"guatemalan" poems
I am from Canada
drinking Guatemalan
coffee in a Belgian
cafe established by
Americans.
Mar 30, 2013
Mar 30, 2013 at 4:06 PM UTC
the Sun’s about to set,
I can hear Jaguars in the uncomfortably near distance,
and I’m thinking they can come and get me I'm ready,
because Death by Jaguar wouldn’t be a bad way to go in this instance,
It would be glorious,
the kind of death that I would not protest,
I’m ready for my glory “Jaguar Spirit come and get me!”,
lead me to the Underworld and introduce me to this infamous character called Death,
yes,
I’m ready to go,
but apparently God isn’t quite ready for me yet,
see this isn't my first subconscious attempt,
at expediting my inevitable destiny with Death.
Still as much as I beg,
and as lost as I feel,
I find my way out of the jungle,
and stumble upon a Guatamalan encampment where I’m fed a good meal,
oh well,
maybe next time I shall be food for a Jaguar,
and then through my sacrifice I’ll become a legend,
and my story will get told and my poems read around future camp fires,
The Tale of The Poet Who Took Death by Jaguar,
as traumatic as it sounds it honestly wasn’t a bad way to go,
or so he had thought while finding himself lost,
alone with no one but that Jaguar deep in the Guatemalan jungle…
∆ Aaron La Lux ∆
Oct 22, 2016
Oct 22, 2016 at 7:41 AM UTC
We stayed in a real temple,
bribed the guards
to spend the night with jaguars,
sleep with dolphins
& listen to the howlers
scream all night,
above our
sacred **********
which ended with the rising
of the morning star
& the coming of more tourists
to see crumbling pyramids.
Feb 3, 2014
Feb 3, 2014 at 10:15 PM UTC
When you look at me without
speaking like some doe-eyed
Guatemalan selling watermelons
on the corner of Forest Hill
and Military Trail, your
disbelief triggering in the hinges
of your jaw like a hairpin turn,
reaction time looming
as endlessly as a broken synthesizer,
I begin to need you, darling,
like the axe needs the turkey.
Jan 23, 2011
Jan 23, 2011 at 2:15 PM UTC
Ray LaMontagne - Hold You In My Arms
"I could hold you in my arms, I could hold you forever."
In this hidden corner of my world
Anything
could happen
woven Guatemalan Frisbee
with a lonely older man
talking about dank and his ex-wife
sweet vanilla coffee with a shot of something fruity
smoking in the wind
bot support Ashe
I use a trackpad
fingerless mittens and fuzzy knit earmuffs
they double as headphones
metal and country and sappy romantic pop ballads
gauges piercings tattoos flannels beanies band tees and scene girlfriends
gossip about the bar next door
bashing the outer world
this is utter peace
catching the eye of an attractive stranger
in the mirrors behind the bar
My stomach feels tender from too much coffee
my head buzzes with nicotine
caffeine
My purging week of healthy choices ended
with hash browns, french toast
too much ketchup and 6 packets of sugar in my coffee
Denny's
skeleton string lights and chalkboard walls
abstract photography and everyone plugged in
this is my escape
Apr 28, 2014
Apr 28, 2014 at 2:54 AM UTC
A spectre resides within me,
tormenting me relentlessly,
disrespecting me in my sleep,
does this haunting have no end!?
There's a ringing
in my ears, just before
the pain sets in.
A constant-thumping,
a sharp-stabbing
behind my eyes,
disrupting me
from a glorious
deep slumber.
Then the panic sets in &
I must soothe this beast,
before I am driven mad.
And O what decisions!
Two or three scoops
of Colombian,
Kenyan, perhaps
some Guatemalan!?
Black, cream or sugar!?
What will suffice
this evil tormenter,
this wraith of the night!?
And O Dear Lord,
I cannot think clearly,
how can anyone
so sleep-deprived,
so panicstricken,
make such choices
this late, so early
in the morning!?
Dear Lord, please
help me make it
through another day,
please make
it go away!
Just black......
Dec 28, 2013
Dec 28, 2013 at 5:08 AM UTC
Maybe I'll hear your distinct funny laugh
even across murmurs and mechanical hums
in a subway in Singapore
Maybe I'll find you
behind smoke from exotic dishes cooking;
where the aroma of spices is wafting
up into the humid Indian air
Maybe I'll see your sweet face
reflecting the colorful glows
of fireworks painting the night sky
in a fiesta in Mexico
Maybe I'll come across you
at a sandy Guatemalan shoreline,
where the crashing waves
could add rhythm
to the poems that we make
Maybe when I'm stranded
you'll tap on my car window
to help me out of a snowstorm in Canada
that your tropical skin hates
Maybe we will share
the same park bench in DC
and we could contemplate all day
on our countries' intertwined histories
Maybe we will
gasp in surprise
squeal in delight
and give each other
a tight handshake
a big high five
or maybe even
a warm embrace
Maybe we live thousands or even
hundreds of thousands of miles apart
but one way or another
we will see each other again
I will make that a certainty
Apr 10, 2014
Apr 10, 2014 at 4:05 AM UTC
Show me the array of lights in black
Show me rolling green ribbons
Show me lighted, artificial trees that touch the sky
Show me the Guatemalan northern lights at dusk
Show me Italian pathways
Show me sweet nothings
Show me secrets with just the touch of your lips
Show me how to feel your heart beating
Show me how to breathe in your love
Just show me.
Nov 14, 2013
Nov 14, 2013 at 7:02 PM UTC
In the age of information
I'm breaking the silence
I would of stayed in Catholic school but I'm not homophobic
Ninth level of consciousness cellular to cosmic
Card counting black jack yelling Agenda 21
Planting precisely following my Mayan ancestor tree
Excuse my blood cells as they talk to me
My dead relatives did not frame the end of times
They simply said humans n earth are a co-existent life
I speak truth with no reason to lie
Sitting like an Indian syncing into earth
Defragmenting seven points of my anatomy
Praise your God i was not taught discriminology
156 energy centers of healing
Trust the Guatemalan
4.6 billion years of evolution
Ignorance is a option
Think outside. not the box
From the laws of gravity my mind is expanding my thoughts
Fact or fiction where is your jurisdiction
Read the instruction in general especially if its federal
Detox my pineal gland from all toxins
Say something useless
Escaped never land to find the promise land
The source of our problems like the Act of 1871
Occupy wall street followed by area 51...
Feb 2, 2015
Feb 2, 2015 at 10:57 PM UTC
7/1/2015
*"you will remember, for we in our youth did these things:
yes many beautiful things" - Sappho's fragments*
Greenwich Village, NYC
Only the 24th of June and
Simpson and i already
tire of the summer weather.
I always seem a little thinner these months
i note, i bite a strawberry candy and show her
how to light her lighter
just hand me the fork
no more callousness
both on palmflesh and human dealings
the building facades on Charles street
as in the southern Chawellsss....
she explains alcoholism runs in my family, you know?
i nod. no other problems i presume?
the community garden nods and
people who will always be richer,
prettier, strut past with tuesday briefcases
and their children's wheelcradles with ethiopian
and guatemalan hands on the handlebars
follow a block behind.
*But we're from Joisey, and **** proud of it!*
Lobster rolls and jimmies and johnnies and
boardwalk planks Erin dreams of
broadway instead and neonatal nursing,
who doesn't?
the only youth on the street that day we
teetertotter past all the cafes and pubs and
laundrymats
*you know, if this was the school year we'd
get picked up for skipping school*
Jul 1, 2015
Jul 1, 2015 at 6:22 PM UTC
She said the Guatemalan women
had a trick for situations just like this.
A variation on a familiar tune of
slow and steady wins the race:
Just take small-calculated steps,
don’t exert too much force,
and when you finally reach the end
it’s like the journey was a godsend –
but I rise helium heavy, each step
an angular insult to my weight.
This modern pilgrimage of bottled water
and Doritos, clothes marred by tide and decay.
Otis, I pray that you’ll hold me once again
I’m not made of hearty peasant stock
My hills are made of concrete and
I order Seamless ‘round the clock.
Apr 11, 2015
Apr 11, 2015 at 10:12 PM UTC
*'Brownleaf Chestnut giants rattle like Spanish dancers , maracas crackle in the changing wind , do perform auburn 'Lover of Autumn' before the plenteous , frosted daughter of Winter , before Sun sprinkled dale , fig , lilac
Atop the red-rock spillway , as the piping martins , the whippoorwill
question , the wild goose direction
Voice of the swallow , of tenderness and regal griffin
Coppering , flint sparked showers upon the grindstone , mesmerizing
twilight orbs , polished gems , starlight Guatemalan priestess* ....
Sep 20, 2016
Sep 20, 2016 at 2:15 PM UTC
Catalyst catalyst catalyst she said as she circled round the tree
Please someone explain to me these massive squishy mushrooms
Sounds in the distance
Sounds in the close
She thinks of hot toddys and Guatemalan wanderings
GUNSHOT!! Live fire!! Death is clos.
it sits beside me chewing bark and throwing stones.
My orange armor guaranteed nothing because a gun cannot see colors.
Temperatures rise and ride and run and rip the clothes from my back,
Down down, soaked to the bone and seeing nothing but floating lives and absent ducks.
Hidden, breathing through a hollow reed, streams of consciousness once a pulsing river, disperses and separates into anothers eyes. For oxygen is no longer a comfort but a rare and fleeting commodity.
Without the breath i may as well bite the bullet that cannot see colors because it goes too fast to remember that things that move are alive in a way that it can only dream. In it's dark holster, a little tiny womb, it awaits its destiny, to terminate life, to embed itself in muscle and flesh.
What if we are bullets, that quiet womb our schools, being trained to fire, pay no attention to the colors. Do not ramble; rest until the trigger is pulled, then do your duty. There's another one behind you to take your place, go die in another battle.
Or sink where you cannot be seen, and breath no more.
Nov 6, 2014
Nov 6, 2014 at 8:46 AM UTC
Another death on our southern border--
THIS time an eight-year-old child.
You'd have to be an unsympathetic
And cold-hearted person not to be riled.
Little Felipe Gómez Alonzo
Died near the border on Christmas Eve.
The Guatemalan child's death
Leaves another family bereaved.
Representative Peter King
In an interview brushed aside
The pain and seriousness and said
ONLY TWO children have died.
ONLY TWO? And why? Because
The Trump admin is changing the ways
Asylum seekers apply for refuge
With obstacles and major delays.
Closing the ports of entry and making
Families find alternate routes
Through dangerous areas to plead their cases
Has shocked the world and raised many doubts.
Trump and his staff are experts at how to
Manipulate his base with lies--
To turn the public against the very
People they dehumanize.
The Grand Deceiver claims a wall
Will solve our system of immigration.
Though ludicrous, the wall, he says,
Will be our only hope of salvation.
He lashes out through foolish tweets,
Childish tantrums, and angry threats,
Blasting dissenters and passing blame
Without compunction, with no regrets.
Asylum seekers who've brought their children…
Did they ever anticipate
That they'd flee death to find it here
In a sad, ironic twist of fate.
-by Bob B (12-29-18)
Dec 29, 2018
Dec 29, 2018 at 6:14 PM UTC
#HUAYNO
Why such stomping and rolling in the mud
Daughter of Andean sun, Flower of Maize,
Pachamama’s finest, bloom from the bud—
Why shame your royal past and noble ways?
Descending from the peaks you slosh around;
To melancholy Huaynos’ sodden sound.
What shall we blame—Pizarro ? … or your sin,
In selfies and cerveza on the net;
We hope your restoration may begin.
From what we see, it has not started yet.
Your crown: the restitution of your glory.
May heaven bless the ending of your story.
PASO DOBLE
You too, Chapina, stagger in the dirt
And hope your huipil does not bare your soul;
The shame you seem to lack, we feel—and hurt.
Your drunken Paso doble digs a hole
In which you may lie down and find a way
To seek the Lord once more at break of day.
That Gallo on your breath, your careless dance,
Would trample all your past into the mire.
Such Guatemalan tragedy; romance
Could almost cause an angel to expire.
And Arbenz’ overthrow notwithstanding,
May God grant you further understanding.
Oct 4, 2022
Oct 4, 2022 at 10:51 AM UTC
First they came for the Salvadorans
But I wasn't a Salvadoran, so I didn't say anything
Then they came for the Hondurans
But I wasn't a Honduran, so I didn't say anything
Then they came for the Guatemalans
But I wasn't a Guatemalan, so I didn't say anything
Then they came for the Mexicans
But I wasn't a Mexican, so I didn't say anything
Then they came for the Muslims
But I wasn't a Muslim, so I didn't say anything
Then they came ...
But ...
Jul 8, 2019
Jul 8, 2019 at 10:16 AM UTC