"siestas" poems
Rake-thin Humble hoes subsistence soil
Planting green-topped onion bulbs,
Camino divides the field forcing Humble's Husband
To till distantly, he works slower, and is of bulbous girth,
A red Reebok shirt adorns his back whilst she
Wears the hand-me-downs her grandmother had worn.
Their house is built of stone like bone,
Ground-sewn and dug fresh centuries before,
No siestas punctuate their endeavors.
Passing pilgrims groan under weight of sack -
Whilst Humble counts the years before her bones
Are interned in preparation to shelter future generations.
Jul 6, 2014
Jul 6, 2014 at 9:08 AM UTC
The air has a burnt smell
It is hot and dry
The streets are empty
Even the dogs are missing
It is a hot and bright afternoon
People have taken refuge
under the roofs of their homes or work places
Even the trees seem to be mute
So are the birds and the cattle
My throat is dry
My mind is blank
My brain is asleep
Am struggling to keep awake
The weather is strange
The climate is changing
The ponds are dry
The brooks are dusty
with no water to flow
The earth is moving lazy and slow
Time seem to crawling because of the heat
The noon seems to un-ending
The schools are noiseless and sleepy.
It is dusty and hazy
The only wind being because of the
fast moving buses and trucks
and some occasional cars
The windows are closed
so do the doors of the buildings
across the streets
The rich enjoying their siesta
in the air conditioned rooms
The poor, sweating it out
in their places of work
for their daily wages
so that they can have
some food to eat in the night.
so also that
the rich can continue to have
their peaceful siestas
..
Oct 23, 2015
Oct 23, 2015 at 1:46 AM UTC
Beautiful, breath taking views
Of vast volcanoes and bright blue seas
Scorching sun and high temperatures
Palm trees swaying in a soft breeze.
Through landscapes layered with black lava
White washed walls wind their way
Around gardens full of fantastic flora
Where lizards and geckos love to play.
Ships sail by beyond the breakers,
Planes pass over as they come in to land,
Promenades packed with holidaymakers
By beaches of beautiful golden sand.
Sun loungers and swimming pools
Hours of rest and relaxation
Siestas while the hot sun cools
Poolside bars for cool libations.
Spectacular sunsets in surrounding skies
Each day ending in such serene splendour
Reds pinks, blues, greys and turquoise;
Colours any artist would be challenged to render.
Pubs clubs and restaurants of such variety
activities that appeal to everyone
Local residents renowned for their hospitality
Make Matagorda a paradise second to none.
Apr 20, 2015
Apr 20, 2015 at 4:28 AM UTC
Strange times. When I speak of caressing your mantic lungs
I don’t know what I mean, but I know
I would hurl you under proper circumstances.
Darling, one whisper falls from a tree silently
so as not to wake the ghosts from their siestas.
Your robe has holes I can’t write of. I can fathom
getting there, what that might entail, wrapping,
as I am prone to, my fingers around your furry pincers
while I wait for you to read my rights to the ceiling fan
who whirls above our renovated combustions like the glowering
eye of our Lord upon the teary-eyed wicked.
I am not looking to escape through the window, darling.
I am diving for your diamond-in-the-rough, peeling off barnacles,
making moustaches of seaweed. You threw it into that ocean-
sized trough in which you drown lizards as way of
stress-release. I don’t know what I’ll do next.
The poor man. You give me your hand,
darling, and your robe, your robe is shiny like a pubescent star,
and it shimmies like a wagon piecing itself apart, as you
piece yourself apart, starting with your smile, which was always more
like a photograph of a dune in a textbook.
You give me your hand. It is a blue egg
dusted with microorganisms. I sprinkle it with our fragrance,
what’s left of it. I wish happiness upon your sleep-life, doldrums
upon your late-night haunting. I am tired and these
machines are so convenient, bringing me on all-expenses-
paid visits to the site of your burial. Or is it your sister’s?
I quote, my heart is like a walled onion.
The poor man is tired. It is not 1904 anymore.
You are not smiling anymore, darling, but you give me your hand.
You give it in a basket with parsley and cheese
and cut-outs from The Waterlogged God.
You give it almost grudgingly but I will keep it.
You tell me you’ve been dreaming again of train stations.
I wonder what that means.
I wonder about your eyes.
There are many spiders inside the wall, and along it,
and on the chandelier’s fingers, and inside the spiders.
I quote, a dream is worth a thousand dustpans, but you,
darling, are worth so much more than dustpans.
But I grow weepy, as stated. What do those dark blue lines mean?
Your fingers, darling, smell of a dark cloud in an electrical storm.
Your palm is a circus. Your nails ticket stubs.
That one’s from the alligator show. You dislocated your
throat. I had a plan. If you stare into someone’s eyes for
more than six seconds, you’ll want to lick them.
May 25, 2010
May 25, 2010 at 8:20 PM UTC
Dear time,
We once got along.
Peas in a pod with
Symbiotic stature.
Now we take our paces.
Make our cruel remarks
And give tears away
Before siestas.
Feb 22, 2011
Feb 22, 2011 at 1:19 PM UTC
See that moon up in the sky
It shines desire into your eye
As the fire burns where you lie
Mi querida, let's go dancing tonight
Save the morning for siestas with me
Together is where we should be
Save the evening for beautiful dreams
Mi querida, my madrigal queen
Have a moment to quietly pray
Close your eyes and hear the band play
You light up the dark cabaret
Mi querida, together we sway
As the night comes to a close
And the city is still on our clothes
You smile at me and my heart grows
Mi querida, I hope that you know
Sep 28, 2015
Sep 28, 2015 at 1:26 AM UTC
It's a lazy day in LA
where the sun
siestas in the trees
and the only ice
to be found
is in the margaritas
that we raise
to toast the clouds
that drift away
as the sky blushes
pacific blue
Jan 2, 2014
Jan 2, 2014 at 6:13 PM UTC
It's a sick, sick town
Where men have come to rot
As a worm infested fruit
Lying wet and rummaged on the ground
The neighbors with their bent noses
And upturned mouths
Bubbling with the agenda, the filth
Of their smiling counterparts next door
In town fiestas they squalor like
Emperors on roasted pigs, rice cakes
and goat bellies raised and slaughtered
They dine like fine crickets loud
And unconcerned about matters
Which the small town does not speak
Scoundrels of politicians
Fetchig money like leaves from their
Cotton pockets
Oh the election is under way!
Come come there is money this way!
Forget honesty it can only buy
You a rumbling stomach and a hut
Crumbling from debts and frets!
Who cares though
When seventy strides from you
Gunshots sparkle in the midnight skies
All eyes fainted all breaths shallow
And someone's just got wallowed
In a heat of greed and contempt
Poor son!Poor son!
Used to know the wretch
No family?No peso to his name?
Let's move on to our siestas
Justice won't spare us from hell
God has saved a seat for us instead
The church has made its job clear
Seven Sundays and we are but saved!
But the crowd upon
The altar thins like the old priest's head
Gleaming like chalice
In the dimming lights of the Lord
The people look on and yawn
For the gospel has now become
As good as miracle, literally.
The poor remain poor
The sinful prosper
And this sick, sick town
Has its marrows ******
Dry as a liar's throat
And you tell me to love it
Like a sweetheart of brazen days?
Like the grazing stars in the
Blank fields of bluish horizons
I painted with amulets and rockets
with my visions as a child?
And you tell me I was born of a town
About to sweep into nothing along
with the collapse of its people?
Feb 14, 2016
Feb 14, 2016 at 8:53 AM UTC
How can the public be so judgmental when all they know is lies.
I'll be that failure I wear that title well.
I won't cast a VOTE I'm not part of their lies nor do I support the whole deception.
I need to see the place beyond the ice where giants still build pyramids and chimeras all fear the wrath of God.
I'm headed south for the winter and to save myself from this system I'll never be apart of without a number around my neck and shackles across my heart.
I need to be where corn is eaten three times a day, siestas are expected and people are the color of the earth.
I want to die amongst the depleted Monarchs and the migrating
Quetzal Hummingbirds.
I wish to put my mind down for its final rest in a place where lies are not respected and the truth is nothing but the truth.
Somewhere thats far away from here.
A place that does'nt feel the need to claim its self the freest of the free while chained to things like laws, debts and the television screen.
I'll be where I don't speak the language and the people don't care.
I'll spend some time in old Mexico drinking away all my bad
memories, dancing with ficheras, making real Love to ****** and finding a way to start over.
A new way after I break free of the lies, bring myself to an end and build up the courage to leave you all behind.
So I can start myself anew.
Aug 5, 2016
Aug 5, 2016 at 12:25 PM UTC
Weeks I spent looking out of windows,
Light passed with minutes to days,
Sitting,
A million times I’ve sat like this
Begging the adventures I’ve imagined,
Memories my closest friends,
Desire – only possesing.
A passenger sitting silently
Black nights with their blanket of silence,
Life moving past stories not unfolding,
Claustraphobia the silent anxiety,
Screaming.
Spring passes it’s peak,
I wonder,
Standing on the edge of time,
Summer’s siestas are boring.
Distance has found its partner,
For that separation we wait
We could touch,
But what would be the point.
Still light explains nothing,
Just movement,
The glowing is a fiction
Fairies on flowers, sweet visions for children,
Fantasies for me,
Dear, dear life,
I’m sitting,
Weeks, minutes, days,
Sitting.
Sep 17, 2009
Sep 17, 2009 at 1:35 AM UTC
All smiles and giggles when six
Turns quickly to fussing and fits
Whenever is said,
“Naptime. Go directly to bed.”
Yet sleep achieves a great feat,
For when they are woken
The grumpies are beat.
If only all woes were
as easily solved.
Imagine a workplace
that had evolved
To give people a bed
Whenever they needed
more sleep for their head.
Can you imagine, “Siesta right now.
You may not metaphorically plow.
Until kindness to rule, you allow.”
If only siestas for adults
Would bring forgiveness for insults.
Perhaps sleep would like magic reduce
The times of backstabbing and power abuse,
The number of errors, but creativity loose,
And lead to more income and clients profuse.
Jul 16, 2018
Jul 16, 2018 at 11:44 PM UTC
first light is cavernous,
ochre vivification for
the ruffled goose-down
sage squares
'neath which i seek
refuge in feign dreams,
pores peeled, wakeful,
like a deep-roving shark,
sedate half the brain
and keep vigil, open
every thirty minutes
to secure myself --
perpendicular,
swaddled,
taut.
there are fundamental rituals
with which we are inculcated
in the households of our heralds,
our inheritance -- idiosyncrasies.
"the day begins when the bed is made."
i devoted nine nights
to avoiding nuestro cama.
i spent six siestas
preferring the loch ness futon
and three on the threshold
to the bathroom
because i couldn't always
bring myself back to face it.
now, just like mother says,
i make the bed upon first light
and la cama rests in a tight corner
on a frame piled high with pillows
like i'm filling up space
i keep my books cushioned
and my homework has become
a permanent fixture, sprawling,
embedded
i've remade my queen's cot
207 times in the last
18 days and regardless,
can't say i've started my day.
Oct 26, 2014
Oct 26, 2014 at 12:43 PM UTC
Let us make Spanish the official American language.
All Spanish speakers have a touch of the poet in them.
There is a bit of Neruda in every humble trucker.
It is a mellifluous and sonorous tongue.
If you want her in your bed, te amo is more likely than I love you.
English, on the other hand, is a language to make deals in.
How much? is probably the most repeated phrase in English.
English is the language of ******* people over.
English is the language of conquest, money and ******
We insist that the world speak it so that after
we bomb them, invade them and **** them they can thank us in English.
Let us make the change official. What have we got to lose
except our insufferable indifference, arrogance and greed?
On top of which, siestas will become the national pastime.
I am taking this to the UN. I have no hope but it's worth a try.
~mce
May 23, 2015
May 23, 2015 at 12:46 PM UTC
Some magic runs between the golden hours of 3 to 5...
Everything is calm...it feels divine
A time...I meet myself...
My place...hates the presence of light
But the awfully stubborn sunlight sneaks in secretly
through the thick curtains...
lighting up...parts of my dark room
And there I am laying on my bed...
I feel so complete, with my soul in high spirits...
Old songs playing on the radio...can be heard.
It's that serene part of the day...I live for
The whole house is in deep slumber...
As I dance through the hallways...celebrating my afternoons
The seasons change...but the loyalty of these afternoons surprise me...
constant...from the day we met .
The hot summer afternoons...drown me in siestas
jumping like a dolphin from one dream to another.
There is something about the stormy rainy afternoons that makes me feel over whelmed...
bathing me in memories of someone I've never met.
The autumn afternoons see me fickle
As I lose myself completely...for a new change.
The darkness of my soul rises during the winter afternoons...
As I dance through them with my demons.
Vintage melodies fill the fragrant air of spring afternoons
as my camera captures Nadar's smile under the big white clouds.
The silence of these afternoons...rests like roses in my soul...
Only for them to wither...in the harsh evenings.
Sep 28, 2021
Sep 28, 2021 at 3:22 AM UTC
You had no room for a garden at your
house in Valencia
so you made an Eden from brick walls.
I remember your kitchen full of tropics;
how you loved the hot plants.
Loved what they whispered of even
more; fleshy, supple summer nights
with no need of sleep.
Do you remember those golden afternoons,
those siestas full of honeysuckle
and oranges?
Jul 12, 2013
Jul 12, 2013 at 12:56 PM UTC
Ya la provincia toda
reconcentra a sus sanas hijas en las caducas
avenidas, y Rut y Rebeca proclaman
la novedad campestre de sus nucas.
Las pobres desterradas
de Morelia y Toluca, de Durango y San Luis,
aroman la Metrópoli como granos de anís.
La parvada maltrecha
de alondras, cae aquí con el esfuerzo
fragante de las gotas de un arbusto
batido por el cierzo.
Improvisan su tienda
para medir, cuadrantes pesarosos,
la ruina de su paz y de su hacienda.
Ellas, las que soñaban
perdidas en los vastos aposentos,
duermen en hospedajes avarientos.
Propietarios de huertos y de huertas copiosas,
regatean las frutas y las rosas.
Con sus modas pasadas
y sus luengos zarcillos
y su mirar somero,
inmútanse a los brillos
de los escaparates de un joyero.
Y después, a evocar la sandía tropa
de pavos, y su susto manifiesto
cuando bajaban por aquel recuesto...
¡Oh siestas regalonas,
melindre ante la jícara que humea,
soponcio ante la recua intempestiva
que tumba las macetas de las pardas casonas;
lotería de nueces,
y Tenorio que flecha el historiado
postigo de las rejas antañonas!
Paso junto a las lentas fugitivas: no saben
en su desgarbo airoso y en su activo quietismo,
la derretida y pura
compensación que logra su ostracismo
sobre mi pecho, para ellas holgadamente
hospitalario, aprensivo y munificente.
Yo os acojo, anónimas y lentas desterradas,
como si a mí viniese
la lúcida familia de las hadas,
porque oléis al opíparo destino
y al exaltado fuero
de los calabazates que sazona
el resol del Adviento, en la cornisa
recoleta y poltrona.
646
Hear the chimes ringing,
this sleepy Sunday singing.
Monday will bring persimmons,
and Tuesday a touch of snow.
Eyelids grow heavy,
the evening siestas are winning.
The trees shade are giving
and sweet scents are brimming
among these lovely Sunday trimmings.
Oh, what a fine Spring day.
Apr 13, 2018
Apr 13, 2018 at 4:51 PM UTC
She left her glasses on the table
when she stormed out the house.
Alone in a café, her eyes blurred over
the menu, but she could smell
bacon frying. She treated herself
for the first time in years.
The world was still turning somehow,
as she tried to plot her escape.
She was alone with her thoughts
of country roads and strange men
that would make her forget his voice.
He'll be sleeping by now.
There was enough money in her purse
to take her out of the country.
From there she could waitress
by some sea-side resort, reading
books through siestas, and sleeping
with the mosquitoes.
Walking to the station, she ripped up
old bus tickets she used to save
to remind her of the everyday places
both of them had been.
Even now she was missing him,
as he laid out and stared at the ceiling.
She was stopped before she made it
to the airport. She was bundled in
the car, eyes swelling and lights flashing
as she was driven back to the city.
She was stripped, searched and
thrown into a locked room.
Her husband still lay there.
His eyes were shelled out
and trodden on by her heels.
There was a river of blood
in the ant's nest, and he would never
look at another woman again.
Aug 5, 2014
Aug 5, 2014 at 8:44 PM UTC
Y yo me iré. Y se quedarán los pájaros
cantando.
Y se quedará mi huerto con su verde árbol,
y con su pozo blanco.
Todas las tardes el cielo será azul y plácido,
y tocarán, como esta tarde están tocando,
las campanas del campanario.
Se morirán aquellos que me amaron
y el pueblo se hará nuevo cada año;
y lejos del bullicio distinto, sordo, raro
del domingo cerrado,
del coche de las cinco, de las siestas del baño,
en el rincón secreto de mi huerto florido y encalado,
mi espíritu de hoy errará, nostáljico...
Y yo me iré, y seré otro, sin hogar, sin árbol
verde, sin pozo blanco,
sin cielo azul y plácido...
Y se quedarán los pájaros cantando.
315
En esta siesta de otoño,
bajo este olmo colosal,
que ya sus redondas hojas
al viento comienzo a echar,
te me das, tú, plenamente,
dulce y sola Soledad.
Solamente un solo pájaro,
el mismo de todas las
siestas, teclea en el olmo,
su trinado musical,
veloz, como si tuviera
mucha prisa en acabar.
¡Cuál te amo! ¡Cuál te agradezco
este venírteme a dar
en esta siesta de otoño,
bajo este olmo colosal,
tan dulce, tan plenamente
y tan sola Soledad!
294
Fluffy, fuzzy, full grown adult,
she groans as she stretches.
Marks flowing out.
Every ditch, all the trenches,
you may start to doubt.
Early morning chills
and after noon siestas,
midnight thrills
and raving fiestas.
She whips them out still.
Cute, cuddly, captivating sight,
she drags me back to bed.
Crushing windpipes, she holds me tight.
The bags of her eyes lit and embedded,
her imperfections, my delight.
Tag-a-longs
and weekends away,
movie marathons
and the down the driveway.
Absent only when at play.
Bashful, budding bravely,
herself allowing comfort.
Brisk winds, I dive for safety.
I plot revenge, her days are numbered.
Our duals are aloft, crazy.
Night sky gazing
And role playing games,
Fandom crazing
And thinking of names.
For me their all amazing.
Dreamy, daring, lacking dramas,
We waste the day away at lay.
What honeymoon, perhaps the Bahamas?
I drape an arm, her skin like clay.
God, she looks good in pajamas.
Jan 30, 2019
Jan 30, 2019 at 3:12 PM UTC