Cathedral of War

The chants
They blow the gilded wall
Up a holy staircase
Like Ants
They sing and then they crawl
Through a murrey daze

The lore
They praise it thoroughly
Unknowing of their bliss
A corps
Is cleansed fraternally
By death's eternal kiss

Cathedral of war
Praise the dead
And those who have bled
Cathedral of war
Worshipping fear
They might disappear

The locks
That chain them to their God
Bids them kill for their cause
Like rocks
Boots unbearingly shod
A thundering applause

The glass
The sad colored painting
Depicts heroic fraud
The brass
Religiuosly singing
Bound to sing and maraud

Cathedral of war
Praise the dead
And those who have bled
Cathedral of war
Worshipping fear
They might disappear

The Swing

When we were young, my brother built a swing. Like any worthy childhood craft, it was made entirely out of scratch from a wooden board he found laying around and an old laundry rope that had sat unnoticed in the quiet shelves of the garden shed ever since mom had deemed it unworthy of supporting my father's heavy duty pants. From the window, I watched my brother cross the lawn cradling it in his arms the way he would eventually come to hold his daughters many years from then.

Slung over one of the sturdiest branches of the guayabo, the swing swayed lazily in the afternoon breeze, beckoning us to it with its slow, hypnotic rhythm. My brother stood before it, gangly arms akimbo, and surveyed it with the look only comparable to that of a quality control inspector. Once he had found it appropriate, he proceeded to squat down into it, pulling slightly on the ropes to check for their sturdiness. Taking a deep breath, he fixed his gaze on some point in the horizon and yanked the yellowing mecate as he pummelled into the first swing.

After a couple of seconds, I saw him fall back into place. My name suddenly rang across yard and I hurried away from the sink were I had been furiously scrubbing the oatmeal pot. He motioned me to push him; I dried my hands on my cutoffs and took my position behind him.

He was a year older than me, but that summer I had grown so tall I towered over him whenever we stood side by side. Oddly, he never seemed to mind his sister looming five inches over his head. At school, this came in handy when it came to scaring off anyone who tried to pick on him for capturing bugs during recess to examine them inside the little glass mole jars. I guess that for someone whose peripheral view allows him to put more things into perspective, this fact appeared highly irrelevant.

As I stood pushing him on his makeshift swing, I began to grow tired. Sensing this, my brother piped up that I should do it harder. His screams grew in the same crescendo as the force I put into each shove. With a new and irritated resolve in my blood, I put my whole strength into one last mighty push that could have sent him higher than any swing he had ever sat on, had the rope not snapped in that precise moment. Stupefied, I saw him soar through the air in a slightly awkward arc before he landed with a sickening thud on the ground, smacking the nape of his neck on the edge of the wooden board.

Round green eyes looked up at me before turning into two slots of mortification when he discovered he was bleeding. Wailing, he got onto his feet and stormed across the garden, hand clamped tightly to the back of his neck.

Although my mother pulled my ears so hard I worried it might fall off, my brother was back to normal in a week. He received six stitches and a rather rowdy haircut, but other than that he was fine. After I snuck some chocolate from my dad's secret tin up to our room and placed it under his pillow, he was back to making me cardboard pinwheels and kites pieced together from scraps of tissue paper. Although he even got to make our baby sister's birthday piñata, he never came around to building another swing.

Forty years from that August day, my eldest niece still maintains I pushed her daddy off the swing.

poema 1

POEMA NUMERO 1 .
La noche cae sumisa al atardecer sin aliento
cálido afluente cañaveral  sucumbe al recuerdo de días añejos e insaboros
por que  por amores te pienso y por desventuras amargas te olvido mi amada nocturna
en dulces mañanas de anochecer decidí callar entre suspiros tu nombre agua miel ,

 suplicio andante tus caminos en los que el sol se perdió cuando las gardenias danzaban
y la luna blanca te arrullaba en sus brazos celestes , solo el árbol amigo del ocaso te mira te espera
mientras el ruiseñor enamorado retoma el vuelo  agita sus alas entre aromas  a rosa jazmín al son
 de aquel corazón que te ama sin premura ala sombra de mi ventana….

 Entre tu divina belleza perdí mi nombre o fino linaje de primavera entre tus jardines mi inocencia
Y entre tus sublimes brazos de anhelo mi ser……

Shelob la araña II

cuando
vino
la a
raña
ara
ña tu
ser, tu
mira
da a
cono
cer tu
ira

Tormenta Perfecta

Tormenta que no para
Revoltosa
Tremenda
Huracán que condena

Volcán que arde
Temible
Terrible
Lava que llueve

Lagrima cayendo
Destruyendo
Sintiendo
Agua enloqueciendo

                                   -JPA

The 1%

Poetry makes me sick
all inclinations are dead
art is a thing of the past
now it's al nickles and dimes
Maslow must be proud
all basic need acomplished
alll beauty abolished
under the federal shroud

MUERTA

Al despertar los ruidos una mañana fría
me arrebató la muerte lo que yo más quería.

Oh muerte insobornable, de inflexible guadaña,
que siegas el palacio al igual que la cabaña.

¿Por qué no cortas sólo la cosecha madura,
las mieses agostadas, o la maraña oscura?

¿Por qué arrancas el árbol joven y florecido,
pisoteas las rosas y destruyes el nido?

¡Qué suprema injusticia tratar de igual manera
al niño balbuciente y al viejo que te espera!

Y un día inesperado sigilosa llegaste,
sin llamar a la puerta... y me la arrebataste

aún brillando en sus ojos el intenso fulgor
que reflejaba el fuego de su primer amor;

y aún reciente en sus labios el calor de los besos
que otros jóvenes labios la dejaron impresos;

y aún resonando el eco vibrante en sus oídos
de las palabras tiernas y los dulces gemidos.

Y tú me la llevaste, cruel y caprichosa,
antes de que pudiera ser madre o ser esposa.

Tú apagaste sus ojos y helaste su sonrisa,
y la arrancaste el alma, que se perdió en la brisa.

Yo te maldigo, muerte, porque tu mano siega
tanta vida temprana con inclemencia ciega;

porque en los rudos giros de tu lúgubre danza
asesinas las almas y entierras la esperanza.

¡Cómo siento tu ausencia, cómo me invade el frío,
cómo el mundo en mi entorno parece tan vacío,

tan inútil, tan lejos, desde que tú te fuiste;
y cómo me he quedado tan dolorida y triste!

Sólo la dulce imagen de tu gentil belleza
aligera la enorme carga de mi tristeza.

Pero cómo me faltas, y cómo yo te añoro,
y cómo noche y día te recuerdo y te lloro…


Fue al despertar el día, que sus ojos durmieron,
cuando los ruiseñores su canto enmudecieron;

Fue al despertar el día, cuando una noche oscura
se me instaló en el alma, y abrió mi sepultura;

Fue al despertar el día, cuando una lluvia densa
me inundó con el llanto de su nostalgia inmensa.

Pero yo ahora te pienso como un ángel callado
con eterna sonrisa que está siempre a mi lado.

Y al sentir que la brisa juega con mis cabellos,
sabré que es la caricia de tus manos en ellos...

My Dear Shell

Oh my!

How I try

Would you please die?

I'll be your bestest friend

I'll even give you cake

Wouldn't you call that a break?

What did you say?

No cake?
My dear the cake is not a lie
When you're about to die
What would the point be?

Its impossible can't you see?

                                           -Yes its him again... THAT GUY... JPA

I didnt write this but I liked it

I am thankful for...


by Nancie J. Carmody



...the mess to clean up after a party

because it means I have been surrounded by friends.

...the taxes I pay

because it means that I'm employed.

...the clothes that fit a little too snug

because it means I have enough to eat.

...my shadow who watches me work

because it means I am out in the sunshine.

...the spot I find at the far end of the parking lot

because it means I am capable of walking.

...all the complaining I hear about our government

because it means we have freedom of speech.

...that lady behind me in church who sings off key

because it means that I can hear.

...lawn that needs mowing, windows that need cleaning and gutters that need fixing

because it means I have a home.

...my huge heating bill

because it means that I am warm.

...weariness and aching muscles at the end of the day

because it means that I have been productive.

...the alarm that goes off in the early morning hours

because it means that I am alive.

Dictation

You have spoken an evil tongue

You have known power

to which you have clung

I am he who giveth

I am he who tells

the tale of Macbeth

I condemn you, foreigner

I condemn your life

and your pitiful mourners

You are the son of evil

You are deceitful lore

clouded by slim veils

Know what awaits you

Know what lays

Behold! Kthuluhu

                           -JPA