Poems to Ponder On
Abraham's Flight Like a bird with long wings, the Lord God, came flying through the dust- He had flown over the darkening waves.
He had flown around the planet, a grip onto the hand of Abraham; now they were back to where they had started.
There is a long pause.
It is complicated for Abraham to understand why God didn't slay or punish the many sinners they had passed, and witnessed doing violence.
Abraham had voiced his opinion on the matter, to give them harsh death, leaving a tinge of a rattle in his throat, each time his righteous anger came out.
God tells Abraham: "What has not yet come to the surface, years that are still far-off- you do not see, you are detached from the good they might bring.
" No: 3119 (9-9-2011) Old Fires All those days we have lived The world on Edge You and I, all of us- Loneliness to ashes; It will all be forgotten.
We are all old fires, Roots-we can't Even rub sunlight into.
NO: 3117 (10-6-2011) Below the Planet's Waters Reflections of hills; mountains of mist below What are they? The reds, browns, that float? Landmarks-perchance, long forgotten...
Perhaps valiant stories! Perhaps someone's death-! Blind, cloudy creatures, with their spines turned up to us- Crouched, smiling up at shadows and the landscape below ...
How different their world is from ours! As I cling onto steel railings above-as they below (swim carefree about) bored, waiting for a storm.
Notes: Written after reviewing the Art Sections of the magazine 'Exploring Tosca' ((summer issue, 2011, page 37) (Gail Weber, Editor)), thus, inspired by the work of Marcia Soderman, the painting named: "Contemplating Deep Waters" No: 2986/7-26-2011 The Syrian Bunker (Triple Haiku) Like a hawk in his Nest-so resides a Syrian Soldier, in His bunker, in the Golan Heights, readying for battle Above the heads, Of, men of war-; the Bulls of Bashan, wait, and howl: "What is sorrow for?" Notes: On a visit to Israel, July of 2010, the author wet into the Bashan Valley (Golan Heights), once Syria, and explored the historic and notorious site, "Rephaim Circle" some five-thousand years old; in addition, he found himself beyond the valley, unexpectedly, by Syrian bunkers and minefield, those used during the war of 1967, between Syria and Israel.
The Bulls of Bashan are the armies mentioned in the Bible that will encircle Israel in the latter days (as they did in 1967 and 1972, wars, to try and conquers Israel and will perhaps try again, such as: Egypt, Syria, Jordon, and perhaps Iran and Lebanon, and one of the new bulls, Russia).
The Winter Dark As winter comes the trees darken (unnoticed by human eyes, for a long time).
For eons this has happened-had taken place.
This brought on a kind of loneliness, despair- (this new awareness) for mankind.
Man said: "What's the use...
?" Uneasily, building fires inside of winter caves- (no longer living under winter stars).
Thus, he learned to live like the trees-I guess, by dark, in the winter.
NO: 3116 (10-6-2011) The Beaver(and the soul) The Beaver lives deep inside its dam- So, deep that it's difficult for light to seep in To pass from twig to branch to the tip of his tail, to his eyes...
So many timbers packed on top of One another, muffles the sound of his voice...
That the language of the beaver is Often misunderstood, and perhaps for a moment, lost! This is the hull of his wooden ship...
Liken to the hull of a man's soul, when it is lost...
! No: 3106 (10-4-2011) Legend of: The Ancient Huacrapuquio Tiger I wonder If he was afraid of dying-found Deep in a stone crevice (bones complete) In what one day would become the Village of Huacrapuquio- But now, All day long I've been walking among Their dirt and stone streets, Trying to keep still, silently Listening, To old residue-echoes that linger in The shifting dust and sand-patiently I am Gathering, the slow, the empty Echoes of the past...
And of the secret shelter where this Ancient tiger fell to his death 10,000 BC...
Fell to his earthly grave, until the day The city dug up the road, to Put in plumbing.
His frame tells me his short, but Lively, life's story- He was young, strong, lean, but careless- He'd leap at his pray, with those Strong short hind legs; and with his Long front arms-limbs that had Paws like small boulders-and Talons, sharp as giant thorns- He'd mall his prey, then with his Sabre-teeth, he'd put them to sleep! No: 3105 (10-1-2011) While visiting the village of Huacrapuquio in 2007, eleven thousand feet up in the Andes, the Mayor of the village showed me the bones, and location where the ancient tiger was found, considered the only complete set of bones in the world, of such a tiger, and thus, the structure of the tiger, was amazingly different than expected by experts on this subject, and thereafter I drew a picture of the tiger from its remains.
The Rainy Season (Summer in the Mantaro Valley) Old men dream and rest more than they sleep-(that's a fact) especially during the rainy season in the valley...
It's as if the sun gets drunk in summer-here, high up in the Andes, and all one gets, is cold light.
Ah! I want to turn it off! My neighbour's yard used to be cut and trimmed- But now it's just all weeds-, it's as if, each rainy season, he has a long hangover.
Everything's bright and colourful, growing from the ground up, here in the valley! An old man is wobbling down the street, half drunk, kicking stones, I can see him from the pantry window.
A young boy is scaling a railroad track, a trains whistle can be heard, but he doesn't look back, he kind of looks like me.
A bum is just waking up under some cardboard, along the Mantaro Rio, and there's a bird's nest in a tree above my grave I'm still half asleep, but what a dream.
No: 3100 (9-29-2011) House of the Falcon ((The Chanka in the Valley of Canipaco) (Colca, Junin, Peru)) Part One The Ancient Chanka Warriors House of the Falcon Even the finest of the Chanka warriors, contained darkness All their language, woven from fifteen hundred years packed Together-as they grew larger in the Valley of Canipaco The Hanan Chankas soaked up the stain of their enemy's blood Drank it from their skull caps, hanging them upside down These old thinkers, of the House of the Falcon,remind us Battle and death to those throats open to invasion.
They built stone fortresses in the District of Colca-buried Their kind, in caves, rock crevasses, mausoleums.
Part Two Uscovilca and Ancovilca Canipaco Valley The twin gods of the Chanka race, the founders, Uscovilca And Ancovilca-: one inherited the teeth Of the great lion, the other, the great thumbs of Goliath And thereafter, the Chanka race never had had a whole Day of peace, and thus built, Tamborhuanca (sanctuary) Where one cry from the dying, contained a thousand more.
Part Three House of Sorrows Tamborhuanca-Colca In time all things end, become shadows, hence, the "House of the Falcon" became the "House of Sorrows" The door that leads to Tamborhuanca, near Colca Built eight-hundred years, now in the past-the sanctuary Of the Chanka, now lies silent, with deadly gases...
A house roofed with stone and earth, caves and graves.
It's too late to move now; their bones (blunt like dull pencil lead) Can be found in the dark crevasses of this fortress like Mound-this monstrous sanctuary, with cave-eyes everywhere! Part one of the poems written on 22nd of September, 2011.
No: 3091; parts two and three (3092 and 3093,) written on 23rd of September).
El Tambo Spider (s) (Inspired by living in El Tambo for eons) When it's cold in El Tambo the spiders know- they crawl on my walls along my window sills Along the ridges and under my bed-: creeping little crawlers, making cobwebs...
! While I'm asleep, they swing and pivot, fall and crawl, on wires and strings, even on my brow: bite me here and there, especially on rainy nights...
You'd be surprised how much they know- about my apartment, and its five rooms...
Half blind, they prance about, as if they owned the house- bodies reddish brown, black and gray...
I think they are here to stay! No: 1845 ((5-26-2007)(reedited, 10-3-2011)) (Dedicated to the dwellings in El Tambo, Huancayo, Peru) Corn Picking in San Jeronimo (Peru, in the Andes, the Mantaro Valley) It is late June; I walk through the cornfield.
Light on the tops of the surrounding mountains, Light, over my head, eaten by pigs' teeth I am learning; I walk through the cornfield (the grove)with a bag: picking, ripping corn off the tall stalks.
On the way home, coolness in the afternoon's sun, lowers its hands! Pigs are out alongside of the thick adobe wall? The mother has gone looking for her little ones.
What they drink and eat, people would not dare to take in, But nonetheless, sooner than later, we'll put that beast on our dinner table...
! No: 3107 (10-4-2011) 12:08 A.
M.
, 2011 (...
in Huancayo) 1.
At exactly 12:06 A.
M.
I empty my bladder, feeling the joy it brings.
Dogs barking outside, a cool dampness sweeps around the curtain (I can feel its sway...
).
2 My bedroom is small The lamplight is on, on the side of my dresser (my side of the bed).
I turn it off, roll into bed I can't tell where- My wife's awake, turns to my side...
; outside, on a wet street, rain falling.
3 Bits of darkness surround me.
Car lights appear through the curtains as streaks of light- "What time is it?" asks my wife.
"12:08, I reply (wondering why?) "Happy 64th Birthday," she says with a kiss.
How different (I think) old age Birthdays are becoming-seemingly secretive.
No 3118 (10-7-2011) Summer Charms (...
in Huancayo) I slept a few minutes ago.
I love the warm covers of the bed, the heat from the small space heater next to me.
Had lunch with Adelmo Huamaní-this afternoon spaghetti! I'm growing old.
There is a spirit in a tree-it moves when it thinks water or sun, or upon a soft touch; that's one of the great things in this world.
Years ago I wouldn't have said that, but God, like a Strange Sea Creature, keeps teaching, and I keep learning- It is like the mountains surrounding Huancayo keep drawing back into itself, to make room for others.
Under the floor of my apartment I feel the season changing beneath me- without making a sound, the rain is coming.
No: 3114 (10-6-2011) The Restaurant Owner (...
in Huancayo) She kills her own livelihood her precious secret, her face holds one tone- She shuts out those nearest her (or those be in opposition to...
)! Dying of arrogance and pride, unaware she's alive...
; in her own desert! It's no use, she won't listen, she's too far gone.
No: 3108 (10-5-2011) Female Tramp (in the Plaza de Arms,Huancayo) A female tramp stands in front of me (in the Plaza de Arms) Puckers her lips, and tries to whisper something (a woman of alms, a bigger).
Her mind haunted; my wife givers her silver coin.
She has no front teeth.
As I lean back, on the wooden bench, the sun floats down, as she walks away; turning around twice, to catch a glimpse-she's remembering she's a woman.
No: 3109 (10-5-2011) Red Ants in Satipo (Central Jungle of Peru) I push; rise slightly, between the thick jungle foliage- I do not want to alarm the large red ants who are walking single file back and forth on the plant's branch (in the Satipo Jungle)-carrying small to large loads of petals.
I want to pick a piece of fruit off the branch-I try and a few leap onto me-racing up my fingers, and beyond...
they have sharp teeth- Then Rosa (my wife)-standing nearby-pulls me back, nearly cries, watching the red ants thrive...
"Let it go!" I let the fruit branch go, step back-she's relieved-so am I.
No: 3111 (10-5-2011) Special Note on Poetic Imagery: The poet must find the voice inside the images, correlating to his emotions (feelings).
Then he can produce the pure substance (the essence)of poetry (i.
e.
, what makes a haven a haven? In the case of the small village of 'the 9th of July' in Peru, it is its images, but what are their images? One over powering image are the eucalyptus trees, you can't escape them...
) A Worthwhile Poem Let's do this sort and sweet, so read this closely, a worthwhile poem: if the poem you are reading or about to read or have read (let's say three times over-you got to give it a chance to absorb-be it poetic prose or metered, each can put you into a trance, if it: relaxes your diaphragm, your breathing, if it prepares you to journey (to connect dreams to reality and march toward them, or wish that you had), if it opens up the brain, affects you, brings to you some missing elements, fragments, long lost by the soul: then it is a worthwhile poem for you-: let yourself be the judge, all poems are not structured, or worded for ever mine, they are like, counselors, not ever counselor is made for ever client.
A Song to Creativeness It is a joy to live in these great times, with life at last grown to its utmost consciousness- remolding the world to its fulfillment.
Happy be one of those who feel the thrill and movement of this flow, whose mind and hands are busy with great works of this day with creative pageantry...
No: 3118 (10-8-2011)
He had flown around the planet, a grip onto the hand of Abraham; now they were back to where they had started.
There is a long pause.
It is complicated for Abraham to understand why God didn't slay or punish the many sinners they had passed, and witnessed doing violence.
Abraham had voiced his opinion on the matter, to give them harsh death, leaving a tinge of a rattle in his throat, each time his righteous anger came out.
God tells Abraham: "What has not yet come to the surface, years that are still far-off- you do not see, you are detached from the good they might bring.
" No: 3119 (9-9-2011) Old Fires All those days we have lived The world on Edge You and I, all of us- Loneliness to ashes; It will all be forgotten.
We are all old fires, Roots-we can't Even rub sunlight into.
NO: 3117 (10-6-2011) Below the Planet's Waters Reflections of hills; mountains of mist below What are they? The reds, browns, that float? Landmarks-perchance, long forgotten...
Perhaps valiant stories! Perhaps someone's death-! Blind, cloudy creatures, with their spines turned up to us- Crouched, smiling up at shadows and the landscape below ...
How different their world is from ours! As I cling onto steel railings above-as they below (swim carefree about) bored, waiting for a storm.
Notes: Written after reviewing the Art Sections of the magazine 'Exploring Tosca' ((summer issue, 2011, page 37) (Gail Weber, Editor)), thus, inspired by the work of Marcia Soderman, the painting named: "Contemplating Deep Waters" No: 2986/7-26-2011 The Syrian Bunker (Triple Haiku) Like a hawk in his Nest-so resides a Syrian Soldier, in His bunker, in the Golan Heights, readying for battle Above the heads, Of, men of war-; the Bulls of Bashan, wait, and howl: "What is sorrow for?" Notes: On a visit to Israel, July of 2010, the author wet into the Bashan Valley (Golan Heights), once Syria, and explored the historic and notorious site, "Rephaim Circle" some five-thousand years old; in addition, he found himself beyond the valley, unexpectedly, by Syrian bunkers and minefield, those used during the war of 1967, between Syria and Israel.
The Bulls of Bashan are the armies mentioned in the Bible that will encircle Israel in the latter days (as they did in 1967 and 1972, wars, to try and conquers Israel and will perhaps try again, such as: Egypt, Syria, Jordon, and perhaps Iran and Lebanon, and one of the new bulls, Russia).
The Winter Dark As winter comes the trees darken (unnoticed by human eyes, for a long time).
For eons this has happened-had taken place.
This brought on a kind of loneliness, despair- (this new awareness) for mankind.
Man said: "What's the use...
?" Uneasily, building fires inside of winter caves- (no longer living under winter stars).
Thus, he learned to live like the trees-I guess, by dark, in the winter.
NO: 3116 (10-6-2011) The Beaver(and the soul) The Beaver lives deep inside its dam- So, deep that it's difficult for light to seep in To pass from twig to branch to the tip of his tail, to his eyes...
So many timbers packed on top of One another, muffles the sound of his voice...
That the language of the beaver is Often misunderstood, and perhaps for a moment, lost! This is the hull of his wooden ship...
Liken to the hull of a man's soul, when it is lost...
! No: 3106 (10-4-2011) Legend of: The Ancient Huacrapuquio Tiger I wonder If he was afraid of dying-found Deep in a stone crevice (bones complete) In what one day would become the Village of Huacrapuquio- But now, All day long I've been walking among Their dirt and stone streets, Trying to keep still, silently Listening, To old residue-echoes that linger in The shifting dust and sand-patiently I am Gathering, the slow, the empty Echoes of the past...
And of the secret shelter where this Ancient tiger fell to his death 10,000 BC...
Fell to his earthly grave, until the day The city dug up the road, to Put in plumbing.
His frame tells me his short, but Lively, life's story- He was young, strong, lean, but careless- He'd leap at his pray, with those Strong short hind legs; and with his Long front arms-limbs that had Paws like small boulders-and Talons, sharp as giant thorns- He'd mall his prey, then with his Sabre-teeth, he'd put them to sleep! No: 3105 (10-1-2011) While visiting the village of Huacrapuquio in 2007, eleven thousand feet up in the Andes, the Mayor of the village showed me the bones, and location where the ancient tiger was found, considered the only complete set of bones in the world, of such a tiger, and thus, the structure of the tiger, was amazingly different than expected by experts on this subject, and thereafter I drew a picture of the tiger from its remains.
The Rainy Season (Summer in the Mantaro Valley) Old men dream and rest more than they sleep-(that's a fact) especially during the rainy season in the valley...
It's as if the sun gets drunk in summer-here, high up in the Andes, and all one gets, is cold light.
Ah! I want to turn it off! My neighbour's yard used to be cut and trimmed- But now it's just all weeds-, it's as if, each rainy season, he has a long hangover.
Everything's bright and colourful, growing from the ground up, here in the valley! An old man is wobbling down the street, half drunk, kicking stones, I can see him from the pantry window.
A young boy is scaling a railroad track, a trains whistle can be heard, but he doesn't look back, he kind of looks like me.
A bum is just waking up under some cardboard, along the Mantaro Rio, and there's a bird's nest in a tree above my grave I'm still half asleep, but what a dream.
No: 3100 (9-29-2011) House of the Falcon ((The Chanka in the Valley of Canipaco) (Colca, Junin, Peru)) Part One The Ancient Chanka Warriors House of the Falcon Even the finest of the Chanka warriors, contained darkness All their language, woven from fifteen hundred years packed Together-as they grew larger in the Valley of Canipaco The Hanan Chankas soaked up the stain of their enemy's blood Drank it from their skull caps, hanging them upside down These old thinkers, of the House of the Falcon,remind us Battle and death to those throats open to invasion.
They built stone fortresses in the District of Colca-buried Their kind, in caves, rock crevasses, mausoleums.
Part Two Uscovilca and Ancovilca Canipaco Valley The twin gods of the Chanka race, the founders, Uscovilca And Ancovilca-: one inherited the teeth Of the great lion, the other, the great thumbs of Goliath And thereafter, the Chanka race never had had a whole Day of peace, and thus built, Tamborhuanca (sanctuary) Where one cry from the dying, contained a thousand more.
Part Three House of Sorrows Tamborhuanca-Colca In time all things end, become shadows, hence, the "House of the Falcon" became the "House of Sorrows" The door that leads to Tamborhuanca, near Colca Built eight-hundred years, now in the past-the sanctuary Of the Chanka, now lies silent, with deadly gases...
A house roofed with stone and earth, caves and graves.
It's too late to move now; their bones (blunt like dull pencil lead) Can be found in the dark crevasses of this fortress like Mound-this monstrous sanctuary, with cave-eyes everywhere! Part one of the poems written on 22nd of September, 2011.
No: 3091; parts two and three (3092 and 3093,) written on 23rd of September).
El Tambo Spider (s) (Inspired by living in El Tambo for eons) When it's cold in El Tambo the spiders know- they crawl on my walls along my window sills Along the ridges and under my bed-: creeping little crawlers, making cobwebs...
! While I'm asleep, they swing and pivot, fall and crawl, on wires and strings, even on my brow: bite me here and there, especially on rainy nights...
You'd be surprised how much they know- about my apartment, and its five rooms...
Half blind, they prance about, as if they owned the house- bodies reddish brown, black and gray...
I think they are here to stay! No: 1845 ((5-26-2007)(reedited, 10-3-2011)) (Dedicated to the dwellings in El Tambo, Huancayo, Peru) Corn Picking in San Jeronimo (Peru, in the Andes, the Mantaro Valley) It is late June; I walk through the cornfield.
Light on the tops of the surrounding mountains, Light, over my head, eaten by pigs' teeth I am learning; I walk through the cornfield (the grove)with a bag: picking, ripping corn off the tall stalks.
On the way home, coolness in the afternoon's sun, lowers its hands! Pigs are out alongside of the thick adobe wall? The mother has gone looking for her little ones.
What they drink and eat, people would not dare to take in, But nonetheless, sooner than later, we'll put that beast on our dinner table...
! No: 3107 (10-4-2011) 12:08 A.
M.
, 2011 (...
in Huancayo) 1.
At exactly 12:06 A.
M.
I empty my bladder, feeling the joy it brings.
Dogs barking outside, a cool dampness sweeps around the curtain (I can feel its sway...
).
2 My bedroom is small The lamplight is on, on the side of my dresser (my side of the bed).
I turn it off, roll into bed I can't tell where- My wife's awake, turns to my side...
; outside, on a wet street, rain falling.
3 Bits of darkness surround me.
Car lights appear through the curtains as streaks of light- "What time is it?" asks my wife.
"12:08, I reply (wondering why?) "Happy 64th Birthday," she says with a kiss.
How different (I think) old age Birthdays are becoming-seemingly secretive.
No 3118 (10-7-2011) Summer Charms (...
in Huancayo) I slept a few minutes ago.
I love the warm covers of the bed, the heat from the small space heater next to me.
Had lunch with Adelmo Huamaní-this afternoon spaghetti! I'm growing old.
There is a spirit in a tree-it moves when it thinks water or sun, or upon a soft touch; that's one of the great things in this world.
Years ago I wouldn't have said that, but God, like a Strange Sea Creature, keeps teaching, and I keep learning- It is like the mountains surrounding Huancayo keep drawing back into itself, to make room for others.
Under the floor of my apartment I feel the season changing beneath me- without making a sound, the rain is coming.
No: 3114 (10-6-2011) The Restaurant Owner (...
in Huancayo) She kills her own livelihood her precious secret, her face holds one tone- She shuts out those nearest her (or those be in opposition to...
)! Dying of arrogance and pride, unaware she's alive...
; in her own desert! It's no use, she won't listen, she's too far gone.
No: 3108 (10-5-2011) Female Tramp (in the Plaza de Arms,Huancayo) A female tramp stands in front of me (in the Plaza de Arms) Puckers her lips, and tries to whisper something (a woman of alms, a bigger).
Her mind haunted; my wife givers her silver coin.
She has no front teeth.
As I lean back, on the wooden bench, the sun floats down, as she walks away; turning around twice, to catch a glimpse-she's remembering she's a woman.
No: 3109 (10-5-2011) Red Ants in Satipo (Central Jungle of Peru) I push; rise slightly, between the thick jungle foliage- I do not want to alarm the large red ants who are walking single file back and forth on the plant's branch (in the Satipo Jungle)-carrying small to large loads of petals.
I want to pick a piece of fruit off the branch-I try and a few leap onto me-racing up my fingers, and beyond...
they have sharp teeth- Then Rosa (my wife)-standing nearby-pulls me back, nearly cries, watching the red ants thrive...
"Let it go!" I let the fruit branch go, step back-she's relieved-so am I.
No: 3111 (10-5-2011) Special Note on Poetic Imagery: The poet must find the voice inside the images, correlating to his emotions (feelings).
Then he can produce the pure substance (the essence)of poetry (i.
e.
, what makes a haven a haven? In the case of the small village of 'the 9th of July' in Peru, it is its images, but what are their images? One over powering image are the eucalyptus trees, you can't escape them...
) A Worthwhile Poem Let's do this sort and sweet, so read this closely, a worthwhile poem: if the poem you are reading or about to read or have read (let's say three times over-you got to give it a chance to absorb-be it poetic prose or metered, each can put you into a trance, if it: relaxes your diaphragm, your breathing, if it prepares you to journey (to connect dreams to reality and march toward them, or wish that you had), if it opens up the brain, affects you, brings to you some missing elements, fragments, long lost by the soul: then it is a worthwhile poem for you-: let yourself be the judge, all poems are not structured, or worded for ever mine, they are like, counselors, not ever counselor is made for ever client.
A Song to Creativeness It is a joy to live in these great times, with life at last grown to its utmost consciousness- remolding the world to its fulfillment.
Happy be one of those who feel the thrill and movement of this flow, whose mind and hands are busy with great works of this day with creative pageantry...
No: 3118 (10-8-2011)
Source...