"valjean" poems
He sleeps. An enigma, his life bereft -
He lived then died once his angel had left.
It happened as simply as anything might,
As from day there follows the coming of night.
Jan 9, 2017
Jan 9, 2017 at 12:22 PM UTC
My sister grumbles
when I say less miserables
Diable!
I tremble
when I think of less miserables.
In Les Misérables
everyone needs a bit of a scrub.
Jean Valjean takes a gamble
to steal a loaf or die without preamble,
and when it comes down to it,
he really only took a sample bit.
But he was caught
and sent to the docks
and **** His life went down in shambles...
So when you think your life's a jumble
and no one cares so much as a rumble,
take a breath and then think back to
the fates of all those more and not less miserable than you.
Jan 5, 2015
Jan 5, 2015 at 1:59 AM UTC
awaking in the middle
of an early walk
it matters not
what I do today
it matters not
if any thing matters perennially
in intent or outcome
worth not a while -
for the leaves golden
just below
an autumn september expanse
of still steel light
and my lungs get filled
to capacity with life itself
three strides - in inhale
exceeding walking meditation -
walking rumination
meager wisdom illume
that today's matters
are too wonderful for me to understand
and so
I understand it all
competently, completely
as the bishop knew jean valjean
as the universe knows a seed
with each abeyant breath
Sep 29, 2016
Sep 29, 2016 at 9:27 AM UTC
Madre antigua y atroz de la incestuosa guerra,
borrado sea tu nombre de la faz de la tierra.
Tú que arrojaste al círculo del horizonte abierto
la alta proa del viking, las lanzas del desierto.
En la Torre del Hambre de Ugolino de Pisa
tienes tu monumento y en la estrofa concisa
que nos deja entrever (sólo entrever) los días
últimos y en la sombra que cae las agonías.
Tú que de sus pinares haces que surja el lobo
y que guiaste la mano de Jean Valjean al robo.
Una de tus imágenes es aquel silencioso
dios que devora el orbe sin ira y sin reposo,
el tiempo. Hay otra diosa de tiniebla y de osambre;
su lecho es la vigilia y su pan es el hambre.
Tú que a Chatterton diste la muerte en la bohardilla
entre los falsos códices y la luna amarilla.
Tú que entre el nacimiento del hombre y su agonía
pides en la oración el pan de cada día.
Tú cuya lenta espada roe generaciones
y sobre los testuces lanzas a los leones.
Madre antigua y atroz de la incestuosa guerra,
borrado sea tu nombre de la faz de la tierra.
357