"mandeville" poems
Over protective parents are the enemy of the free wanting child who only wants to run and explore everything the world and its inhabitants have to offer. I am the Maro Roth Spigelman of Mandeville, Louisiana. As much as i do love this place, i want out. But see, people and places are two different things to me. One, i always want to go and explore and come back eventually and find somewhere i dont want to leaveforever; the other i want to find and keep with me physically and mentallyand in my heart and to have travel and run with me and love me for my little things and spontaneous attitude and want for adventure. i want someone to love me as much as i love the world.
Jul 2, 2014
Jul 2, 2014 at 10:21 AM UTC
Line breaks within the piles
of weeping wombs, where the deer
and the antelope play Mozart
and polish with brooms,
when the maid has forgotten
her day off and you're left stranded,
perplexed within the certainty
of your own death, and the flowers
that were brought,
too late.
Keeping up with the cruelty
of Time is no small affair;
running ragged underneath
a vagrant moon that remains
impassive in the face of your
demise, counting backward
by tens, and the plumber has
mastered the scream of the violin.
It's better, perhaps,
to not look into the sky,
witnessing your life as it unravels
amid the flotsam of clouds
that melt like butter
with the passing of the sun,
fading like the day,
along with the failing
drumbeat
of your
own
rebellious
heart...
R.C. Mandeville
May 13, 2014
May 13, 2014 at 12:05 PM UTC
There is a man in my class who looks like you.
His skin is like skim milk,
His voice projects across the room when he speaks.
He knows everyone in class but sits alone.
There is a woman in my class who daydreams.
Once the talking head begins to speak she flees.
Her gaze is connected to a tiny pale desk,
That she secretly hates.
At the head of the classroom is where the Doctor sits.
Sometimes he parades by speaking of Mandeville and bees.
His eyes snow down from time to time,
A gentle two second glimpse of the cotton covered ****
I sit in the seventh row out of eight.
The eighth seat back out of eight.
I am on the third floor out of four.
One foot in the classroom and one foot out the door.
Jun 9, 2011
Jun 9, 2011 at 3:26 PM UTC
Michael Farrel ardía con un ardor puro como la luz.
Sus manos enseñaban a amar los lirios
y sus sienes a desear el oro de las estrellas.
En sus ojos bullían trémulas luces oceánicas.
Sus formas eran el himno de castidad de la arcilla,
suave y fragante y musical.
Bajo sus bucles rubios, undosos y profusos,
parecían temblar las alas de un ángel.
Emiliano Atehortúa era muy sencillo
y traía una infantilidad inagotable.
Su adolescencia láctea, meliflua y floreal,
fluía por las escarpas de mi madurez
como fluye por el cielo la leche del alba.
Cuando le vi en el vano ejercicio de la vida
me pareció que me envolvía el rumor de una selva
y me inundó el corazón la virtud musical de las aguas.
Hay almas tan melódicas como si fueran ríos
o bosques en las orillas de los ríos!
Guillermo Valderrama era indolente y apasionado.
Como un licor de bajo precio,
la vida le produjo una embriaguez innoble.
Sus formas pregonaban el triunfo de una estirpe.
Había en su voz un glú-glú redentor
y su amante le llamó una vez
"el Príncipe de las hablas de agua".
Leonel Robledo era muy tímido
bajo una apariencia llena de majestad.
En el recóndito espejo de su ternura
se le reflejaba la imagen de una mujer.
Toda su fuerza era para el ensueño y la evocación.
Le vi llorar una vez por males de ausencia
y me dije: hay una tempestad en una gota de rocío,
y, sin embargo, no se conmueven los luceros...
Stello Ialadaki era armonioso, rosáceo, azulino,
como los mares de Grecia, como las islas que ellos ciñen.
Efundía del mundo algo irreal, risueño, fantástico.
Se le veía como marchando de las playas de ensueño
que rozaron las quillas de Simbad el Marino,
hacia las vagas latitudes
por donde erró Sir John de Mandeville.
Cuando le conocí tuve antojo de releer la Odisea,
y por la noche soñé en el misterio de las espigas.
¡Evanaam! ¡Evanaam!
Juan Rafael Agudelo era fuerte. Su fuerza trascendía
como los roncos ecos del monte a los pinos.
Alma laboriosa, la soledad era su ambiente necesario.
Sus ilusiones fructificaban como una floresta
oculta por los tules del "todavía-no".
Sus palabras revelaban la fuerza de la realidad,
y sus actos tenían la sencillez de un gajo de roble.
962
Farewell, farewell, farewell unto thee,
Hands of time; 'Tis time to run free.
Though Sun is burning bright to behold
Her sprinkling ripples of opalescent gold
Through trees bedight in robes of green,
Evoking wild lonely leaves to preen
To the sussuration of zephyr's whispers
Sweet as of nymphs beside rollin' rivers,
Nevermore in a pit of thoughts to hide
But far deep in Mandeville Canyons ride.
Kikodinho Edward Alexandros,
Los Angeles, California.
Mon/09th/2018
Sep 18, 2018
Sep 18, 2018 at 3:47 AM UTC
I haven't
finished
a book
in years,
knowing
there
are no
endings.
Soft edges
vaguely
approached
present
as foreign
landscapes,
distant
and
slanted.
In recognition
of futility,
vertical lines
fall flat,
emptied
and
exhausted,
leaving
false
trails
in their
wake.
I follow,
embedding
myself
within
the infinite
weariness
of space...
-R.C. Mandeville
May 16, 2014
May 16, 2014 at 8:56 AM UTC