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Tuesday, December 10, 2013

Yolanda 

Lucky. That was what I was.
Or so I thought.
I met a tormented woman
possessed, a hungry lion
who has stalked for weeks,
salivating, expecting,
ready to devour an innocent prey.
Even the mighty sun
cowered in fear and hid
among the clouds.

Lucky. That was what I was.
Or so I thought.
I had a stable crown
above my head,
thick barriers to shield me from her wrath
wrought from years of neglect.
But I miscalculated her strength.
When she unleashed her fury,
no roof was strong enough.
Glass shattered and flung like bullets.
Trees older than time were uprooted
with every uttered curse.
Thick walls began to wail
and crumble to pieces
as she lashed her tongue.

Lucky. That was what I was
Or so I thought.
I was several stories high,
far from the clutches of her arms.
Until her pregnant waters surged,
ready to purge whatever was in its path.
Birthing waves upon waves
that crept like a sickle would
unwanted weed
until there was nowhere to go
but the guts where my city lies.

Lucky. That was what I was.
Or so I thought.
Like a mother avenging a slain child.
She spared no one! Men, women, children.
Strong, weak, wicked and the meek.
I grabbed a post as the waters
rushed to where I was.
Unlike Noah fighting a tumultuous storm,
I couldn’t save anybody but myself.

Lucky. That was what I was.
Or so I thought.
I was caught in raging waters
that ate, consumed everything.
I caught all the debris earth had to throw away.
I was battered and wounded.
I did not surrender.

When her fury subsided,
I stepped on muddy ground
only to find men and women
strewn and sprawled lifeless.
I heard moans and screams
of healthy men now limbless.
A woman screamed her child’s name,
man grieved for her dead wife
and a child cried for parents
nowhere to be found.
It was then I knew what I was.
Lucky!

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Wednesday, November 06, 2013

A Child Rhymes 

One, two, tie my shoe
good shoes are for 
a chosen few

Three, four, shut the door
trap all blessings and throw them
on the floor

Five, six, pick up sticks
whip the voodoo man and fix
tangled web of lies and poo poo mix
his amazing bag of tricks

seven, eight, no one's straight
it seems we'll be alone at heaven's gate
judgment day, I cannot wait
greedy politicians took the bait

nine, ten, a big fat hen
is all I need to show you then
the bunch we call august men
a plague of piggy thieves 
wallow in a pen

rolly

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Tuesday, July 31, 2012

MASTER PLAN
 


A can of oranges is nothing
but oranges in a can.
There are no apples,
bananas or prunes,
not tomatoes 
or even potatoes 
picked  in the early 
days of June.

That is the master plan. 

They say that no one
can bear fruit but of his own kind
for after all, a grape shall not grow
from a different twine.
Nothing good shall come out 
Of the bad.

That is the master plan.

And so a man of crime
cannot sire a holy one
nor a woman vile 
produce a saintly nun. 
For that has always been
the master plan.

But whose may I ask?
What have I done
to be cursed or blessed
by seeds I know not?
Who willed that nothing good
can come out of the bad?
Paper comes out of wood
fine silk from tiny worms.
Cyrano makes words sing
in spite of a nose that stings

What plan is there except one
created by fools.
I know there is no such master plan!

rolly



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Sunday, April 29, 2012

Open Doors 

I have gone through doors.
Some opened wide, all I did
was enter only to find nothing.

 Some were shut tight
I had to knock several times
before I could go inside
 not knowing what lies ahead.

 Some I had to force my way in,
 to sate my senses emitted by flowers
 of red , white, velvet yellow or pink;
or a rainbow so clear that I can see

the end and claim my pot
of metal or ore; open my eyes
to snow-capped mountains,
birds singing atop a tree,

butterflies fluttering about;
dancing mermaids or flashing fairies,
find delight in life’s surprises.
Turn the knob,
open the door and hope
it does not open to limbo or hell.

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Wednesday, April 11, 2012

The Reunion

 

Nothing has changed since I left
Not the old tree in front
of the gate they closed at five.
The tree we climbed to enter
the school,
so we could be alone,
talk, cuddle and kiss.

The white bench where we sat to watch
fiery glow of setting sun,
my signal to hold your hand,
put my arm around you,
hoping you would not resist.
Caress your long, soft hair
blown by the gentle breeze ,
gently kiss your reddened cheek.

Time stands still as I listen to the chimes
still singing to announce
it is time to pray the angelus.
A prayer we used to share
while I gazed at your young, innocent face.

And then you arrive

The hands of time spin as quickly
as the blades of a running motor.
Your heavily made up face,
accented by thick, red lips
heavy mascara and plump body
remind me of my flaws
now weighing on my shoulders.

Tree has gone dry.
Its leaves withered by the summer heat,
bench is dirty and rusted,
chimes now play a different tune.
We have gone old and the years
have not been kind

rolly

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Wednesday, March 14, 2012

Sacred Ground 

Seeing leash on my hand
he wags his tail excitedly

after I attach the leash on his collar
Yogi jumps and pulls.

“Calm and submissive”
Cesar Millan used to say

But Yogi does not watch TV.
All he does is bark, sit and play.

I take him to the park
where he begins to sniff.

What it is, I cannot tell.
But once he reaches a spot,

he frantically goes to and fro
as if finding the X that marks the spot.

He goes round in circles
with nose to the ground

while sticking out his tongue.
It must be some sacred ground.

Then he stops,
concentrates as if in prayer,
and poops.

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Friday, March 02, 2012

The Room

 

I hear little drips the leaky faucet makes
amid violent silence of the passing night,

silent as blank white paper I hold
rendering my pen inutile
muted by random thoughts running in my head.

How I long for that crisp laughter once more,
or those soft murmurs of sweet nothing
you whispered in my ears
while you caressed the tiny lobes
with your soft gentle touch

I’d rather listen to your rants
with every squabble we’ve had
over the minutest details
or inconsequentials.

This room heard your moans,
these four walls saw your warm embrace
torrid kisses, and the unity of our flesh
bear witness to the ecstasy we share

is now your prison.

Not a single wall could mistake
your agony for ecstasy.
Not your closed eyes, clenched fist
or pale face. This is not what this room
is used to seeing.

I hear the leaky faucet
in time with the IV drip.

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