"sandia" poems - Hello Poetry

te adoro en luz sandia, y luz zapote en el amanecer y a caer el sol te amare con viento caliente en los días largos del verano. en esas mismas noches cortas y calladas, te dire como un suspiro lo tanto que te quiero. te pensare en los días grises de invierno. cuando el pavimento y el cielo se comen el horizonte. te estrañare con el olor de lluvia en el prado y yo te sigo adorando cuando las hojas color candela caen de los brazos de arboles canzados *I love you in watermelon and blood orange light, at sun rise and sunset. i will love you on those long summer days, on these same nights short and quiet i will tell you like a exhaling breath how much i really love you. I will think of you on winter days so grey the pavement and the sky eat the horizon. I will miss you with the smell of fresh rain on blades of grass, and i will keep loving you when the flame coloured leaves fall from tired arms of trees.*

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Jun 13, 2016

Jun 13, 2016 at 2:32 AM UTC

steeltulips

sandia y zapote

te adoro en luz sandia, y luz zapote en el amanecer y a caer el sol te amare con viento caliente en los días largos del verano. en esas mismas noches cortas y calladas, te dire como un suspiro lo tanto que te quiero. te pensare en los días grises de invierno. cuando el pavimento y el cielo se comen el horizonte. te estrañare con el olor de lluvia en el prado y yo te sigo adorando cuando las hojas color candela caen de los brazos de arboles canzados *I love you in watermelon and blood orange light, at sun rise and sunset. i will love you on those long summer days, on these same nights short and quiet i will tell you like a exhaling breath how much i really love you. I will think of you on winter days so grey the pavement and the sky eat the horizon. I will miss you with the smell of fresh rain on blades of grass, and i will keep loving you when the flame coloured leaves fall from tired arms of trees.*

12

Southwestern Dis-United States of Memory Piñon smoke and sagebrush, voice of New Mexico night driving into an Arizona dawn rising over dreaming pueblos, low-ridden plazas, kivas and ruined cities’ rubble traced and highlighted by sunlight, Anglo angling into Aztec toward Zuni over arid zones… A to Z to El Dorado; a voice covers the high hills with a dusting of snow—every word hangs in the notes of the song: music to fall apart to, breakdown to, hurling the soul into the bottomless well of psychotic nostalgia: música de cavanga, falling into the depths. Melody pushing to the threshold of a bar and leaving you there with cash in your pocket and no ride home. The warmth inside beckons—you step across as the song fills, swells, intoxicates, then excavates the wall of the dam until it collapses. The fatal mistake: you read too much into the lyrics of shallow love songs. The deathwish beast of despair arises, the flooded plains dazzle your eyes, the Indian girl smiles on the rim of the grand canyon, the tattooed cholo pulls a knife in the trailer park, the dark waters under the bridge murmur and surge with regret; el río de Las Animas, Durango CO, Aztec calligraphy on the wall: Las Cruces, NM; Clifton, Morenci, Globe, AZ: stepped pyramids of copper tailings, gang-warred walls in fallen barrios covered in Chicano hieroglyphics, the ruined huts of shepherds and cowboys, pit-house dwellings’ flaked arrowheads and pottery fragments scattered forever in the coyote laugh of desert dusk. Crepuscular colors on the names of mountain ranges: Santa Catalina, Sangre de Cristo, Sandia, each one a separate sunset delirium—then you ride through the night to the city of palm trees and the orange-lined boulevards of Heaven. The singer herself grew old but her YouTubes live forever.

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Feb 23, 2017

Feb 23, 2017 at 9:37 PM UTC

connecthook

Lindísima

Southwestern Dis-United States of Memory Piñon smoke and sagebrush, voice of New Mexico night driving into an Arizona dawn rising over dreaming pueblos, low-ridden plazas, kivas and ruined cities’ rubble traced and highlighted by sunlight, Anglo angling into Aztec toward Zuni over arid zones… A to Z to El Dorado; a voice covers the high hills with a dusting of snow—every word hangs in the notes of the song: music to fall apart to, breakdown to, hurling the soul into the bottomless well of psychotic nostalgia: música de cavanga, falling into the depths. Melody pushing to the threshold of a bar and leaving you there with cash in your pocket and no ride home. The warmth inside beckons—you step across as the song fills, swells, intoxicates, then excavates the wall of the dam until it collapses. The fatal mistake: you read too much into the lyrics of shallow love songs. The deathwish beast of despair arises, the flooded plains dazzle your eyes, the Indian girl smiles on the rim of the grand canyon, the tattooed cholo pulls a knife in the trailer park, the dark waters under the bridge murmur and surge with regret; el río de Las Animas, Durango CO, Aztec calligraphy on the wall: Las Cruces, NM; Clifton, Morenci, Globe, AZ: stepped pyramids of copper tailings, gang-warred walls in fallen barrios covered in Chicano hieroglyphics, the ruined huts of shepherds and cowboys, pit-house dwellings’ flaked arrowheads and pottery fragments scattered forever in the coyote laugh of desert dusk. Crepuscular colors on the names of mountain ranges: Santa Catalina, Sangre de Cristo, Sandia, each one a separate sunset delirium—then you ride through the night to the city of palm trees and the orange-lined boulevards of Heaven. The singer herself grew old but her YouTubes live forever.

3

A la víbora, víbora de la mar, de la mar, Por aquí pueden pasar. Los de adelante corren mucho, Los de atrás se quedarán, Tras, tras, tras. Una Mejicana, que frutas vendía, Ciruelas, chabacanos, melón y sandía. Verbena, verbena, Jardín de matatena. Que llueva, que llueva, La Virgen de la cueva. Campanita de oro, Déjame pasar, con todos mis hijos, Menos éste de atrás, tras, tras, tras, Será melón, será sandia Será la vieja del otro día! El puente esta quebrado que lo manden componer Con cascaras de huevo y pedazos de oropel pel, pel, pel, pel

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Jun 8, 2014

Jun 8, 2014 at 11:56 AM UTC

spt

Vibora de la mar

A la víbora, víbora de la mar, de la mar, Por aquí pueden pasar. Los de adelante corren mucho, Los de atrás se quedarán, Tras, tras, tras. Una Mejicana, que frutas vendía, Ciruelas, chabacanos, melón y sandía. Verbena, verbena, Jardín de matatena. Que llueva, que llueva, La Virgen de la cueva. Campanita de oro, Déjame pasar, con todos mis hijos, Menos éste de atrás, tras, tras, tras, Será melón, será sandia Será la vieja del otro día! El puente esta quebrado que lo manden componer Con cascaras de huevo y pedazos de oropel pel, pel, pel, pel

21

^¡^ ^¡^ ^¡^ ^¡^ as we floated over the high desert in New Mexico the color splayed out like river deltas and sunshine collected in the hairs of our arms so high were we that Sandia Peak couldn't graze the bottom of our gondola. Then we saw it. A wee butterfly lost on the updrafts! Trying to catch it I almost fell out of the \ \ / / \ \ / / gondola all I saw was a flit of wing and she was gone.

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Feb 7, 2015

Feb 7, 2015 at 1:55 PM UTC

SoulSurvivor

sandia peak

^¡^ ^¡^ ^¡^ ^¡^ as we floated over the high desert in New Mexico the color splayed out like river deltas and sunshine collected in the hairs of our arms so high were we that Sandia Peak couldn't graze the bottom of our gondola. Then we saw it. A wee butterfly lost on the updrafts! Trying to catch it I almost fell out of the \ \ / / \ \ / / gondola all I saw was a flit of wing and she was gone.

22

We rounded the corner, the Sandia Mountains glimmering like rust-colored prophets from the passenger seat. Far from The Flatlands, I traced the curves of Mother Earth with my fingers. I imagined the way her gentle hands could carve existence on a whim.

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Jan 27, 2021

Jan 27, 2021 at 10:30 PM UTC

ashley-moor

Albuquerque

We rounded the corner, the Sandia Mountains glimmering like rust-colored prophets from the passenger seat. Far from The Flatlands, I traced the curves of Mother Earth with my fingers. I imagined the way her gentle hands could carve existence on a whim.

8