"miguel" poems
Nung linggo, napadaan ako sa nbs nakita ko kasi sa facebook yung libro ni Juan Miguel
sabi ko, bukas bibilhin ko to.
para pag pumunta ulit ako sayo, may babasahin ako pag hinihintay kita
nung lunes, binili ko.
tanda ko pa kung gaano ko pinipigilan yung sarili ko na ilipat sa susunod na pahina nung sinimulan ko
isip-isip ko kasi, baka sa martes o sa miyerkules pa tayo magkita
baka maubusan ako ng tula
di naman kasi tayo yung klase na nag-uusap sa labas ng kwarto
mas mahaba pa nga ata ang tulang ito kaysa sa palitan natin ng mga salita pag hindi tayo nakahiga sa kama
dumaan ang martes,
miyerkules,
baka may ginagawa lang
huwebes kinausap kita ang sabi mo
“May tao dito, pagod na din ako. Sa susunod nalang”
mahal, tumango lang ako. Wala namang tayo. Ano bang karapatan ko sayo?
nung biyernes, sinubukan ko ulit
tinanong kita kung may ginagawa ka ba
sabi mo
“wala pero matutulog na ko”
sinagot mo ko habang nakatayo ka sa kabilang kalsada, di mo ko nakita pero nandun ako.
Nung isang linggo, mahal mo ako.
Alam ko na mahal mo na ko nun.
Tinanong mo ko kung mahal na kita, ngumiti nalang ako.
mahal.
mahal,
mahal na kita.
minahal kita nung unang pagsikat ng araw na nagising ako sa yakap mo
minahal kita sa unang paglapat ng labi.
mahal, sa tuwing natutulog ka ibinubulong ko sa labi mo na mahal na kita.
mahal, dati nung ako pa ang kasama mo matulog binubulong ko sa labi mo na mahal kita.
Sep 17, 2016
Sep 17, 2016 at 11:25 PM UTC
You lived alone in the solititude
Of pure hundred years in Colombia
Roaming in Amacondo with a Spanish tongue
Carrying the bones of your grandmother in a sisal sag
On your poverty written Colombian back,
Gadabouting to make love in times of cholera,
On none other than your bitter-sweet memories
Of your melancholic ***** the daughter of Castro,
Your cowardice made you to fear your momentous life
In this glorious and poetic time of April 2014,
Only to succumb to untimely black death
That similarly dimunitized your cultural ancestor;
Miguel de Cervantes, a quixotic Spaniard,
You were to write to the colonel for your life,
Before eating the cockerel you had ear-marked
For Olympic cockfight, the hope of the oppressed,
Come back from death, you dear Marquez
To tell me more stories fanaticism to surrealism,
From Tarzanic Africa the fabulous land
An avatar of evil gods that are impish propre
Only Vitian Naipaul and Salman Rushdie are not enough,
For both of them are so naïve to tell the African stories,
I will miss you a lot the rest of my life, my dear Garbo,
But I will ever carry your living soul, my dear Garcia,
Soul of your literature and poetry in a Maasai kioondo
On my broad African shoulders during my journey of art,
When coming to America to look for your culture
That gave you versatile tongue and quill of a pen,
Both I will take as your memento and crystallize them
Into my future thespic umbrella of orature and literature.
Apr 20, 2014
Apr 20, 2014 at 4:57 AM UTC
They set off from white rocks,
red geraniums, blue tile,
and let the green sea
lift and drop their ships far above the white foam waves.
The stony islands that were home
were swallowed in minutes by the hungry Atlantic
but they hunted the big fish,
the giant whales with human eyes
who rolled and sang and swam
in oceans a continent away.
They came from Sao Jorge, Sao Miguel
Faial, Pico, Terceira, Horta -
Nine island emeralds set in a black volcanic chain,
neither of the old country nor the new:
Halfway there and halfway gone -
secret jewels of the Portuguese sailors.
They sailed into unknown waters,
south around tropical shores
where dragons smoked and writhed on the rocks
and birds with brilliant red and yellow plumage
rose in clouds around their heads.
Then north, and north, north again
to colder waters
where sea lions barked and lunged
at the strange massive wooden beast
that coursed the waters,
strung with brown bodies swaying
on the lines and cursing the sails.
North still they swept
casting contemptuous eyes on
the cheap turquoise waters and monstrous slow turtles
of the Sea of Cortez.
Coming up from the desert, past the palms and the yucca,
the Joshua tree and Spanish daggers,
they chased their smooth grey prey,
riding the vast Pacific on their wooden island,
herding the leviathans onto their spears,
adventurers with an audience of only
gulls and sky and seal.
Until they sailed too close one day
to a rock-strewn shoreline
and saw the golden hills.
Gnarled oaks like grandmothers from home
with orange poppy jewels at their feet,
missions strung like beads in a ruby marked rosary.
The boats slowed, ****** in by a Scylla of soil
rich and brown and loamy
waiting to be seeded with grapes and apricots
peaches, avocados, lettuce, alfalfa,
fertile and heavy with sweet promise.
And the whales sang and the lions barked and the gulls cried
but the sailors were entranced, encharmed, ensorcelled.
The treacherous sea, the mysterious deep, the stony jewels of home,
called and wept
and waited in vain for the sailors
- beached and grounded -
cutting not waves but earth,
tracking seasons not whales,
seduced by dirt.
Nov 29, 2014
Nov 29, 2014 at 9:51 PM UTC
Jenny felt like
Such a ****
As she bent over
And took it
In the ****
Yes, she screamed,
"Im a *****
Then she
Blew Miguel
Some more
Jul 3, 2015
Jul 3, 2015 at 9:24 AM UTC
And so we elect
we elect
to reject
we elect
to disconnect
we elect
which one
showed more
disrespect.
Hardly do we
hear that the
winner will
direct
an approach
to the issues they
really need to dissect
instead letting time
simply ride to neglect
the many whose
rights they should
be out to
protect
the many whom
their lack of direction
will affect.
~Miguel
Nov 5, 2014
Nov 5, 2014 at 11:09 PM UTC
Sick
Painful
Congested
Sinus Pressure
Up all night coughing
Losing sleep til morning
Next day many body aches
Off to Urgent Care I go
Ear infection diagnosed
On antibiotics
Going home to rest
Feeling better
Coughing less
Smiling
Well
~Miguel
Oct 29, 2014
Oct 29, 2014 at 7:36 PM UTC
Neal Cassady
February 8 ,1926 - February 4 , 1968
San Miguel D'Alene , Mexico
Dead from extreme exposure
Four days short of forty-two
Only fitting , next to a railroad track
He had many words to haul back
The wolf sleeps next to the silver rail
Howling at a silver moon that fell
I see here he drove a ******* Cadillac
Through the San Francisco streets
With the top down
Smiling free , it was meant to be
Life is a quasar
Nov 19, 2014
Nov 19, 2014 at 10:01 PM UTC
An ebony goddess
of beauty never seen
she is African
Caribbean
a Nubian Queen.
She the essence of
her father
she the essence of
her mother
in heart she is
our sister
in heart we are
her brother
in heart we are
one in her
as a fire
like no other
with her
the world does
turn
with her
our bellies
burn
as we long to be
near her
we love her
not fear her
she sings out
we can hear her
as she moves
we can mirror
all the light
she projects
what she adores
she protects
what is foreign
she respects
what is hostile
she rejects.
She is precious
she is priceless
with her presence
we are warmly
acquainted
with her blessings
we are joyfully
painted.
~Miguel
Oct 20, 2014
Oct 20, 2014 at 8:37 PM UTC
The flavor of the winter
on a cold morning after
a storm starts with a kitchen full
of busy hand making
while snow is flaking
a warm oven baking.
Steam laced with scents that
engage the heart in happiness while reawakening
childhood memories.
Mugs filled
with the warmth of coffee, tea, or cocoa
that soothes the throat when sipped.
Eyes smiling as
family members not together recently
give good company.
Thoughts of hope and
Happiness fill the soul and the mind
as the holidays usher the year’s end.
~Miguel
Dec 2, 2014
Dec 2, 2014 at 10:24 PM UTC
Autism prays for...
Chuck E. Cheese
Maya and Miguel
Huey, Dewey, and Louie
Mom and Dad
Pizza rolls
Subway sandwiches
Grannie
Greeney phantom
dogs,
the Brady Bunch
His greatness
His provision
and comedy cartoons
to watch all day.
Amen
May 31, 2014
May 31, 2014 at 8:18 PM UTC
Absinthe, San Miguel
Learning Italian
How to eat,pray, love
She's into me
I know the signs.
I compliment her bracelet
"It's from Africa," she says
I pull her hair
She laughs
"Stupid American boy," she snaps
"Stupid Italian girl," I retort
My name for the night is Giovani
Now Vice. How fitting?
Delisioso
I'm getting drunker
Jun 9, 2013
Jun 9, 2013 at 4:21 PM UTC
Walking along an
Autumn afternoon
in New York
where in New York
somewhere upstate
somewhere downstate
somewhere leaves fall
in front of where
I approach
but land as a crash
like a stray piece
from construction
high above.
An afternoon
where dreams
of new
where visions
of more
than just a few
begin to fade
to black
as the sun’s
signature upon my
eyes
recluses from
the greyer skies.
Now lost in New York
I attempt to recover
and sojourn forth
from where I had
been to somewhere
somewhere different
somewhere inspiring
somewhere that brings
out the best
of not just a few
but all the rest
who wish
who dream
who ignite
like fire
as the presence
of Autumn’s
dimming light
truly and finally
does expire.
~Miguel
Nov 12, 2014
Nov 12, 2014 at 7:34 PM UTC
Dedicado a Miguel Torga e ao amigo Nuno
Sono doentio que vos deitou,
Amigos pela certa,
Conversa que desperta,
Da noite que vos levou.
Reprimendas, gargalhadas e lamentos,
Prazer e sentimento,
Navegar nos mares que Deus vos deu,
Oh terra onde o sol nasceu…!
Entre brumas envaidecidas eu vos recordo,
Rouxinóis que eu nunca vi,
Na aurora sonolenta eu acordo,
Diário fala por si.
Sol escaldante que não bronzeia,
Ai vida dos pobres poetas,
Terra de S. Martinho de Anta e profetas,
Vida pacata de uma alcateia.
Victor Marques
17/1/96
Aug 3, 2011
Aug 3, 2011 at 3:04 AM UTC
Y ahora qué haré, si tú no estás.
En el espejo te desvaneciste.
Qué haré, si ya no estás. Cómo encontrarte.
Fui a la agencia de viajes.
Dije: «Un billete». «¿Para dónde?»
«Para dónde ha de ser». (Me comprendieron enseguida).
«Mucho tiempo esperó», dijeron enigmáticos.
Volví a casa cantando, recobrada
la vida. Me miré al espejo.
Tú ya no estabas. Comprendí.
Ahora qué voy a hacer. Sin ti quién puede
recobrar lo soñado, lo perdido: Venecia
de vidrio rosa, Roma con cabellos de fuentes.
Florencia y Siena, Nápoles y Pisa,
Botticelli, Giotto, Tiziano, cipreses y palacios,
canales, Miguel Angel, frutos, palomas, Donatello
qué van a ser sin ti, si eras tú quien les dabas
vida, sentido, magia.
Llegaré -a veces gusto
imaginar que en el crepúsculo-
a no sé que ciudad. Consultaré la Guide Blue
y, ...Esta es la prueba. ¿Quién puede acercarse
después de tanto amor, a un gran amor,
sin alma, sin amor, es decir, solo con los ojos?
«Un billete» diré. Preguntarán para dónde.
«Para un lugar que yo invente
y tal vez ya no existe. Par mirarme en un espejo
que reflejo mi vida cuando no estaba yo
y al que me acerco ahora
cuando no puede devolver mi imagen».
Y entenderán por qué lo digo.
1.7k
Every Fall
before you
know
the furies
furiously
begin
to blow
colder
stronger
winds begin
to bite
as the stresses
of our lives
begin to
put up a bigger
fight.
Going away are
the warmer
more relaxed
bright Summer days
as the oncoming
furies
blow
in more
stressful ways.
Let the annual
“colder”
make you
wiser
make you
bolder
not befall upon your
nerves
like a burden on your
shoulder.
Do not let the
stresses of
everyday’s worries
get blown out
of proportion
as time ceaselessly
hurries
we can quickly become
careless
blocking our own
awareness
in the “darker”
in the “colder”
of The Furies.
~Miguel
Oct 1, 2014
Oct 1, 2014 at 7:26 PM UTC
Paranoia.
Explain it to me.
Help me understand the fear that lies within me.
Why I suddenly feel that my candle of life,
Is quickly burning away at both ends of the stick.
The fear, the fear.
It continues to grow.
From the seeds of paranoia that I personally sow.
Is it all in my head, or is the danger really there?
None the less, the uncertainty is what I cannot bear.
Every cigarette I've had.
Every time my throat aches.
There is no medication for regrets and mistakes.
Ignoring the warnings does not make them untrue.
Being ignorant can only lead to the downfall of you.
Diabetes or Cancer?
Malignant or Benign?
Everyone tells me that I'm, probably fine.
But they don't understand that the battle inside,
Is convincing myself that it's all in my head.
It's nothing. It's nothing.
Miguel, you're okay.
These are the mantras that I repeat every day.
To myself in my head, or out loud when alone.
Hoping that one day my health will atone.
Aug 6, 2014
Aug 6, 2014 at 5:50 AM UTC
What’s wrong with me?
That’s the question I always ask myself
What’s wrong with me?
What is it that I don’t have?
Am I ugly?
Am I too tall?
Am I too skinny?
Or am I not your type?
Well if I am not your type, then why did you even bother?
Why did you bother yourself telling me that you love me?
Why did you?
You should have said it in the first place that I shouldn’t raise my hopes because you are only there just to walk me half way
But because I was stupid, I was blinded by the idea of being in love
I let you build me with words
Words that took me up to the peak
Without realising that by the time I fall to fall I am going to fall hard
Every night and day I cry
I cry for you, I cry for us, I cry for my own happiness
I cry for the smile that I used to have
I cry for the smile that I didn’t want to break
I cry for the fact that I have to let go of you
I have to let go of somebody I truly love
I have to say goodbye
They say goodbye is a painful way of saying I love you
But I don’t want to show you that I love you through saying goodbye
My heart fought with my mind for what I wanted and now it has to fight to let you go
Every moment I talk to you I feel a stab within my heart as I come to realise that the tears that fall from my face are truly blood from my broken heart
I never thought I’ll ever relate to Beyoncé and Frank Oceans
When they said…
[singing]"I miss you like every day just want to be with you but your away
I miss you
I am missing you insane"
Every night and day I miss you
And that makes me wonder if it’s too soon or late
Because it hasn’t been too long since we broke up…..
Every time I see your name whether in my phonebook, facebook or whatsapp, I start to relieve the best of our days
When we used to call each other at night and you be like [singing]“she got me up all night” relating to Cole and Miguel
Those days are gone
Sometimes I tell my friends that I am over you and I don’t wanna go through that again
I tell them that I wanna see you happy and I am okay of letting you go
But sometimes I go on a milestone and think of the way to let you know that I still **** love you
So I start to click on your facebook even though you offline
Start to ask myself why I don’t just ring you
And tell you how I feel
But I will just stare at your numbers and cry
Cry because…
The only person I’ve ever loved left me with a broken heart
A broken heart that is hurting, lonely and jealous
A broken heart that is confused
I don’t know if i should be happy that we are “friends” or cry
Because that is all we will ever be
Friends
I never regret loving you only believing you loved me too
I loved you, I love you still and I will always love you
Love will come and go but you will remain in my heart forever
Jul 15, 2015
Jul 15, 2015 at 7:27 PM UTC
An unknown direction
on a day rising
with renewed energy
renewed vitality
so much potential.
Taking that direction
of mind over matter
with retooled perception
toward revitalized perfection.
Taking that direction
promotes deeper reflection
searching the soul
avoiding the role
of misguided rejection.
Keep the direction
going
keep the mind
knowing
keep the energy
flowing
keep achievement
showing.
~Miguel
Sep 16, 2014
Sep 16, 2014 at 11:37 AM UTC
She rides alone
alone with her
baby alone
on a train
of many passengers
together making
a long journey home
home for Christmas.
She has a gaze
as she looks about
the train that puts
her mind some hundred
and more miles away
longing to be home
longing to be no longer
alone for Christmas.
The night long extending
as her baby sleeps
peacefully to the slow
gentle lullaby of the train’s
nightly flow through the
gentle falling snow as
she quietly prays
for happier days ahead.
As morning breaks
the sunlight beams
through hers and every
nearby window
projecting the radiance
of her fare blonde
beauty and bright blue eyes
with lovely art inked on her shoulders.
Time passes as do
many miles of track
as she finally arrives
home emerging with her
baby to her love
on the platform who
takes her in his arms fulfilling
her dreams for Christmas.
~Miguel
Dec 26, 2014
Dec 26, 2014 at 4:55 PM UTC
i know i dwell on the sadness
entirely too much.
and then i let it drag me down until i can't even breath properly.
i know i say i have nothing,
because without you,
it kinda feels that way.
but the truth is, i live a privileged life.
i have chris who makes me laugh,
myrka who always listens,
and emely who knows what to say.
i have miguel who calls me pretty,
rigo who eases the stress,
and trevor who gives me adventure.
i have abbs who teaches me it's okay to be myself,
savannah who makes me feel worthly,
and my babies who light up my world.
lucky doesn't even begin to describe
the world in which i live.
Dec 17, 2014
Dec 17, 2014 at 1:14 AM UTC
No pudimos ser. La tierra
no pudo tanto. No somos
cuanto se propuso el sol
en un anhelo remoto.
Un pie se acerca a lo claro.
En lo oscuro insiste el otro.
Porque el amor no es perpetuo
en nadie, ni en mí tampoco.
El odio aguarda su instante
dentro del carbón más hondo.
Rojo es el odio y nutrido.
El amor, pálido y solo.
Cansado de odiar, te amo.
Cansado de amar, te odio.
Llueve tiempo, llueve tiempo.
Y un día triste entre todos,
triste por toda la tierra,
triste desde mí hasta el lobo,
dormimos y despertamos
con un tigre entre los ojos.
Piedras, hombres como piedras,
duros y plenos de encono,
chocan en el aire, donde
chocan las piedras de pronto.
Soledades que hoy rechazan
y ayer juntaban sus rostros.
Soledades que en el beso
guardan el rugido sordo.
Soledades para siempre.
Soledades sin apoyo.
Cuerpos como un mar voraz,
entrechocado, furioso.
Solitariamente atados
por el amor, por el odio.
Por las venas surgen hombres,
cruzan las ciudades, torvos.
En el corazón arraiga
solitariamente todo.
Huellas sin compaña quedan
como en el agua, en el fondo.
Sólo una voz, a lo lejos,
siempre a lo lejos la oigo,
acompaña y hace ir
igual que el cuello a los hombros.
Sólo una voz me arrebata
este armazón espinoso
de vello retrocedido
y erizado que me pongo.
Los secos vientos no pueden
secar los mares jugosos.
Y el corazón permanece
fresco en su cárcel de agosto
porque esa voz es el arma
más tierna de los arroyos:
«Miguel: me acuerdo de ti
después del sol y del polvo,
antes de la misma luna,
tumba de un sueño amoroso».
Amor: aleja mi ser
de sus primeros escombros,
y edificándome, dicta
una verdad como un soplo.
Después del amor, la tierra.
Después de la tierra, todo.
1.3k
You have to have
a good second half
your second half
must be as good
as your first half
your second half
can be even better
than your first half
but if your first half
is a good half
and you blow it
in your second half
then you have only
finished half
only put half
of the time in
only gotten half
of the work done
only completed half
of the journey
whenever
and however
you start it
a good first half
can easily come
apart if
you do not make
the second half
of all you have
completed
solid and
positive
so your task
is not defeated
making you feel
as if you never
competed.
Have a strong
second half
so your first
is not cheated.
~Miguel
Oct 15, 2014
Oct 15, 2014 at 8:06 PM UTC
Patas de perro con
mi primacho Miguel
en Pereira, buscando
un hotel pa pagar
la estancia de una cuartico
cerca al centro o
a poca distancia
del burdel.
Nos tomamos un jugo de caña
y como ya tengo la maldita maña, llamamos al Toro porque
sin esa hierbita jamás
cerraría pestaña
Dándole vueltas al centro, esperándolo a él
Vi un lindo edificio
y le dije a Miguel:
"un segundo hermano que me
gustó ese hotel, voy a entrar a
ver si hay cupo"
y a cuánto estaba
una noche en aquél.
Me mira bien serio y
me deja pasar
quedándose afuera pa disimular.
"Buenas tardes caballero,
bien pueda...
¿En que le puedo servir?"
"Busco un cuartico que mi primo
y yo pensamos quedarnos en
Pereira esta noche, ¿a cuánto
están?"
¿Cómo así? me contesta
y como creía que
no me había entendido...
repiti la encuesta.
Otra vez ....¿Cómo así?
En eso momento,
que pendejo te cuento,
me di cuenta que
no era un hotel.
De un salón a la izquierda
salían los llantos
seguidos por un desfile
en ***** de luto.....
y yo hijueputa ¡"que bruto"!
Volteaba a ver si el primo ya sabía que pasaba cuando
soltó la gran carcajada.
Huí sin mu decir
buscando la risa de Miguel
que decía uy... ¿que pasó no es hotel?
Pero se la hice también
cuando nos recogió el torito
y comenzamos a fumar y fumar. Tantos baretos estilo Bob Marley que ya no nos podíamos ver.
Cuando se escapó todo el humo Miguel se detuvo
antes de casi caer.
Con ojos cruzados y labios babeados empecé
a burlarme también.
Aug 24, 2018
Aug 24, 2018 at 1:06 AM UTC
May be I missed something…
Sitting lonely by the fireplace, in the rocking chair, just like the one he always wanted to have since childhood, and to sit just like that with such a serious face… thinking really widely and broadly about own… like Sherlock or Epicur… and with a glass of Merlot..
In the whole house just crackling of the fire and hissing of the conditioner… May be I missed something.. Said he, but now out loud to himself…
Something started vibrating, flashing with an idle melody through the dark silence of the house…
- Да.. answered he, in hope that it is some of the “close” people that remembered him in the New Years Eve..
- Hola! Puedo hablar a Sr. Miguel. Esta en el casa ahora?
- -Discúlpeme, está equivocado el número, señiorita…
- -Lo siento…
And she hang up the phone… wrong number… She needed somebody called Miguel…
hmm.. I should’ve said that I was Miguel. Then, shoud've reserved the table in a restaurant and asked her out… And when she woudn’t meet Miguel there, just before she starts leaving, accost her and tell:
-Hola, Senioritta. Me llamo Roberto. Esta muy bonita y estoy solo esta noche. Quiere beber algo comigo?
You don’t have to wonder that people treat a woman with such beauty like that. You’re not first, you’re not the last…
And she responded:
-Gracias y Mucho gusto Roberto. Me encantaria…
And then with projectors and street lights through bars and clubs until the dawn… and then it’s not lonely and very hot in your bed… and in the morning, a little bit ill and tired you ask her:
-Como te llamas?
-Maria…
That would be the last word you would hear from her.. and she gets dressed and gone, gone…
You’re lonely again.. inside just the fantasies and at front of you their reflections on the burning down fire…
Mar 22, 2010
Mar 22, 2010 at 8:29 PM UTC