"viva" poems
I like playing with words
Sometimes drinking coffee
I imagine I'm a ballerina drawing swords
To make my mind flee -
I need no drugs
But the little man in my coffee cup shrugs,
He whispers
'try some sativa'
I am stubborn
I pick him by his toes
And feed him to the bugs
'Viva!
The independent mind!' Says Shiva!
I'm now a samurai...
doing ballet moves.
Aug 30, 2016
Aug 30, 2016 at 1:12 AM UTC
Independence is our cry,
pride is our name.
We are all separated by countries and oceans,
but our mindset is one and the same.
The concept of change, we fear;
the idea of an altered lifestyle haunts us,
but the awareness that our home is binding our thoughts
remains as our threshold away from the darkness.
You board the plane, begin to set sail, put on your best shoes and run
away from the chaos, breaking the chains, stating your name to be free.
Your heart is racing as the grasp of new land is just miles within your reach
the only words your mind can make up in that moment are “¡Libre soy alfin!”
The moment is just minutes away now, you can almost feel la tierra
El momento is almost here and you just want to chant “¡LIBERTAD!”
But you can’t. You’re not there yet, only growing more eager.
You’re impatient now; what happened to the claridad?
What happened to that clarity in your mind when you were so sure of what you wanted?
It has been replaced by the fear of not being enough.
It has been replaced by the fear of getting sent back to that confinement you once called home.
Now you realize this new life will be tough.
You step foot en la tierra libre,
the anxiety gets to your bones.
Thoughts race through your mind
there’s disbelief that this is your new home.
The sensation of wandering on clouds,
sleepwalking your life away is overwhelming;
your eyes now resemble that oceanic pathway
whilst los abrazos de abuela you are yearning
The concept of change we fear;
the idea of an altered lifestyle haunts us,
and the awareness that our family is still stitched at the lips
has become our allure back into the darkness.
But independence is our cry,
pride is our name.
Precincts may separate us,
yet our mindset remains one and the same:
¡Que viva la libertad!
Sep 8, 2015
Sep 8, 2015 at 6:47 PM UTC
Cierra la boca,
Mi dulce criatura.
Estas hambriento
Lo puedo notar.
Mas hoy no hay comida
y, yo lo presiento,
No la habrá en un tiempo más.
Cantaré un rato, si eso es de ayuda
Siéntate quieto en éste lugar.
Olvida el hambre y duerme profundo
Sueña que en un banquete estás.
Basta comida, música viva
Corre y ve con el general.
Dile que en casa los niños suplican
Por una mordida
Del más simple pan...
*********translation
Close your mouth,
My sweet child
You are hungry,
And I can tell.
But today, there is no food
And I can just feel it,
There won't be
For another long while.
I'll sing a while, if that helps a little
Sit down still. Right here, beside me.
Forget the hunger, sleep peacefully
Dream that you are in a feast.
So much food, and lovely music
Run to speak to the General.
Tell him, back home the children are begging
For just one bite
Of the plainest bread
Sep 8, 2014
Sep 8, 2014 at 10:17 PM UTC
Pi, at the end of its endless decimals' grandeur,
meets a human being—who holds a mirror!
Until now, the number, knowing only sway,
has been lost in discovery’s polished way.
No more: it begins—on a human—in front of its eye.
Patterns and unique precision, patternless waves,
new math tides soar, pivot at the cosmos' height,
only to bag the ultimate truth:
Fathima—the first spiritual woman—mooned there first!
Fathima steps forward where nature falls behind,
across the dead end, the irrational chasm she strides.
For the cosmos' deep mind, Earth, the ocean is but a drop;
the rope to the top is the lead—the feminine Fathima’s lock!
Raw Fathima moves; in shadow, nature follows,
clustering atoms span between the two,
only to witness her encrypted, secured fashion—
intact, uncharted, yet fully functioning,
in Makkah and Medina, while she lived.
The red fairies at midday’s spot-on,
the black swans arching rainbows in wonder—
marvel how Fathima deduces, straw by straw,
the maestros’ dream of ascension,
potion-polished, taking Ma pauses in liminal crescendos,
between past and future, here and hereafter—a circular duo.
Limning out chiaroscuro in light and shadow—
nothing like it exists, in plain sight or the world in toto!
Rainbows shaded in, sparking out,
the scent of roses in her veiled black hair:
the cosmos anew glinting off her edge,
deeper quintessence than dark matter!
The blueprint, the intelligent pre-design, rests in her elements.
The breakthrough exponent—hidden in her eyes.
Yet beyond the masses’ gaze,
she remains Zahra—light upon the original way.
Truly, only one feminine form has reached across
the other end of the cosmos' endless highway,
zooming past nature’s hidden gems—the irrational Pi,
the complex chasm—a mathematical goldmine.
Beyond the masses’ eyes and their painted canvases,
shine the daylight and the glowing fireflies of the night.
Viva Mankind! Fathima is the Moon at the highest high!
Dec 12, 2021
Dec 12, 2021 at 11:53 PM UTC
Viva Sto. Nino!
Come let us celebrate
The boy Jesus
Our King, our Savior!
Colorful banderitas drape
This town street.
Here comes the
Pagan parade
Going to the church,
Lead by gay majorettes
Flaunting their legs while
Blowing kisses to the priests.
There is a river
Of people each holding
A portrayal of the living God,
A glossy Sto. Nino statue
Dressed in peasant clothes,
A chef's uniform,
A crisp black suit,
A traditional Chinese costume,
And a striped swimwear even.
Some people are masked
As zombies and ghouls
Quite like Halloween in January.
Their face paints start to get
Smeared in their sweaty cheeks
In this scorching 2 pm sun.
At the middle of the parade comes
A pick-up decked with a stereo.
A portrait of lady in a bikini is
Taped on one of its speakers.
As the parade moves on
The kids moshed and fist pumped
To tribal rhythms and hiphop hits
With cuss words in every beat.
The sun is setting and
The celebration finally arrives
At the crowded church plaza.
People make their way,
Inching slowly to the grand church door.
The great parade ends in a bang, well
A slap rather.
A ***** boy hits
A lady's behind
In yellow micro shorts.
A brawl erupts
In the midst of the crowd,
In front of the saints
Petrified in the stained glass windows.
The mass starts soon after
As if nothing happened.
*Viva Sto. Nino!
Come let us celebrate
The boy Jesus
Our King, our Savior!*
Feb 10, 2014
Feb 10, 2014 at 8:56 AM UTC
Yadda......yadda......yadda
he's dying of loneliness
Go listen to the news
They're Nine million people lonely in the country
You're all known for your coldness
Some don't even know their neighbours
You abandon your parents when they get old
Put them away in Retirement homes
when was the last time you saw your elderly mum
when was the last time you called your sister
Thank God for the GRASS being the scapegoat used by crooks
To illustrate community mobbing let us all gang up together
Now you're hugging the Asians and the blacks are your best friends
yadda......yadda......yadda
come join the club we are all mates now
against that outsider grass we welcome all
the ***** ******* are molesting women oh it's just
to make grass envious cause we've stopped him loving
talk to me I hate you no more because grass is more hated
no more bullying you just join us and help us harass that grass
don't trouble that foreign shopkeeper we now want him to join
welcome Muslim brothers and sisters come join us
we now like you cause we have somebody else to hate
hey Mr ugly come here for a hug just make sure its in front of grass
you my loner friend be lonely no more you are now a club member
you Somalian, you Ethopian, you chinese, you Ugandan no matter
everyone is friends no more hassle just hate the grass as much as us
yadda......yadda......yadda
this is politics we fool and fool you all
when we need you you are our best friends
we show you our commonality and bring you into the fold
just make sure you do as you're told and don't grass like grass
we will give you opportunities to make grass jealous
we will forge a grapevine from here to Kathmandu and beyond
we will teach you hate and poison your stinking minds
we will imprison you and make you our slaves to serve us
just make sure you give that grass a hard time and come for a prize
this is all our secret and your minds belongs to us gangstalking crew
make him lonely make him friendless and show viva democracy
You are all simpletons and that's how you will stay in our pockets
this is a union of morons by morons for morons and the crooks win
yadda......yadda......yadda
Sep 29, 2018
Sep 29, 2018 at 3:26 AM UTC
Hace algún tiempo, cuando todavía me consideraba cadaver, no hubiera llegado a pensar que podría volver a sentir. Desconectarme era lo mío. No sentir, no querer vivir, lo usual, lo de todos los días. Cuando todavía me consideraba cadaver, no tenía documento que probara que algún día hubiese estado viva. Cuando estaba fría y sin vida, todo lo que quería es sentirme como ahora lo hago. Lo negaba, si. Me odiaba, si. Pero quería, claro. Después de ese tiempo, cuando ya no me consideraba cadaver, descubrí que las marcas no se irían nunca. Seguirían tanto en mis piernas como en mi cabeza y que todavía podría ser almenos parte cadaver. Solo amaba a la tierra mas no a los habitantes y menos al tibio cadaver llamado Nicole. Pasaron meses y el cadaver vino a la vida. Revivio y en cualquier momento se puede convertir en una persona como otra. El cadaver dejo de ser cadaver. BOOM. CAPOOM. La agonía termino. ¡El cadaver esta vivo! Se grito por las calles, mientras este saltaba y gritaba que lo amaba.
Se podría pensar que esto termina como en los cuentos de hadas. Finales felices y cuentos para dormir. Pero una historia tan tenebrosa como la del cadaver no puede ser contada, ni recordada. Pero talvez, solo narrada.
Mar 16, 2014
Mar 16, 2014 at 6:46 PM UTC
Canta en la ***** del pino
un pájaro detenido,
trémulo, sobre su trino.
Se yergue, flecha, en la rama,
se desvanece entre alas
y en música se derrama.
El pájaro es una astilla
que canta y se quema viva
en una nota amarilla.
Alzo los ojos: no hay nada.
Silencio sobre la rama,
sobre la rama quebrada.
2.7k
Non ti preparerò col mio mostrarmiti
ad una confidenza limitata,
ma perché nel toccarmi la tua mano
non abbia una memoria di presagi,
giacerò all'informe
fusa io stessa, sciolta dentro il buio,
per quanto possa, elaborata e viva,
ridivenire caos...
Orfeo novello, amico dell'assenza,
modulerai di nuovo dalla cetra
la figura nascente di me stessa.
Sarai alle soglie piano e divinante
di un mistero assoluto di silenzio,
ignorando i miei limiti di un tempo,
godrai il possesso della sola essenza.
Allora, concretandomi in un primo
accenno di presenza,
sarò un ramo fiorito di consenso,
e poi, trovato un punto di contatto,
ammetterò una timida coscienza
di vita d'animale
e mi dirò che non andrò più oltre,
mentre già mi sviluppi,
sapienza ineluttabile e sicura,
in un gioco insperato di armonie,
in una conclusione di fanciulla...
Fanciulla: è questo il termine raggiunto?
E per l'addietro non l'ho maturato
e non l'ho poi distrutto
delusa, offesa in ogni volontà?
Che vuol dire fanciulla
se non superamento di coscienza?
Era questo di me che non volevo:
condurmi, trascurando ogni mia forma,
al vertice mortale della vita...
Ma la presenza d'ogni mia sembianza
quale urgenza incalzante di sviluppo,
quale presto proporsi
e più presto risolversi d'enigmi!
E quando poi, dal mio aderire stesso,
la forma scivolò in un altro tempo
di più rare e più estranee conclusioni,
quando del mio "sentirmi" voluttuoso
rimase un'aderenza di dolore,
allora, allora preferii la morte
che ribadisse in me questo possesso.
Ma ci si può avanzare nella vita
mano che regge e fiaccola portata
e ci si può liberamente dare
alle dimenticanze più serene
quando gli anelli multipli di noi
si sciolgano e riprendano in accordo,
quando la garanzia dell'immanenza
ci fasci di un benessere assoluto.
Così, nelle tue braccia ordinatrici
io mi riverso, minima ed immensa;
dato sereno, dato irrefrenabile,
attività perenne di sviluppo.
3k
Joven, acérquese acá,
¿Estima usted su pellejo?
Pues escúcheme un consejo,
que me lo agradecerá:
Arroje esa timidez
al cajón de ropa sucia,
y por un poco de argucia
dé usted toda su honradez.
Salude a cualquier pelmazo
de vales, y al saludar,
acostúmbrese a doblar
con frecuencia el espinazo.
Diga usted sin ton ni son,
y mil veces si es preciso,
al feo, que es un Narciso,
y al zopenco, un Salomón;
que el que tenga el juicio leso
o sea mal encarado,
téngalo usted de contado
que no se enoja por eso.
Al torpe déjele hablar,
sus torpezas disimule,
y adule, adule y adule
sin cansarse de adular.
Como algo no le acomode,
chitón y a tragar saliva,
y en el pantano en que viva
arrástrese, aunque se enlode.
Y con que befe al que baje,
y con que al que suba inciense,
el día en que menos piense
será usted un personaje.
2.5k
Los animales fueron
imperfectos,
largos de cola, tristes
de cabeza.
Poco a poco se fueron
componiendo,
haciéndose paisaje,
adquiriendo lunares, gracia, vuelo.
El gato,
sólo el gato
apareció completo
y orgulloso:
nació completamente terminado,
camina solo y sabe lo que quiere.
El hombre quiere ser pescado y pájaro,
la serpiente quisiera tener alas,
el perro es un *** desorientado,
el ingeniero quiere ser poeta,
la mosca estudia para golondrina,
el poeta trata de imitar la mosca,
pero el gato
quiere ser sólo gato
y todo gato es gato
desde bigote a cola,
desde presentimiento a rata viva,
desde la noche hasta sus ojos de oro.
No hay unidad
como él,
no tienen
la luna ni la flor
tal contextura:
es una sola cosa
como el sol o el topacio,
y la elástica línea en su contorno
firme y sutil es como
la línea de la proa de una nave.
Sus ojos amarillos
dejaron una sola
ranura
para echar las monedas de la noche.
Oh pequeño
emperador sin orbe,
conquistador sin patria,
mínimo tigre de salón, nupcial
sultán del cielo
de las tejas eróticas,
el viento del amor
en la intemperie
reclamas
cuando pasas
y posas
cuatro pies delicados
en el suelo,
oliendo,
desconfiando
de todo lo terrestre,
porque todo
es inmundo
para el inmaculado pie del gato.
Oh fiera independiente
de la casa, arrogante
vestigio de la noche,
perezoso, gimnástico
y ajeno,
profundísimo gato,
policía secreta
de las habitaciones,
insignia
de un
desaparecido terciopelo,
seguramente no hay
enigma
en tu manera,
tal vez no eres misterio,
todo el mundo te sabe y perteneces
al habitante menos misterioso,
tal vez todos lo creen,
todos se creen dueños,
propietarios, tíos
de gatos, compañeros,
colegas,
discípulos o amigos
de su gato.
Yo no.
Yo no suscribo.
Yo no conozco al gato.
Todo lo sé, la vida y su archipiélago
el mar y la ciudad incalculable,
la botánica,
el gineceo con sus extravíos,
el por y el menos de la matemática,
los embudos volcánicos del mundo,
la cáscara irreal del cocodrilo,
la bondad ignorada del bombero,
el atavismo azul del sacerdote,
pero no puedo descifrar un gato.
Mi razón resbaló en su indiferencia,
sus ojos tienen números de oro.
2.5k
the holidays draw to a close
the new year coming closer every day
the age of aquarius
bringing change in a whole new way
consciousness lightens
and awareness heightens
to a breathtaking sight
justice is delivered to all waiting hands
the karmic balance of the universe overflows its sands
the souls of darkened hearts are soon to be dismayed
pure love and light is all that will be displayed
the end of the battle of good & evil has begun
they say our time is nigh
so let's all give it one last good run
will it be the end of life on earth
or just life as we know it?
somehow something will spectacular will take place
if only we don't blow it
a transformation of mankind
a serenity in the making
the garden of Eden restored
solely for our taking
now is the time to prepare with open hearts
for when we least expect it a revolution will start
let us not surrender our compassion and goodwill
this will be our greatest weapon against the hearts of the ill
flourish with tender thoughts and legacy
penetrate the wicked souls of supremacy
banish the traitors from the land which they reign
to govern nature is blasphemy in plain
Jul 6, 2012
Jul 6, 2012 at 12:34 AM UTC
Flores amarillas
Con un flan de coco,
Una botella de ron boricua
Y la taza de cafe cubano.
Las palmas tropicales
Por arriba sobre todo.
Te lo digo ahora,
Va ser una noche muy buena.
No te vayas temprano.
Si te vas,
Olvídate del chocolate.
Tenemos mucho para darte,
Pero eres tu que le hace falta
Llevar.
Entonces,
Siéntate en la playa
Y con nosotros pasaras el rato.
Cálmate por esta noche,
Que las que vienen van hacer
Del carajo.
May 22, 2019
May 22, 2019 at 4:36 PM UTC
In my office me and Gonzo waited speaking on deep issues
with no true meaning as usual.
Bastardo's heart had been broken for Drew had left him a beaten and
love bitten luchador slash attorney.
Senior Gonzo speaking endlessly to the hat rack had reminded me why
I never dropped acid anymore.
Poor gonzo had just been served with divorce papers to which
his only response was ****** amigo i never knew i was married.
As his attorney i belived a trip to mexico was outta the question for i had just got back do to some well a misunderstanding its legal
jargin you couldnt possibly understand.
His deadline was near and without my solid advise this man wouldnt be able to pull it off so being we had been in the bar for more than
eight hours we decided to make a exit through the mens room window.
Front doors are over rated.
In my legal office slash camper hey eveyone starts somewhere
okay.
I was reminded of my loved hellcat Drew
she had left many items here a satanic bible her boil cream.
how I did mis rubbing her webbed toes.
How was i to work Gonzo was a mess hidding under the table
so the ginger bread people couldnt find him
and return him to there bitter talentless leader
Kate Perry i swear if you stab me one more time senior gonzo
with that fork in my maracas im going to get medevile on your ***
Oh how i missed my tag team partner drew.
i should never have introduced her el man donkey who
resist such a uhh personallity.
But now here I sit with a madman under my table tripping his
***** off insisting I contact Simon Cowell to inform him
man tities are so yesterday.
If only I had gotten the Lindsy Lohan case I would finally have gotten my brake or maybe just a std.
Oh well theres always hope Mel Gibson will need me.
The road warrior was a true classico and he seemed so well
balanced compared to my reallity challenged cilent.
Remember kids if ever you have a chance to trip with senior Gonzo
its probaly best you hide all sharp objects.
adios Bastardo
Jul 15, 2010
Jul 15, 2010 at 8:10 AM UTC
Sempre caro mi fu quest'ermo colle,
e questa siepe, che da tanta parte
dell'ultimo orizzonte il guardo esclude.
Ma sedendo e mirando, interminati
spazi di là da quella, e sovrumani
silenzi, e profondissima quiete
io nel pensier mi fingo; ove per poco
il cor non si spaura. E come il vento
odo stormir tra queste piante, io quello
infinito silenzio a questa voce
vo comparando: e mi sovvien l'eterno,
e le morte stagioni, e la presente
e viva, e il suon di lei. Così tra questa
immensità s'annega il pensier mio:
e il naufragar m'è dolce in questo mare.
2.2k
WALKING THRU THE STREETS IN VEGAS TODAY.
QUITE AN ADVENTURE TO OBSERVE SO MANY DIFFERENT CULTURES AT PLAY!!
MY BRAIN MUST BE MUNDANE
IT DOES NOT TAKE MUCH FOR ME TO BE ENTERTAINED.
Sep 27, 2014
Sep 27, 2014 at 1:58 PM UTC
Deambula por los barrios más oscuros de Madrid
una joven de ojos claros y labios carmesí.
Pregona a viva voz su mercancía variada;
pócimas para el amor, felicidad enfrascada.
Los clientes extasiados le suplican "¡Venid!";
su gama de productos les induce al frenesí.
A mí honestamente no me interesa nada
más que su sonrisa y su piel inmaculada.
Cruzamos la mirada y me acerco lentamente;
siento en mi interior una alegría antes carente.
Compartimos un saludo, un beso, una caricia.
¿Quién podía adivinar que escondía tanta malicia?
Tomamos una copa y charlamos vagamente.
Reímos y lloramos. Nos besamos tiernamente.
Desnudó ante mí su cuerpo y me amó sin justicia,
pues ahora entiendo; su intención era fictica.
Aún sin amarme me entregó lo que añoro.
Su cuerpo junto al mío fue para mí un tesoro.
Su **** tan dulce. Su entrega pasional.
Mi mano en sus senos y un "Te quiero" banal.
Al llegar el alba vi que se había marchado.
Ese fue el fin de nuestro amor condenado.
El vacío que causó me ha dejado malherido.
Se llevó mi corazón y lo vendió al olvido.
Feb 1, 2014
Feb 1, 2014 at 1:53 PM UTC
Shoot apathy!
String up complacency!
Banish lazy familiarity and her brother contempt!
Blow up the mundane!
¡Viva la revolución!
Sí Señor, comprendo, pero...
Don't harm gentleness, por favor
Or kindness or generosity
Or humility
Or love
Revolutions are sometimes quiet and unassuming
pero todavía muy real
Feb 5, 2013
Feb 5, 2013 at 9:36 PM UTC
At eighteen I'm the scent of second-day hair with perfume in it
It smells like your bed, and my sweat, and your exhales, and my Juicy Couture Viva la Juicy . How middle school of me.
I'm the cool touch of unwashed sheets on bare skin because the thermostat is fussy and I like sleeping naked
Just me, you, and this body that I don't like so much right now, but I'm eighteen, and I'm working on that.
I'm leggings while they still pass for pants, and the chewed up ends of pens in twenty different colors
Chinese homework has really turned me into such a biter, and I claim to love all those darling pens equally, but I show my blue pens the most love
I've teethed them half to death
I'm not even close to halfway to death assuming things go well for me. Oh, please let things go well for me.
At eighteen I'm the taste of chai and menthol because that's what's **** these days
I'm all about what's **** these days. Apathy, really bad electronic music, bare midriffs.
Funny since at eighteen I don't want anyone to touch me
This body is my project, please don’t even look at me like this, all insecure and exposed. Please just let me curl up, and please let me be by myself.
I wish my mother were here to bring me a popsicle. My throat hurts from all the screaming I do these days.
At eighteen I guess I'm still a little angsty, but I just want you to love me
God, do I want you to love me.
I want you to patronize me with the warmth of your arms and undress me with strong, resolved hands
Don't touch me, just look at me and tell me that I'm perfect and naive because at eighteen I'm still milky white, soft, and broken
I'm a sight for sore eyes, a new sight, your sight
For god's sake
Just love me.
May 23, 2014
May 23, 2014 at 11:39 PM UTC
The Acolytes come marching in and out and in, out again
Minds befuddles, rationalities amissing, fully indoctrinated
Pathetic Dogs of Attrition dressed all in white, all in pain
Compulsive obsessives, neurotics primed and oxygenated
Scrappers at the bottom of the barrel wants unlawful gain
By hook or crook is their recourse, to that they are mandated
From rhetorics long gone and ideologies forged in days of rain
Our intrepid Confused and Acolytes are soundly medicated
Just march to left, left, left, left and we will ease all your pain
Recognize that the enemies are those that think and are educated
They all claim domain at the top, with kudos, status and fame
While you languish in closed barrels, your poor lives truncated
Those Bosses are all there because they are all Masonic inclined
Doctors, lawyers and Professionals paid cash for Degrees granted
They did no work or study, rich Daddies just paid so they claim
All those Entrepreneurs are Robbers who bankraid unarrested
Because the Police are all masonic and help/share in all the gain
The Royals are Top Mafiosas, with International links atested
So Dumb Acolytes Know the truths and fall with the wise in line
We must regain Power and march left, left so we're not left in vain
The republic shall live because it's 21 Century and we wake in time
We take all from the Secret Society and cut off all our iron chains
Begin by taunting, tormenting and harassing that ****** Wayne
The ****** Prince is the African Mafia Chief and Exploiter kingpin
Sing with me everybody
Viva la Revolution, viva la Revolution
We are clever, all in our White uniforms
We march to the left left left with our two left feet
We know our brains have left us but we go left left
Viva la Revolution, Viva la Revolution, Viva la Jinbba.
Hey! jinbba, jinbaba, hey! jinbba jinbaba, hey! jinbba jinbba
Sing.........
Sep 12, 2018
Sep 12, 2018 at 5:09 AM UTC
al verte parado frente a mi,
pense en todas las veces que miraba tu foto & te imaginaba junto a mi.
pense en lo pequeño que se ponen tus ojos cuando te ries & en lo amplia que se pone tu sonrisa cuando digo algo que te parece gracioso.
pense en lo agradecida que estaba, pues era yo la culpable de que sonrieras tanto.
te tuve tan cerca por mucho rato.
volvi a tocarte, a abrazarte, a sentirte, a hablarte, a mirarte, a pensarte.
hacias de cualquier momento uno util para hablarme. me preguntabas "estas cansada?" & sonreias.
puede que me sienta cansada fisicamente, pero jamas me sentire cansada de ver tu sonrisa, ver tus ojos, escuchar tu voz, & escucharte sonreir.
tu sonrisa es como la melodia que calma mis pensamientos & me ayuda a sentir viva.
tantos dias mirando tu foto imaginandote a mi lado, & hoy por fin te tuve frente a mi sonriente como siempre lo has estado.
aprovechabas cada momento para abrazarme & tocarme, observarme & hablarme.
me hacias pensar en la vez que me preguntaste si eramos algo mas, que con tanto rato al lado tuyo lo comenze a creer. solo queria mas & mas & mas de ti.
no solo te queria para ese rato.
te queria para mas.
para ese rato, & otro rato, & todos los ratos que puedan ser.
sentir tus manos en mi me hizo sentir como pieza de museo. como si tu fueras el escultor que moldeaba la pieza & le daba forma & vida. & yo era la pieza de museo que cobraba vida al ser moldeada & tocada por ti.
como si yo fuera esa pieza de museo que te sabes de memoria, te encanta tocar, & siempre esta en tus pensamientos.
pense que eras el escultor que vendia taquillas de museo para que todos fueran & puedan admirar tu amada pieza de museo que soy yo. como si yo fuera tu pieza de museo favorita & quisieras que todos lo supieran para que conozcan & esten consientes de tan majestuosa pieza de museo que soy. que solo tuya soy & tuya sere. que no importa cuantos ojos vengan a observarme, sabrias que ninguno podria mirarme de la misma manera en la que lo haces tu. que no importa cuantas manos vengan con la intencion de tocarme, ninguno podria hacerlo pues soy tu pieza favorita & no quisieras que me rompieran, aunque muy en el fondo sabias que una pieza como yo jamas podria romperse, pues estaba echa de un material unico que no se encuentra en todas partes, si no dentro de ti: tu gran amor hacia mi. tan delicada pero a la misma vez tan fuerte & llena de vida. no quisieras que hubieran piezas de otras personas en mi. total, sabias que ninguno otro podria tocarme con el amor & la dulzura que lo haces tu. tu me conoces, pues tu me creaste.
cuando me mirabas, te pensaba observando mi foto e imaginandome junto a ti. & que cuando estuve frente a ti, era la unica con la quien querias pasar todos tus ratos.
tantos pensamientos cobraron vida cuando te vi, hasta que volvi a la realidad & recorde que no soy tu pieza de museo favorita. hasta que recorde que existe otra pieza de museo que te gusta tocar & moldear aun mas. hasta que recorde que hay alguien mas en tu vida que ocupa todos tus pensamientos & con quien pasas todos tus ratos.
Jan 12, 2016
Jan 12, 2016 at 11:05 PM UTC
Wear your heart like a golden brooch
Shine it so all see
Your goodness is as you would be
Your courage is itself beyond reproach.
Darwin knows, some try to say
That the weak should fear the strong
Well this has gone on for so long
Can you honestly say you like this way?
I propose you think on those
Who live in darker minds
Their hatred builds up and then blinds
Them from the hard path each has chose.
I met a man who said to me
Love is like a destiny
I met a man who frowned at me
And he was neither glad nor free.
Love yourselves to love another
Love your sister, love your brother,
Love the man who scowls at you
For in that heaven may be true.
Jan 22, 2015
Jan 22, 2015 at 11:16 AM UTC
Voces de muerte sonaron
cerca del Guadalquivir.
Voces antiguas que cercan
voz de clavel varonil.
Les clavó sobre las botas
mordiscos de jabalí.
En la lucha daba saltos
jabonados de delfín.
Bañó con sangre enemiga
su corbata carmesí,
pero eran cuatro puñales
y tuvo que sucumbir.
Cuando las estrellas clavan
rejones al agua gris,
cuando los erales sueñan
verónicas de alhelí,
voces de muerte sonaron
cerca del Guadalquivir.
Antonio Torres Heredia,
Camborio de dura crin,
moreno de verde luna,
voz de clavel varonil:
¿Quién te ha quitado la vida
cerca del Guadalquivir?
Mis cuatro primos Heredias
hijos de Benamejí.
Lo que en otros no envidiaban,
ya lo envidiaban en mí.
Zapatos color corinto,
medallones de marfil,
y este cutis amasado
con aceituna y jazmín.
¡Ay Antoñito el Camborio
digno de una Emperatriz!
Acuérdate de la Virgen
porque te vas a morir.
¡Ay Federico García,
llama a la Guardia Civil!
Ya mi talle se ha quebrado
como caña de maíz.
Tres golpes de sangre tuvo
y se murió de perfil.
Viva moneda que nunca
se volverá a repetir.
Un ángel marchoso pone
su cabeza en un cojín.
Otros de rubor cansado,
encendieron un candil.
Y cuando los cuatro primos
llegan a Benamejí,
voces de muerte cesaron
cerca del Guadalquivir.
1.8k
i saw the movie, once
- a sad one
this time i am hoping
things will be different -
good, friends
should be allowed
to be friends -
Viva Cuba.
r ~ 12/18/14
Dec 18, 2014
Dec 18, 2014 at 9:50 PM UTC