"pizarro" poems
Words and letters are written on walls
Some as vandalization others as messages
Words and letters are written on walls
Words and sentences are written on billboards
Some serve as advertising others to arouse awareness
Words and sentences are written on billboards
Words and paragraphs are written on my brain
Some serve as inspiration others to support guidance
Words and paragraphs are written on my brain
Words are the weapons I use in a society that controls my image
Words are the only thing that can divide me from being ghetto or educated
My words are the only thing that I can vouch for like my *****
My words are the root of the intelligence that propels this sentence
Letters in my words stand close to each other eager to make a statement
If I do not show my words, my letters of cheerfulness begin to fade away
Sentences are the compound of the mind that begs to be understood
Sentences are made up of a tyranny chained down by a trendsetters mood
My sentences contain verbs, nouns, adjectives and subjects that explain a lost purpose
My sentences define the meaning of an ironical imagery that leads me to dream
Sentences paint a picture that any blind character can see
If I do not paint my sentences how will I ever show my brains art gallery
Picasso used the paint brush to express his moods and feelings on a canvas
Shakespeare and Allan Poe used ink to utter their thoughts on a sheet of paper
Somewhere in my mind the collision of words and paint occurred
Where I fused the essence of writing with the masterfulness of painting
My words and sentences have met a significant other called paint
Paint and words are my new best friend
Paint and brushes are splattered and used upon walls
Some are called vandalization while they represent artistic skills
Paint and brushes are splattered and used upon walls
Paint and words are written on subways
So the eyes of the young and old can see the traveling message
Paint and words are written on subways
Paint and words smack up at my face
So that the world sees who conveys this message
Paint and words smack up at my face
Paint gives visual to what words cannot picture
My Paint serves as a method of expressing the mind’s tears and smiles
My Paint becomes a tour guide through the loops of divine wonders
Paint is just a stepping stone to the magnificent path of beauty
A brush is just a brush depending on who holds it
A brush is like the keyboard I constantly battle with to unleash my mind
A brush can combine negativity and positivity and make peace
A brush unites celibate beliefs with those whom are perverse
Words and sentences along with paint and brushes help explain my motive
Jonathan Pizarro
Lost Cause © 2011
April 17th, 2011
Sep 28, 2011
Sep 28, 2011 at 12:42 AM UTC
498
I envy Seas, whereon He rides—
I envy Spokes of Wheels
Of Chariots, that Him convey—
I envy Crooked Hills
That gaze upon His journey—
How easy All can see
What is forbidden utterly
As Heaven—unto me!
I envy Nests of Sparrows—
That dot His distant Eaves—
The wealthy Fly, upon His Pane—
The happy—happy Leaves—
That just abroad His Window
Have Summer’s leave to play—
The Ear Rings of Pizarro
Could not obtain for me—
I envy Light—that wakes Him—
And Bells—that boldly ring
To tell Him it is Noon, abroad—
Myself—be Noon to Him—
Yet interdict—my Blossom—
And abrogate—my Bee—
Lest Noon in Everlasting Night—
Drop Gabriel—and Me—
4k
73
Who never lost, are unprepared
A Coronet to find!
Who never thirsted
Flagons, and Cooling Tamarind!
Who never climbed the weary league—
Can such a foot explore
The purple territories
On Pizarro’s shore?
How many Legions overcome—
The Emperor will say?
How many Colors taken
On Revolution Day?
How many Bullets bearest?
Hast Thou the Royal scar?
Angels! Write “Promoted”
On this Soldier’s brow!
2k
Define a modern day criminal
While hypocritical political beings run our land
Living in a critical pitiful painful physical caving roof
With a senseless empirical prototypical lost truth
Indivisible people with inimical minds destroy the parasitical
But we don’t dream
We don’t wish
And we fear
Impermissible values atypical to the nonphysical morals
Incorporated with subliminal messages conveying hypercritical cynical thoughts
That create a clinical stereotypical that cousins the excremental
Archetypical of hatred and malice of our digital kind
Visible scars traditional to the mental demons in our minds
But we take the beatings
We’re let down
And we disappoint
An occipital which lacks visual of the coincidental
Leading to a sentimental moment where the only desires are miracles
The minimal heart becomes gentle and suffers pain
A pain in the temple far from accidental that can offer supplemental guidance
Unconditional love and fundamental care
But we take for granted
We’re selfish
And we fail
An oriental vibe in the beat box’s instrumental welfare
Which adorns the continental flesh like a spring ornamental plant
Judgmental is the incidental human race, the municipal force of the universe
Oppose the parental control against the environmental curiosity of our infants
Because unlike rental we can’t take back our wagon of mishaps in a world so
hypocritical, cynical, stereotypical, digital, and just mental.
Jonathan Pizarro
Copyright 2011 ©
March 7th, 2011 5:42am
Sep 28, 2011
Sep 28, 2011 at 12:19 AM UTC
I ENVY seas whereon he rides,
I envy spokes of wheels
Of chariots that him convey,
I envy speechless hills
That gaze upon his journey;
How easy all can see
What is forbidden utterly
As heaven, unto me!
I envy nests of sparrows
That dot his distant eaves,
The wealthy fly upon his pane,
The happy, happy leaves
That just abroad his window
Have summer’s leave to be,
The earrings of Pizarro
Could not obtain for me.
I envy light that wakes him,
And bells that boldly ring
To tell him it is noon abroad,—
Myself his noon could bring,
Yet interdict my blossom
And abrogate my bee,
Lest noon in everlasting night
Drop Gabriel and me.
Apr 20, 2015
Apr 20, 2015 at 2:06 PM UTC
Define a modern day criminal
While hypocritical political beings run our land
Living in a critical pitiful painful physical caving roof
With a senseless empirical prototypical lost truth
Indivisible people with inimical minds destroy the parasitical
But we don’t dream
We don’t wish
And we fear
Impermissible values atypical to the nonphysical morals
Incorporated with subliminal messages conveying hypercritical cynical thoughts
That create a clinical stereotypical that cousins the excremental
Archetypical of hatred and malice of our digital kind
Visible scars traditional to the mental demons in our minds
But we take the beatings
We’re let down
And we disappoint
An occipital which lacks visual of the coincidental
Leading to a sentimental moment where the only desires are miracles
The minimal heart becomes gentle and suffers pain
A pain in the temple far from accidental that can offer supplemental guidance
Unconditional love and fundamental care
But we take for granted
We’re selfish
And we fail
An oriental vibe in the beat box’s instrumental welfare
Which adorns the continental flesh like a spring ornamental plant
Judgmental is the incidental human race, the municipal force of the universe
Oppose the parental control against the environmental curiosity of our infants
Because unlike rental we can’t take back our wagon of mishaps in a world so
hypocritical, cynical, stereotypical, digital, and just mental.
Jonathan Pizarro
Copyright 2011 ©
March 7th, 2011 5:42am
Sep 28, 2011
Sep 28, 2011 at 12:19 AM UTC
A mask of lies disguises my inner thoughts
Accompanied by a black veil which conceals my sorrows
A cage of snakes hold captive everything I ever bought
While ropes of disillusions hold back my tomorrows
Encountering materialistic poisons that plague my existence
With a side dish of infectious bad habits
Offered with a full menu of self-destructive malignance
That are stuffed into my boxed head like voting ballots
Having a desire for unwanted capitulation
Which lead to uncontrollable regrettable decisions
But a light guides me on a path to true elation
With nervousness overcoming my body like a surgeon making his first incision
Darkness becomes light blessed with colorful roses
A flame of love has ignited its route like a traveling circus
Followed by a wandering mind that creatively composes
As life’s symphonic strings are strummed, this writer finds his purpose
Jonathan Pizarro
Copyright 2011 ©
January 29, 2011 2:40am
Feb 20, 2011
Feb 20, 2011 at 9:31 PM UTC
Today walked down the street in my wheel chair
Rode the bus and train but forgot to be pay the taxi fare
Found my self with a blind guy who gave me directions
Got educated by an eighty year old on morning erections
Held an interesting conversation with a deaf friend
Listened to a book with no meaning and no end
Sitting down made my legs hurt but mostly my heels
Skinned an orange, threw out the bad stuff and ate the peel
Breakdanced the morning moon with a dude who didn’t have legs
Simmered the night sun with tea that was poured out of kegs
Had dinner with a vegetarian and we shared my steak dish
Also, we swam in the sky with a remarkable flying fish
Saw a janitor perform heart surgery on a machine
While the doctor told a cricket what was wrong with his spleen
Wrote lyrics with a dyslexic composer on a piano
Tanned on the beach lines of Alaska with a dark albino
Found my way thru the day with a dull flashlight
Slithered around with a snake that offered a colorful sight
Today was a day much more opposite than any other
Is this the confusion you had when you saw me with my lover?
Jonathan Pizarro
Copyright 2010 ©
May 12, 2010
Feb 20, 2011
Feb 20, 2011 at 8:53 PM UTC
you
subjugated me,
doing me as
Pizarro did the Incans,
plundering my heart and
ravaging the remainder.
that's probably why I love you so,
because
nothing
feels so good as
being subsumed,
breathless held under
kicking but only
languorously,
like swimming on a Sunday afternoon.
Apr 15, 2014
Apr 15, 2014 at 2:18 PM UTC
Pumping an uncontrollable substance through my heart
Hope this feeling never ends or I’d be torn apart
A magical sensation with every pleasurable pulse
This must be illegal, something for the adults
Every moment, every thump, makes me lose my thought
Lets runaway together with the thrill of getting caught
Shuttle me thru your loops of vibrational divines
****** my flesh with your soft hum while I slowly unwind
Make me lose myself with no method of meeting time
If your admiration is at the top of the wobbly hill, then I’ll climb
But understand I’m wrapped around your finger with every minute that passes by
I’m in a meeting with your roots with nothing on, except a tie
This must be the so called meaning of life
Listening to every word and every piece of advice
That you simply can not only be mine
But is like your part of me, somehow connected to my spine
A strong emotion I can’t get rid off, where is its rubric?
Maybe your suppose to be a part of me, perhaps you’re my runic
This is such an indulging pleasure I can’t confuse it
Because I’m not in love with you girl, I’m in love with music
Jonathan “Prototype” Pizarro
Copyright 2011 ©
August 30, 2010 11:12am
Feb 20, 2011
Feb 20, 2011 at 9:29 PM UTC
THE GREAT COUNTRY
Adebayo Samuel Ogunleye~ The GreatQuill🖋️
Silent I wished to remain,
But alas, my speakfire cried aloud:
“I shall speak and speak—
Speak of that great country,
That great country,
With oceans of wisdom,
Yet wandering the streets of futility.
Speak of that great country,
That great country
Flowing with honey;
Yet honey for only a few palates,
While bitterness lingers
Upon the lips of many.
Speak of that great country,
That great country
That gives so generously,
Yet lacks in abundance
The very things it gives away.
I sought to calm my speakfire,
But alas, it cried again,
Yearning to weep even more.
‘Speak on, speak on,’ I replied.
Speak of that great country,
That great country
That suffered under its conquerors,
And after their departure,
Became captive to self-conquerors.
Speak of that great country,
That great country,
Bearing “Giant” as its title,
Yet, unfortunately fortunate,
A title that scarcely fits
Its present condition.
Speak of that great country,
That great country
That gives you oromodiye,
Yet in return
Takes away odidi omo.
Speak of that great country,
That great country,
Which outwardly appears
Goodly bad,
And inwardly seems
Best at being worse.
Speak of that great country,
That great country,
Rich in countless treasures,
Yet wallowing in penury.
And so my speakfire speaks
Of that great country—
My great country.
*Oromodiye -- A chick
*Odidi omo -- (A child) Human.
E-mail= [email protected].
Jun 1, 2018
Jun 1, 2018 at 7:48 AM UTC
Standing against the crime of my heart
I’m tired of falling for your type
Today I’ll find my way and break apart
I’ll celebrate my victory with Irish bag pipes
But I’ll cry for you on lonely nights
How can you have made my days so bright
How I wish I never know ya
Now I’m all alone in this room in a Hotel in California
Divine were your kisses of pure seduction
Now I’m lost on this one way highway
Who would of known you were a terrible destruction
I’m meaningless without you! you were my dossier!
How come no one told me life would be such a bad ride?
Surfing in a ocean of my tears with a forecasted high tide
I’m pouring out my feelings on this ***** napkin
Cause unlike you, it at least holds a bit of dignity
We were foolish to claim to love each other into infinity!
The hunger made me eat too much with my eyes
Forgetting my values and my only decency
And I fell under the spells of your lies
Roses of pity in a bouquet of discord
Can’t even afford to pay attention
Can‘t keep going on with this tension, People where is our Lord?
I just want some words, give me the silliest explanation
Heal the pain you have purposely caused
Your false image keeps running thru my veins
Black rain won’t mask the painful distraught
The thought of seeing you again will be an attempt so vain
In which I try to forget those events
From all my mistakes your one I wish I can prevent
A soup so hard to swallow with these sour condiments
You’re a horrible person I take back my beautiful compliments
Can’t believe my days will be filled with your torment
I hope this is for the time being, just for the moment
They judge me for what I’ve done but what do they know?
If my only companions is a comfy carpet and a bottle of Cuervo
Jonathan Pizarro
Copyright 2011 ©
January 29, 2011 4:31am
Feb 20, 2011
Feb 20, 2011 at 9:30 PM UTC
Por qué caminos del alba
Andas descubriendo el cielo
Ese, prometido a unos
Los que sufrimos, creemos
Y le pedimos a Dios
Ir a bruñir sus luceros
Porqué sendas, asombrada,
Ya vas encontrando el cielo,
Mientras aquí las banderas
Y pueblos, están de duelo.
Porque te fuiste, tan pronto
Precipitando el invierno
Cuando aun, lleno de flores,
Se desgranaba febrero
Yucas y conquistadores
Te irán formando cortejo;
Pizarro barbado y noble
-Bronce, plata, encaje, acero-
Con una ciudad de Torres
Entre sus brazos sin huesos.
Y una muchedumbre oscura
Que va detrás de Atahualpa
Te sigue cantando himnos
En lengua quechua y aymara
Ya estás, Gabriela, en la gloria,
Mitad de princesa incaica,
Mitad de reina española,
Como Isabel, la magnánima.
Ya sé que no has de escribir
A nadie mas en la tierra,
Que oficinas de correo
A la eternidad se veda
¡Pero es tan dulce que sepas
Gabriela, que toda América
Por ti está tan conmovida
Como tu patria chilena...!
El cielo junto al copihue
La orquídea venezolana
Se une a la victoria-regia
Del Brasil, y en la sabana
De Colombia, los gomeros
Detienen su savia trágica.
¡Toda la flora de América
Quiere mirarte la cara!
Asómate entre las nubes
Una tarde arrebolada;
Muéstranos tu frente ancha
De madre tan bien amada,
¡Déjanos poquito a poco,
Del todo no te nos vayas!
Aquí ha quedado tu verso,
Tu palabra estructurada
Con lo mejor del idioma
Y lo mejor de tu alma.
Pero nos falta tu rostro
Con la sonrisa cansada,
Que a todos nos descansaba
Cuando nos daba en los ojos.
Oye, Gabriela, las voces
Desde tu «bosque perfecto»
Damos la señal que diga
Que llega a ti nuestro acento,
Y repasa, tu que tanto
Sobre la tierra anduviste,
¡Reposa y se haga radiante
Su risa aquella, tan triste!
Descubre el cielo y descansa,
Pero, Gabriela ¡no olvides!
834
A spiralling ascent
Along the world's edge
Sweatdrops fall
To a below without sunlight
Boot dust
Llamas labour under supply packs
Hoof beat lantern dance
Shadows cast on the cliff face
Distorted we loom
Above the mute fog of humanity
Summitous
Awash in the final dawn
The old Inca smiling sprouts his knife
Ancient tapestral landscape
Exhales into us
Curvously infolding
The old Inca holds out his hands
The knife cuts horizontally
Reality opens like a book upon a tabletop
There, he says,
Pointing to the infinite space between where the sky in the past met the land
Timespace lies like a discarded washcloth
And we see dimly through the mists—
There, he says,
Pizarro could not follow us,
And we see dimly through the mists—
The neon lights of
Neoqusqo
Sep 5, 2020
Sep 5, 2020 at 11:24 AM UTC
Dice octavio que en latinoamérica
los intelectuales somos la catástrofe
entre otras cosas porque defendemos
las revoluciones que a él no le gustan
somos la catástrofe asimismo
porque hemos sido derrotados
pero ¿no es raro que octavio ignore
que la verdad no siempre está
del lado de los victoriosos?
de cualquier manera
ya que con la derrota aprendimos la vida
exprimamos la memoria como un limón
quedémonos sin ángeles ni demonios
solos como la luna en el crepúsculo
desde paco pizarro y hernán cortés
hasta los ávidos de hogaño
nos han acostumbrado a la derrota
pero de la flaqueza habrá que sacar fuerzas
a fin de no humillarnos / no humillarnos
más de lo que permite el evangelio
que ya es bastante
para bien o para mal no es imposible
que los veteranos del naufragio
sobrevivamos como tantas veces
y como tantas veces empecemos
desde cero o desde menos cuatro
es casi una rutina
los derrotados mantenemos la victoria
como utopía más o menos practicable
pero una victoria que no pierda el turno
de la huesuda escuálida conciencia
los vencidos concebimos el milagro
como quimera de ocasión
pero siempre y cuando sea un milagro
que no nos cubra de vergüenza histórica
o simplemente de vergüenza
740
Pizarro
And there he lay dying
In a pool of his own blood
He drew a symbol of the cross
alabanza a usted, el quien es dios, jesucristo
So far away from home
With brothers at his side
A lust for gold
A taste of blood
He came flying off the water
He went marching through the mire
One hundred and sixty faithful men
Fighting an empire
So far away from home
With brothers at his side
A lust for gold
A taste of blood
May 19, 2016
May 19, 2016 at 10:24 PM UTC
You’d had just enough change to pick it up at the Hall’s gift shop,
As you’d ate sparsely at the down-on-its luck diner
Where the bus had stopped halfway or so through the trip out
(Just as well, given the place’s obvious indifference
To culinary innovation and cleanliness)
And you’d all but sprinted with it
From the cashier straight o the batting cage next door,
Inadvertently ending up in line for the machine
Which threw curveballs
(The kids ahead of you older, most likely high school players
Who made but weak contact with the pitches,
A dream dying a little with each weak tapper and foul-back)
And you went through a handful of futile swings
Before the final pitch came out of the machine,
Spinning oddly and refusing to break toward the plate,
Hitting you in the back with a dull, rubbery thud,
And your teacher, thick-middle man
Who had played a couple seasons in the Indians farm system,
Where he had faced Juan Pizarro (*Son, his hook looked
Like it was coming in from first base*)
Chuckled softly as he rubbed your back,
Saying *It’s like I told you, kid,
This is a hard game*.
Mar 29, 2018
Mar 29, 2018 at 8:32 AM 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
Although the Andes melt away
Beneath Pichincha clouds of gray
And Cotopaxi shakes the ground
With aftershocks of Spanish crown
Pizarro's cut my Incan rose
My Amazon unconquered flows
From my Quichua eulogy
To Rumiñahui effigy
A martyr for a higher cause
Than dying for her fatal flaws
May 19, 2017
May 19, 2017 at 12:34 PM UTC