasing destiny down
a steep cliff of Mesquite
and milkweed
to Mexico City
where the children smile
in the streets
and then on to the Guadalupe Mountains
where I’ll feel
the loneliness of my dreams
and make my way back
to Small Town America
where I’ll sit on the front porch
and revel in
a much simpler destiny
as you walk through the front gate
to greet me.
Feb 4, 2021
Feb 4, 2021 at 8:55 AM UTC
Ángel Falcó me trajo heroica talla
de México, jardín de colorines
y ella le da a mi casa serafines
y está al paso de idilios y batalla.
En su mano con lustre de azucena,
mi Dora Isella Russell la condujo,
hasta mi mano que no tiene lujo,
pero que es , para amigos, talla buena.
S anta María Guadalupe, fina:
reinarás en mi casa con mi ama,
S anta María del Socorro, dina
de todo apego y toda exacta llama.
Bajo esa doble ala tan divina,
bordo confiada y calma, mi oriflama.
909
Aliens Foreign and Domestic
A little Ford bearing on its bumper
A made-in-China South Vietnamese flag
Tailgated by a menacing larger Ford
Which passes, bearing on its bumper
A made-in-China Confederate flag
And then another Ford with an image of
Nuestra Senora de Guadalupe
On U.S. 96 near the Wal-Mart -
There must be something in all that
But what?
Feb 22, 2017
Feb 22, 2017 at 5:58 PM UTC
I am what others left.
I’m the things that weren’t robbed.
I’m the scraps of a junkyard.
I’m the miles that weren’t jogged.
I am a little village
In the peak of some mountains.
My skin is leather
And supports any standards.
I am farm labor dedicated to your service.
I am the sun that rises,
And the day that dies nervous.
I am development in bone and flesh.
I am the picture of thousands missing
And their blood that’s still fresh.
I am Pele against England
Scoring two goals.
I walk on the world’s spine,
And rupture many soles.
I am what my father thought me:
He who doesn’t love his country,
Doesn’t love his mother.
I am manual labor
And I do it with great pride.
Here, we share,
And what you have is mine.
My town doesn’t drown
In the sea of your lies.
And if my church is destroyed,
my faith still survives.
I do not blink
And you shall remember my name
I forgive
But never forget who I am.
I am a nomad without destiny.
Negativity doesn’t stop me,
Negativity is my ecstasy.
I committed to travel the continent
without a compass, without time, without agenda.
Inspired by the legends
With stories trapped in tales and a moon without gender.
I learned how to speak and write
And with one common language
Became the world’s fright.
I learned my country still prays
Because the authority and royalty
Still operates under our poverty.
I learned to drink depression
With tequila and cerveza.
And that our own politicians
Have nothing en la cabeza.
To immigrate is my sport.
And even though you don’t fear me,
I can take you on your home court.
I am an intruder
With the reputation of an inmate,
Yet they still want me to support them
And develop the world’s hate.
But Abuela don’t worry
La virgen de Guadalupe
Is the one that knows my story.
Aug 22, 2016
Aug 22, 2016 at 12:12 PM UTC
The American Legion meets in the parish hall
Third Tuesday every month (missed you last time)
Old men in funny hats saluting the flag
And then again re-living AIT
Their perimeter shrinks as children rehearse
Their songs and dances for tomorrow night
In honor of Nuestra Senora -
With Juan Diego’s tilma She blesses the Americas
In a classroom across the way the AA
Are fighting their dragons as manfully
As good Saint George, and so in very truth
They are fighting dragons for all of us
This is Our Lady’s cocina, open to all:
Everybody meets in the parish hall
Dec 12, 2018
Dec 12, 2018 at 5:17 PM UTC
Bill pulled a revolver. It's broken, but got me a little cold. Time to crawl back, let sweet Guadalupe hum me to sleep. I hand Bill the bottle. His eyes are dull and smoke-filled. I bid him farewell. Bill tells me I'm a class-act guy. The original gentleman. A real man-about-town. I start making my way and Bill’s still sitting out front of Doc's. I turn the corner and get one last look at him. I can't see him. Instead, a single point of fire. I trace its movement low near his side then up to his mouth. A plume of smoke. Concrete bottle-clink. In the electric amber light shining out from over the door of Doc's into the street, a suspended lead revolver, mad, wild, thrashing quiet in the quiet night
Mar 27, 2012
Mar 27, 2012 at 8:58 AM UTC
Because there is so much crazy religion
In the United States
You have to make scientific claims
For people to take you seriously
So, if I tell you
I went to Gethsemane Trappist Abbey
When I was a college student
** hum. Who cares?
But if I tell you I wrote a poem like this
Crossing the Baltic
young sons sung
exoplanets!
And mailed it to Our Lady of Guadalupe
Trappist Abbey in Oregon
And then a couple months later
A telescope called Trappist 1
Discovered 7 new exoplanets
That could possibly harbor alien life:
See, you're interested.
Dec 27, 2022
Dec 27, 2022 at 12:05 PM UTC
Mis amigos at BP
We talk a bit
Both Spanish and English
And Spanglish we say
Little restaurant
Little statue
In green
To Our Lady of Guadalupe
In Oregon, In Spain, In Mexico
In Carolina
We pray.
May 18, 2020
May 18, 2020 at 8:56 PM UTC
All round my hat I wear a lot of badges,
all round my hat, for many and many a day.
A disc of abalone shell from New Zealand;
a jester’s mask decorated with four glittering glass jewels (Venice,
though we weren’t there for the carnival) :
the Stars and Stripes, given to me in New York
in the weeks after 9/11, when you could hardly move
for huge examples of the national flag;
three lions, for England;
a bull, for Spain, even though I hate bull-fighting;
a liner (Alaska Cruise,2000, but we've done other cruises) :
and a gold-coloured jet plane, for all the journeys we have made;
a small badge of a very large statue, Christ the Redeemer (Rio) :
the seashell of St James, with his special cross on it
(Santiago de Compostela, though we didn’t walk the Camino) :
a very tiny badge of the ****** of Guadalupe in Mexico;
and a shiny gold-coloured outline of a dove
(Carcassonne cathedral) representing the Holy Spirit;
King Kong, my biggest badge, appropriately:
a smaller-scale hero, Winnie-the-Pooh, a gift from my daughter:
a koala decorated in crushed opal (Australia) :
a stripy cat on a tartan ribbon (Edinburgh) :
a dolphin from the Azores, though we didn’t see any there,
(but we have seen dolphins, so it counts twice) :
a miniature cookie-cutter in the shape of a moose (Canadian rockies)
– but it would make impossibly small cookies;
a toucan (Costa Rica) and a puffin (Iceland)
admiring each other’s beaks;
heroes of the Revolution: Chairman Mao, bought in Beijing:
the Hồ Chí Minh League of Youth badge (Vietnam) :
the star representing Yugoslavia,
though even when I bought it
Yugoslavia was no longer a country;
the face of Che Guevara, looking handsome and intense (Cuba) :
and not forgetting the daddy of them all,
Lenin, on a red and flaming star;
the Hand of Fatima (Tunisia) for luck;
and the Eye of Horus (Egypt) ,
because you can’t have too much luck.
And if anybody asks me the reason why I wear them,
they remind me of places – and people – that are far, far away.
Apr 19, 2018
Apr 19, 2018 at 4:03 AM UTC
Con un trapo y un cuchillo
contra la idea fija
Contra el toro del miedo
Contra la tela contra el vacío
el surtidor
La llama azul del cobalto
el ámbar quemado
Verdes recién salidos del mar
añiles reflexivos
Con un trapo y un cuchillo
sin pinceles
Con los insomnios con la rabia con el sol
Contra el rostro en blanco del mundo
El surtidor
la ondulación serpentina
La vibración acuática del espacio
El triángulo el arcano
La flecha clavada en el altar nego
Los alfabetos coléricos
La gota de tinta de sangre de miel
Con un trapo y un cuchillo
el surtidor
Salta el rojo mexicano
y se vuelve *****
Salta el rojo de la India
y se vuelve *****
Los labios ennegrecen
***** de Kali
Carbón para tus cejas y tus párpados
Mujer deseada cada noche
***** de Kali
El amarillo y sus fieras abrasadas
El ocre y sus tambores subterráneos
El cuerpo verde de la selva negra
El cuerpo azul de Kali
el **** de la Guadalupe
Con un trapo y un cuchillo
contra el triángulo
El ojo revienta
surtidor de signos
La ondulación serpentina avanza
Marea de apariciones inminentes
El cuadro es un cuerpo
Vestido sólo por su enigma desnudo
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