Two Poems

 What a man really knows



A man is his family, his city, his generation


A man is a name, a face, a color, a social security number


A man is the books he reads, the jokes he remembers, the lies he says.


A man is his food, his lovers, his enemies
A man is his memories, his opinion, his gods
A man is what he really knows; nothing!


You can change but…



You can change your clothes, your job, your house,
You can move to another country, find a new lover, embrace a different god.

You can get a new odor, another philosophy, refurbish your face,
You can switch your gender, reform your conduct, reinvent your past.

You can act against your interests, your consciousness, your passions,
You can change many things many times and become a new creature; almost…

Because you can’t change your qualms or your dreams
And that’s who you are for a cosmic instant; until the universe reclaims your dust.

Published in Out of Our, Year 2, Volume 8, November 19, 1010

La Tele

Efectos televisivos

La humanidad esta atrapada,

ya nadie cree en el azul,


la gente no habla del mar,


los amigos ya no comen juntos.


Los poemas mueren,


los pueblos viven en sus celdas,


los hombres han vendido a sus dioses


para comprar televisiones.

What if...

What would hapen if one day you wake up and find that you don't like anybody at all? And after several days and weeks you still don't like anybody, you don't hate them, you just don't like people at all. What would you do?

Death

Don't worry about death, it'll come sooner or later, worry about your life, it's not easy. 

?

Being wise is being forgetful
_______________________________

It’s so easy to see the mistakes in other people and so hard to see our own faults

__________________

 

I love to love but I don't know how

__________________

I think...

Me la pase pensando

Me la pase pensando

Pensé que vivía

Pensé que amaba

Pensé que moría

Pero nada sucedía

En mi monótona vida

Todo eran pensamientos

Que solo en mi mente sucedían.

My conscience weighs too much and I got tired of carrying it.

For writers only...

Write more, think less.

With my imagination

With my imagination      Poems published in http://www.blazevox.org/



With my imagination I created galaxies and heavens,
Destroyed millenary gods and created others that nobody loved.
With my imagination I finish dictatorships and tyrannous,
Created marvelous and perfect utopias and made the past and present happy.
With my imagination I had more lovers than any sultan,
More wealth that all the kings together and engendered hordes of saints and wise men.
With my imagination I died and revived at will
Wrote all the poems and novels and forgot to hate my enemies.
With my imagination I finished time and matter,
And turned myself into a poem.
 
Depth


In the depth of my soul
Putrid doubts
Eat my useless god.
Everything is an existential error
Nothing is true but my secure fear
Even you are just a dead lie.

Writing

Writing is always an expedition into your own soul. Most people don’t want to go there because they are afraid they may discover their core is depressingly dull.

Hay que necios son los muertos

My bank

My bank.

I want to open a bank. A bank of poems

A bank were you could deposit a poem

And take out as many poems as you would like,

No penalties, no interests, no fees.

________________________________

By the way, I think that such bank alredy exists. The Internet is such a rich place to find all kind of poems. And it's great to be able to chat with other poets.   

Two more poems

I'm very happy to share two poems that were published recently in Blood and Thunder, a journal from the College of Medicine of the University of Oklahoma, I hope you'll like them:

The waiting room   (Published in Blood and Thunder, Issue 10, Fall 2010).

blue as the wait,

full of bodies, full of hours, germs and old magazines

but above all full of wait is the doctor’s office


a simple door separates

despair from hope

but it takes an eternity to pass the wooden barrier.


meanwhile the bodies have to endure the

smell of drugs, body fluids and death


the organs emit sounds of pain, worry, regret,

vows of behavioral changes, religious promises

and wishes for mountain air


however the bodies have to wait

for answers, miracles,

while their circular thoughts and

desires return as flies to illnessless times


as the minutes and the hours pass

the bodies have time to dream with a power doctor

who would liberate them from the pain, from the fear

that the wait has enlarged


If at least the pain would wait too…


All I want is Celebrex        (Published in Blood and Thunder, Issue 10, Fall 2010).



I love horses, the sea and the stars

But I can cope without rides, sailing or watching the sky

Yet, I can’t live without the prosaic Glucotrol for my diabetes.



I would like to read more poetry, travel to France, make corn bread

And teach small children how to dance,

But today my only desire is for a pill of Midrin for the bounce in my head.



My happiness in life was growing roses and walking on far away beaches,

Now I would change all my scarce treasures

For a dosage of the strongest Celebrex to ease agonizing joints pain.



I love to love, I love to live, I love to give,

But I can’t enjoy anything while my body dies

And my worldly possessions aren’t enough for the merchants of relief.

El Amor

El amor   (published in The Ill Octapus, January 2010)

El amor es de los que aman

El odio es de los que dejaron de amar

La indiferencia es de los que dejaron de ser amados

La tristeza es de los que olvidaron como amar

Y la estupidez es de los que no saben amar

Fact

You can't move a mountain if you have a pebble in your shoe.

Calaveras

                                                                              Mexican Calaveras.

Calaveras are short poems that mock the life and death of celebrities. This is a Mexican tradition and it's relevant in November 2 because it's the Day of the Dead. Here I include a Calavera that I wrote for Sara Pailin.  

Sara Pailin


Con palabras empalagosas
Sara Pailin quería reclutar
A la calavera tenebrosa
Para su campaña electoral.

Pero la calaca sabrosa
No se dejo engatusar
Y a la Pailin y a su Tea Party
Al panteón se llevo a votar.

Hoy Sarita en el infierno
A los diablos anda alborotando
Con promesas de mejoras
Por lo que Satán ya la anda expulsando.

Vivir

Se puede vivir sin amar pero no se puede amar sin vivir.

Pensamiento

Dios conce mi sed de ternura.

With my imagination

Two of my poems that were published this year:

With my imagination  (Calliope, Issue #129, Fall 2010)


With my imagination I created galaxies and heavens,
Destroyed millenary gods and created others that nobody loved.

With my imagination I finish dictatorships and tyrannous,
Created marvelous and perfect utopias and made the past and present happy.

With my imagination I had more lovers than any sultan,
More wealth that all the kings together and engendered hordes of saints and wise men.

With my imagination I died and revived at will
Wrote all the poems and novels and forgot to hate my enemies.

With my imagination I finished time and matter,
And turned myself into a poem.

Self portrait        (Calliope, Issue # 129, Fall 2010)



Squiggling lines try to define my confused face
While my eyes, pathetically, search for meaning.

My Picasso mouth speaks the truth even when there is none
While my prominent nose destroys any hope of beauty.

Dissident hair covers my forehead and my doubts
While my parabolic ears capture more banality that I can bear.

My skin color is crude and matches my intrusive brain
While my whole looks defies definition.

An honest self portrait; no perfection here,
Just a human variation with a tragic soul.

Hay que necios son los muertos

Hay que necios son los muertos       por Carlos Ponce-Meléndez




Hay que necios son los muertos; Callan,

Pero nos dejan saber sus deseos con sus recuerdos.



Son como invitados que no quieren irse;

Dejan fotografías, canciones y recetas para seguir presentes.



Con sus memorias nos regañan, nos dan un beso

Y cuando queremos capturarlos, nos evaden y se van.

Mini cuento.

Le dio tal diarrea poética que en unos cuantos días tapo todas las editoriales del país.

Time to come back

It has been a long time since I put my last entrance. Enough! I'm going to feed this child more frequently. I hope some people would read it.