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.