"libera" poems
.
A hard-on
doesn't count
as personal gro
wth.If you want
to hear the pitte
r - patter of littl
e feet, I'll put s
hoes on my cat.
This isn't an off
ice , it's hell wit
h florescent lig
hting.How do I
set a lazer prin
ter to stun? I m
ajored in Libera
l arts. Will that
be for here or t
o go? Too many
freaks, not eno
ugh circuses. I
have a comput
er, a ******** a
nd pizza delive
ry .Why should
I leave the hou
se? Stress is wh en you wake up scr
eaming and you re alize you haven't fal
*** asleep yet. I like dogs too . Let's exch
ange recipes. And yo u r c r y b a b y
whiny- assed o pinion is? Al
low me to intro duce my selves.
Nov 1, 2014
Nov 1, 2014 at 2:00 PM UTC
Libera me, Domine,
de morte aeterna
in die illa tremenda
quando coeli movendi sunt et terra
dum veneris judicare
saeculum per ignem.
Tremens factus sum
ego et timeo,
dum discussion venerit atque venture ira:
quando coeli movendi sunt et terra.
November 21, 1976. 11:00 P.M.
With nothing
he packs his suitcase, turns
to his own personal prophet
and watches and waits
and waits, he will wait
for an hour.
And finally
the prophet speaks
in monotone, three short syllables.
He opens the door, careful
not to wake dad.
Turning the corner,
the suitcase jars the door ajar.
A stirring from upstairs.
Remembering the face of madness
behind the pulpit
behind the door,
he races out, fearful
of footsteps drawing louder
and with them, promises
of pain.
Mar 25, 2014
Mar 25, 2014 at 12:10 AM UTC
Where are
The ecstatic saxophones that
Slung forth swank slurs of
Beauty,
The *** *** ***
Bass lines,
The snaps and snares and the
Sweet rhythm of the Night?
Music had character
And minds followed, in following
Soared.
There were no glittery vampires,
No prepubescent
Brother boy bands.
Soulful crooners never
Warbled over Alejandro,
Or the boots with the fur, with the fur.
We wrote letters and shared thoughts and ideas
And convictions.
There was no need for the techno
Middleman
To wrap our
Real thoughts in LOLs
To make opening
Up to another
More efficient.
Mass media
Gluttony drowns
America till I strain and struggle
Only to barely stay afloat
In this sea of apathy.
But you won't buy and sell my soul.
I'm not going to
Be your
Consumptive,
Quiet,
Couldn't-care-less,
I won't get in the way,
And I won't raise my voice,
Good American,
2.5 children,
Christian,
Conserva-libera-publi-crat,
Self-centered, Illiterate, Ignorant
Sheep
Only to follow the power.
**** no,
I'm mad as hell;
I want to leave the next generation
A world where
You can confess your
Love and be a man or
Love another man and have
Basic human rights, and it all
Starts in your
Mind
And your
Expression thereof.
It's the saccharine pop
Culture that has
Made free-thought unfashionable, a crime.
Art is
Revolution.
Hang
Up,
Log
Out,
Unplug and just look
At what you've let the
World become in
Letting yourself be
Little more than
A faceless source
Of merciless dollars.
Wrest free our
Culture from the
Calamitous and indifferent
Claws of rampant capitalism.
Express yourself or submit,
Stand up for a free America.
I will not be sold.
Oct 26, 2010
Oct 26, 2010 at 2:23 PM UTC
Manuel del Río, natural
de España, ha fallecido el sábado
11 de mayo, a consecuencia
de un accidente. Su cadáver
está tendido en D'Agostino
Funeral Home. Haskell. New Jersey.
Se dirá una misa cantada
a las 9,30 en St. Francis.
Es una historia que comienza
con sol y piedra, y que termina
sobre una mesa, en D'Agostino,
con flores y cirios eléctricos.
Es una historia que comienza
en una orilla del Atlántico.
Continúa en un camarote
de tercera, sobre las olas
-sobre las nubes- de las tierras
sumergidas ante Poseidón.
Halla en América su término
con una grúa y una clínica,
con una esquela y una misa
cantada, en la iglesia de St. Francis.
Al fin y al cabo, cualquier sitio
da lo mismo para morir:
el que se aroma de romero,
el tallado en piedra o en nieve,
el empapado de petróleo.
Da lo mismo que un cuerpo se haga
piedra, petróleo, nieve, aroma.
Lo doloroso no es morir
acá o allá...
Requiem æternam,
Manuel del Río. Sobre el mármol
en D'Agostino, pastan toros
de España, Manuel, y las flores
(funeral de segunda, caja
que huele a abetos del invierno)
cuarenta dólares. Y han puesto
unas flores artificiales
entre las otras que arrancaron
al jardín... Libera me domine
de morte æterna...
Cuando mueran
James o Jacob verán las flores
que pagaron Giulio o Manuel...
Ahora descienden a tus cumbres
garras de águila. Dies irae.
Lo doloroso no es morir
Dies illa acá o allá;
sino sin gloria...
Tus abuelos
fecundaron la tierra toda,
la empaparon de la aventura.
Cuando caía un español
se mutilaba el Universo.
Los velaban no en D'Agostino
Funeral Home, sino entre hogueras,
entre caballos y armas. Héroes
para siempre. Estatuas de rostro
borrado. Vestidos aún
sus colores de papagayo,
de poder y de fantasía.
Él no ha caído así. No ha muerto
por ninguna locura hermosa.
(Hace mucho que el español
muere de anónimo y cordura,
o en locuras desgarradoras
entre hermanos: cuando acuchilla
pellejos de vino derrama
sangre fraterna). Vino un día
porque su tierra es pobre. El Mundo,
Liberanos Domine, es patria.
Y ha muerto. No fundó ciudades.
No dio su nombre a un mar. No hizo
más que morir por diecisiete
dólares (él los pensaría
en pesetas). Requiem æternam.
Y en D'Agostino lo visitan
los polacos, los irlandeses,
los españoles, los que mueren
en el week-end.
Requiem æternam.
Definitivamente todo
ha terminado. Su cadáver
está tendido en D'Agostino
Funeral Home. Haskell. New Jersey.
Se dirá una misa cantada
por su alma.
Me he limitado
a reflejar aquí una esquela
de un periódico de New York.
Objetivamente. Sin vuelo
en el verso. Objetivamente.
Un español como millones
de españoles. No he dicho a nadie
que estuve a punto de llorar.
1.7k
Non popolo arabo, non popolo balcanico, non popolo antico
ma nazione vivente, ma nazione europea:
e cosa sei? Terra di infanti, affamati, corrotti,
governanti impiegati di agrari, prefetti codini,
avvocatucci unti di brillantina e i piedi sporchi,
funzionari liberali carogne come gli zii bigotti,
una caserma, un seminario, una spiaggia libera, un casino!
Milioni di piccoli borghesi come milioni di porci
pascolano sospingendosi sotto gli illesi palazzotti,
tra case coloniali scrostate ormai come chiese.
Proprio perché tu sei esistita, ora non esisti,
proprio perché fosti cosciente, sei incosciente.
E solo perché sei cattolica, non puoi pensare
che il tuo male è tutto male: colpa di ogni male.
Sprofonda in questo tuo bel mare, libera il mondo.
1.3k
Bisogno del tuo tocco
Per sapere che sei propio mio
Per sapere che esisti per me
E che non solo una faccia nella mia mente
Toccami
Amami
Baciami
Tienimi
Solo con te
Nelle tue braccia
Sono libera
Sono protetta
Sono forte
Sono a casa
Senza di te, sono persa
Sei l’acqua per mia sete
Sei cibo per mio fame
Sei luce nel mio buio
La tua esistenza mi dà lo scopo
Per amare e desiderare
Per servire e vedere
Le ferite della tua anima
Supplicando, piangiando
Per il bisogno di essere guarito
Di essere visto per chi sei verramente
Un uomo di forza e potenza
Pieno di amore a dare
Per dare a me
Posso vedere
Amore mio, ti vedo
May 25, 2013
May 25, 2013 at 8:10 PM UTC
I recall the August sky
Alight and dripping
With the waxing candles
Of the poet's holy flame
And by this nectar
He scribed his desires
Impermanently
Upon the shore:
"Libera Nos A Malo"
And by his own command
He shed the garments
Bound to his skin
And laid them upon the earth
Blinking and weeping as though birthed
By the force of the ocean
By the love of his Father
By the light of the poet's holy flame
Reveling
In the newness
Of life unbound by the husk
Of becoming civilized
Marveling
Alongside the moon
At the wonders
Of the earth
And by this nectar
He scribed his desires
Permanently
Upon the dust:
"Libera Nos A Malo"
And by its celestial command
He shed the skin
Bound to his soul
And laid it upon the wind
Grinning and dancing
Creating waves in the sand
As though reborn
By the light of the poet's holy flame
Apr 26, 2013
Apr 26, 2013 at 8:21 PM UTC
Quando avrò alzato in me l'intimo fuoco
che originava già queste bufere
e sarò salda, libera, vitale,
allora sarò sola?
E forse staccherò dalle radici
la rimossa speranza dell'amore,
ricorderò che frutto d'ogni
limite umano è assenza di memoria,
tutta mi affonderò nel divenire...
Ma fino a che io tremo del principio
cui la tua mano mi iniziò da ieri,
ogni attributo vivo che mi preme
giace incomposto nelle tue misure.
1.1k
Tantum tempus temporis
quoniam aliena femina in meo cubiculo dormivit;
ecce illi quantum dulce somnus est.
Quanta etiam libera somnia sunt.
In alia aetate mundum certe rexit
vel optimo regi in matrimonio fideliter ducta est
qui iuxtus flumen psalmos luce lunae scripsit.
**** me iri foras egressum et spatiatum
Nihil occurit hic, nihil umquam fit.
Praeterea si incedat iam volat me narrare;
habeo nihil, praecipue erga quicquid erat.
Viam cepi aviam
qua celeres non superant;
dignis praemia sunt
qui verbum veritatis distinguere possunt.
Hospes solus me docere potuit
praeclaram orem iustitiae contemplari
et videre oculum pro oculo, et dentem pro dente.
Nisi duo homines in mansionem,
Est nullus in viso; verem exspectant,
proinde quasi ver plaustro accederet.
Mundus deleretur ea nocte
sed meae amicae aequum esset;
illa meo cubiculo dormiret *** revenirem.
Meridiano me promoveo
adhuc in obscura parte viae;
in angustos corruere
et constans manere non possum.
Alius mea ore dicit
sed solum meo animo audit,
calcas omnibus etiam tibi feci
quibus tamen careo.
Ego et ego
In creatione quo ingenium alicuius
nec alicui ignoscit nec excolit.
Ego et ego
unus alteri dicit nullus et videre
imaginem meum et vivere possit.
From "Bird's Nest In Your Hair" by Brian Jobe
May 21, 2017
May 21, 2017 at 10:03 PM UTC
Amo sorridere,
Voglio volare,
Spingere, spingere fuori,
Andare, andare, andare
Fissarti il colore degli occhi e basta oppure guardare e fantasticare
Vorrei vibrare, vibrare
Come foglie al vento
Come un albero secolare
Movimenti in ogni direzione
Sento il mio cuore che segue il tamburo che segue il rumore che sento rombare
Esplorare il verde, il verde
Chiusi gli occhi al vento e al sole
Pelle morta che si libera nell'aria
Voglio odore, odore, odore
Sentirti un profumo inebriante come un esplosione che saturi tutto tra naso e sapore
Voglio andare piano o veloce
Costruirmi, costruire, costruire
Le braccia tese all'infuori,
e stringersi a sé stessi
Voglio abbracciare con il petto e con le mani ed incendiare e bruciare le vene e il cuore
Voglio creare,
fare cazzate,
Gioire, soffrire, amare,
Capire, vivere, baciare,
Voglio annegare e gustare le mucose e la bocca ed il silenzio e l'immenso
e come un cotone galleggiare
Mar 3, 2024
Mar 3, 2024 at 1:29 PM UTC
On the way home
from senior school
you met Fay
on the corner
of the New Kent Road
and Meadow Row
she was dressed
in her school uniform
with a satchel
over her shoulder
a hand griping
the leather strap
her fair hair
neat and tidy
hard day at school?
you asked
as usual
she said
the nuns strict
and the lessons
mind stunning
and you?
a good dose
of brain washing
and the usual
morons teaching
you replied
pushing fingers
through your hair
taking in
her lovely eyes
the shyness
the way she stood
her small hand
gripping the strap
sed libera nos a malo
she said
what the heck
does that mean?
you asked
it’s from the Lord’s Prayer
Fay said softly
it means
but deliver us from evil
my daddy says it
often to me
you nodded
my old man wouldn’t know
what the heck
it would mean
if it bit his backside
you said
Fay laughed shyly
you liked it
when she laughed
like she did
it was like a small prayer
whispered
by a bright eyed angel
she looked back
at the passing traffic
the noise
the fumes
my daddy says
it’s a daily battle
against evil
he says one must
drive out evil
and the evil one
by punishment
she said
looking back at you
there’s plenty
of punishment
at my school
you said
not sure if it’s evil
being driven out
or the breaking of school rules
you said
do you want
to come to my place
for tea?
you asked
best not
she said
Daddy’s home early today
and he likes me
home on time
ok
you said
and you both
turned down Meadow Row
she touched
your hand
and you held hers gently
as if it were
a fragile *** made
from bone china
smooth yet warm
her fingers curled
around your hand
skin on skin
beautiful
with no touch
of sin.
Mar 27, 2013
Mar 27, 2013 at 4:05 AM UTC
Off a room of the cloisters
I met Dom Andrew
bookbinding in silence
bearded and white cowled,
in silentio sit Deus,
Mancunian he said
saw picture in book
of monastic cell
and that were it,
I sensed the coldness
of the room
body shivered
ears felt pained,
il avait de la neige à l'extérieur
the French monk said
huddled in his black habit,
saw the snow on trees
and purity of it,
she took my hand
warm it was
and promised ***
Dom Charles tonsured
dark haired gazed at me
through thick lens glasses
eyes like ***** holes
in snow,
I have been all things unholy
and if God can work
through me Francis said
he can work through anyone,
I mowed the grass by the church
and Dom Frederick said
you've done well,
qui tutto sono fratelli
the Italian monk said
as he helped me dry up
the dishes,
beyond her dark hairs
lay the Kingdom of Eve
and joyousness,
bell tolled in the bell tower
by George or Hugh
or both for Terce,
a monk read in the refectory
from a book on Oliver Cromwell
as we sat and ate in silence,
bonitátem fecísti
*** servo tuo Dómine,
the old monk opposite
ate with gusto
spooned food as if
he may never eat again,
nog steeds sneeuw buiten
the Danish monk told me
coming in with vegetables
from the garden for lunch,
indeed snow still there
trees covered and fields
that I saw,
if you want to you can
she said so I did,
Dom Bruno said later
that Dom Andrew had cancer
and was silent on it,
Deus meus libera me,
and we licked our cutlery clean
between meals and put away
under our tables
in a large napkin
and George said unhygenic
but we did,
there is no great genius
without some touch of madness
Gareth said quoting Aristotle,
sunlight on flagstones
in the church
warmed by midday,
Compline bell told
of the end of day.
Jan 21, 2016
Jan 21, 2016 at 2:41 AM UTC
Ribaciami amore è
solo ieri
che mi hai sfiorato la lingua
con il verbo del tuo violino,
acino d'uva il tuo fallo
che posi sul granbo migliore.
Rimani e ascolta
l'ultimo respiro di vita
che si libera dai miei capelli.
606
¿Quieres un poco de esta piel canela?
¿Quieres quemarte en mi candela?
¿Quieres encenderme como candelario?
¿Conquistarme con tu bandera?
¿Insinuarte como mi amante?
¿Amarme en cada instante?
¿Precisar el tiempo y la carne?
¿Dominar mi cabellera mientras
escalas mis colinas, dominando
los valles de mis prominencias?
¡Pues no se va a poder!
porque del arrebol soy su anaranjado,
mi piel de bronce no está en el mercado,
sí, soy sensual y no lo escondo,
soy la negra de las pasiones redundadas,
la poetisa de la añoranza,
de la tempestad soy su abonanza,
en mí no vale la redundancia.
Soy del caribe su fuego,
del coco sus palmera,
mis labios saben a las dulces
carambolas de mi antigua África.
Mi piel dorada como melaza
se enreda en la madreselva de mi melena,
conectada a mis a mis raíces
soy emperatriz de mis experiencias,
no confiero por dolencias,
soy de la sobrevivencia la enseñanza,
mujer dócil y altiva, mujer dulce y divina,
mujer huracán y calma,
mujer que escala sus propias montañas,
mujer que se libera de su presa,
mujer que sindica con intensión,
mujer que anda con firmeza
en las alegrías y las tristezas.
Mujer~~
¡soy más que un cuerpo!
que la tentación en el deseo,
que un sínico verso en un beso robado,
vivo llena de emoción, me entrego por amor,
soy mujer, y no hay descripción para lo que soy..
¡Yo soy la misma vida!
LeydisProse
1/23/2018
https://m.facebook.com/LeydisProse/
Jan 23, 2018
Jan 23, 2018 at 3:03 PM UTC
Torna amore
vela delicata e libera
che occupi
il pensiero della mia terra
sto morendo sulla grandiosità di un fiume
che è rosso di desiderio
e vorrebbe
travolgere il tuo amore.
432
Cuando se fueron todos, yo
me quedé a solas con mi alma.
Plaza cuadrada, con su fuente
sin una lágrima de agua.
Balcones de piedra y de hierro.
Tejados de teja dorada.
Vencejos de la primavera
por el aire de la mañana...
Qué sosiego volver, hablarte,
abrazarte con mis miradas,
besarte la boca de tiempo
donde el polvo seca la lágrima.
Qué descanso poner mi oído
sobre tu madera encantada,
apurar las gotas de música
de la caja de tu guitarra,
recordar, preguntar, soñar
ahora que nada importa nada...
(Borro los pájaros. Enciendo
un cáliz de oro ante una acacia
Y, de pronto, un rumor lejano,
como de mar que se desata,
órgano de oro que libera
sus ruiseñores y sus aguas,
viento del sur que pulsa y sopla
espigas y juncos y cañas...
Ya los balcones solitarios
se han poblado de hombres que cantan,
de hombres que sueñan y se yerguen
en el umbral de la mañana.
Las flores doblan su carmín
allá en las praderas lejanas.
Las piedras sacuden el yugo
de los siglos que las encantan.
Todo resurge, clama, vive,
mueve sus pies, pezuñas, alas,
arde en la hoguera del instante,
hinche los mares y montañas,
desborda el tiempo, como un pájaro
que abre la puerta de su jaula.
Y, vencido el tiempo, en las manos
de Dios se duerme, que lo canta...)
Cuando se fueron todos, yo
me quedé a solas con mi alma.
Plaza cuadrada, con su fuente
sin una lágrima de agua.
Abril, blandiendo por el cielo
su acero pálido de espalda.
Qué sosiego tocarte, verte,
abrazarte con mis miradas,
apurar las gotas de música
de la caja de tu guitarra,
vagar sin fin y sin origen
sobre tus piedras hechizadas...
Andar sintiendo el alma muerta,
Dios mío, ya sin esperanza
381
Me gusta poesía en español
me recuerda a los momentos en mi adolecía cuando my madre y yo íbamos solas a la playa
cuando mojadas nos acostábamos sobre la arena leyendo Sor Juana o Neruda
Me gustan las guitarras
me calman
siempre ha ávido músicos en la familia
para mi no es casa sin música
sin que alguien cante o toque algo
Segovia, Metallica, Violeta Parra, Led Zeppelin, Caetano, Ry Cooder, Pedro Infante
baladas, corridos, salsa, bachata, samba, cumbia
no hay alegria hasta que se libera el cuerpo sobre la pista de baile o en la cocina con una cuchara de palo batiendo el mole poblano
mi sangre mixta a heredado tantos sabores
y tanta riqueza de ideas y colores
que no cambiaria nada
me gusta a mi quien soy
y quiero seguir creciendo
y amando ser una ser humano
Feb 8, 2021
Feb 8, 2021 at 9:44 AM UTC