A yellow wall
blinks stony eyes
and smiles in red
crayon markings
at a lone face
and row of chairs.
A dirty yellow,
like leftover sun-
smeared clumps of
pasty tapioca dreams
s p l a t te r e d
on a wall.
A nauseous wall.
The yellow wall.
"Any Given Sunday"
Watching the endless swarms of people
rising early for Sunday salvation,
I wonder if the sleepy children even
begin to comprehend the truth hidden
beneath so many towering steeples
Reaching upwards towards a Heaven
unseen, unheard, yet ever present
in the hearts and minds of those who know.
The wise, the aged, the rather decrepit
followers of the good faith, though
Some believe the stairway to Heaven steep
and a bit long. An endless path to nowhere
we'll ever see, unless constant pressure
from holy sin brings down divine barriers --
so others might know Heaven through our eternal sleep.
"Imitation of Robert Frost"
The rain has just now ceased to fall
From high above the blue jays call
And I sleep soundly in my bed
As misty morning covers all.
The blue jays call; the sky blooms red
But I sleep soundly in my bed
As golden morning blossoms round
And spring emerges overhead.
The blue jays call o'er golden ground
But I, alas, hear not a sound
For in my bed, asleep, I lay
Me down, alas, hear not a sound.
The blue jays call as if to say
But why stay you in bed today
While red and golden is the day?
Asleep, alas, I cannot say!
-------------------------------
Sparkling water tastes
the fluffy marshmallow sky --
The bay bridge glistens.
-------------------------------
"Una gota de agua"
En una gota de agua
que se
d e s
l i
z a
l e n t e m e n t e
por la mejilla izquierda,
una
ETERNIDAD
de pena.
"A drop of water"
In one drop of water
that
s
l
i
p
s
s l o w l y
down the left cheek,
one
ETERNITY
of pain.
------------------------------
"Nosotros, los fantasmas"
(without proper accents etc. because apparently the system couldn't handle pasting this from Word...grrrrr!)
Quienes somos nosotros, los fantasmas, que
Habitamos en esta esfera solitaria?
Quienes eramos antes, quienes seremos
Despues de haberse acabado esta penosa
Procesion de dias, memorias y todo lo
Que suele llamarse la vida? Moriremos
Como nacimos: pequenos, frios, rodeados
Por dudas, temores y cuestiones. Todo se
Acaba en la muerte, aunque sea la nuestra o
La del mundo exterior. Sera la muerte asi
Como una vista del infinito, un nino
Perpetuo que juega, rie, llora y nos abraza?
"We, the Ghosts"
Who are we, the Ghosts, who
Inhabit this solitary sphere?
Who were we before, who will we be
After having ended this painful
Procession of days, memories, and all
That usually constitutes life. We will die
As we were born: small, cold, surrounded
By doubts, fears, and questions. Everything
Ends in death, whether ours or
That of the outside world. Will death thus
Resemble a view of the infinite, a perpetual
Child that plays, laughs, cries, and embraces us?
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