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.

I Like my Nothingness

At midnight I crawl into my cold bed
And feel the joy of becoming nothing

Between the cotton sheets,
I warm a spot and disappear in the universe of the tiny

Then I don’t have any attributes
Then I’m no longer a sinner, a lover, a mortal

For an instant I’m gone
And I feel the happiness of not being.

Published in ContraExample Poetics, August 2009

Let the dead alone

Let the dead alone

Let the dead go wherever they have to go
Let them persist in their stubborn silence

The dead know what life is like but
None of them has returned from their mute dwelling

Even the ones who left love, friends and songs
Refuse to mingle with us

It seems that they despise us as night loathes the day
They have the secret, we have hope only

Let the dead enjoy their vicious peace
No more crying for them, no more lies about them

They have to rest
And we have to get ready for our funeral.

Published in Gloom Cupboard, July 2009

ADHD

Attention Deficit with Hyperactivity Disorder

I’m going to clean my desk
and buy groceries for the week, and but a letter appears and
I got to answer it. Then, a bill that I should have paid last month.
Looking for a pen, what about the check book? it
sends me to the other room
I realize that I should put
my cloths away,
meanwhile
I’ll make a turkey sandwich to ease my hunger then I notice
that some of my cloths
have to be washed. As I walk to the
laundry room
I remember that I had planned
to clean my desk today
so I can begin to write my novel
tomorrow.
I have a lot of things , oh my! I forgot to close the refrigerator
to do… but I don’t know
where to begin
I lost my list.
I read
a book about prioritizing and took two
classes about time management.
I feel exhausted and
I have not done, no anything that
I wanted to do for today, for yesterday, for my life
I want to cry
I don’t know why I can’t do the things
that I want to do
How other people do ten things while I do half of one?
Where should I start? This is crazy. Ok! No panic, I’m going to star all over again.
First I need a piece of paper,
or should I begin with
my cloths?

That’s all she has, bastards!

She has eyes to inspire poets
and a smile that generates dreams,
but she doesn’t care about the war
or people without bread,

(female chorus) That’s all she has, that’s all she is.

Her hair is bright like the sun
and her skin soft as a petal,
but she doesn’t read unless it’s Hollywood gossip
or beauty tips,

(female chorus) That’s all she has, that’s all she is.

She speaks with a divine voice as a musical instrument
and laughs as an angel,
but she only talks about herself
or her legion of pretenders,

(female chorus) That all she has, that’s all she is.

Her body is perfect
and walks with a cadence that shakes men’s balance,
but she simply aspires to be a beauty queen
or a rich housewife socialite,

(female chorus) That’s all she has, that’s all she is.

Pretty woman you have all the beauty and all the charm,
men fall for your glamour, women envy your splendor,
we know that’s all you have.

But we don’t care!
We want beauty no brains! It’s in our genes,
it’s our nature calling for the reproduction of our specie,
it’s our sexual duty!

(female chorus) That’s all they have, that’s what they are.

A new story

I wrote this little story a few years ago but it was just published in BorderSense, Vol XIV Summer 2008.

A taste of the American culture, by Carlos Ponce-Melendez.

The day was gorgeous and according to a reporter in the television the weather was perfect for a trip to the park o for a political protest at Capitol Hill. Miguel finished his breakfast in his room very fast, took the advice of the reporter and walked from his centric hotel to the Capitol Hill and the White House. “It’s very nice but I thought that the White House was bigger, I don’t know how it can hold the ego of some of the presidents, any way I’ll brag with my friend that I was with the President of the United States, ha, ha. It was his first visit to the United States and he wanted to see as much as he could of the capital. Some friend had recommended him to visit the museums in Washington, specially the Smithsonian complex. With a tourist’s mind he estimated that ten minutes would be enough time to eat a burger and drink a coke, “after all that’s the reason this is the capital of the fast food restaurants in the world and that’s exactly what I need now and I’ll save some money to have dinner in a fancy restaurant, who knows I may see some big shots” thought the visitor. Miguel got into a Cowburger and looked at his wrist but his watch wasn't there. “!Ho my God I lost my watch! My expensive watch and it’s my status symbol in Montevideo. I have to find it.” With a methodic mind he began to remember when was the last time he saw his watch and where, he retracted his morning activities and he recalled that he took his Rolex to change the Montevideo time for the Washington time when somebody knocked at the door,
-“Who is it?” Asked Miguel.
-“Room service, sir. Your breakfast is here.” Said a bellboy.
Miguel opened the door and went to look for his wallet. He was feeling happy and a good tip was in order.
Miguel smiled, thinking that his expensive Rolex was secure at the hotel. He got in line to order a burger. “How stupid,” was thinking Miguel; “how could I forgot my watch?.” He decided to ask someone the time, he was determinate to eat a burger, drink a soda and use the toilet in ten minutes or less.
-“Buy a watch.” Was the answer that the old lady behind him gave to Miguel when he asked her for the time. “Hum, she must be one of these crazy people who should be in a mental institution but live on the streets. Well, I hear that in this country they leave the mentally ill people on the street in the name of freedom and they save a lot of money at the same time”- thought Miguel.
-“I don't have a watch.” Was the answer of a telephone repairman to the same question. The fact was that he did have a watch so Miguel thought maybe the man didn't realize it and told him:
-“Excuse me but you have your watch.”
The man didn't say anything and left in a hurry without letting Miguel to say anything else.
Not wanting to think that he was being discriminated due to his accent he approached a woman with a Hispanic look and told her:
-“Excuse me, can you help me?”
The woman smiled and asked Miguel
-“You aren't from the States, are you?”- Miguel felt relieved, at least a human being.
-“No, as a matter of fact, I'm from Uruguay, you know, from South America and I'm vacationing, I arrived yesterday and...”
-“Oh- the woman interrupted with a broad smile. How interesting, I have a friend who is from Madrid, that is close to your country, isn't it? She has been here for thirty years but she still has the Spanish accent. I don’t I was born here from parents that were borne here, you can say that I’m more American than the hot dogs. But I would love to travel to Mexico, it’s where my grandparents came from but long time age, just image my grandmother was seventeen! Of course, at that time people used to marry so young not like today. You won’t believe it but I have a nice who is getting married next month and she is already thirty three!”- Without giving time to answer she asked:
-“And how is that you speak English so well?”
-“Well- answered Miguel- I studied a degree in England, but...” feeling that the conversation was eating his time for lunch Miguel asked the hazardous question:
-“Could you tell me the time?”- Before Miguel had finished the sentence two things had happened; 1- the woman changed her facial expression from sweet to irked, 2- she walked away as fast as a greyhound and got onto a bus in motion even when she must have been at least seventy years old and the bus was at thirty miles per hour. Obviously he couldn't ask her about the offense he had committed.
Miguel checked his cloths, the zipper of his trousers, his hair. Miguel asked himself- What is so wrong that people cut me off in such a rude way? It can't be discrimination since all morning I have had only pleasant experiences with Anglos, Blacks, Hispanics, Asians. It's only when I ask the time that people get upset. Feeling afraid of asking again, Miguel decided that it was better to miss an hour at the museum, he was afraid he may be breaking a law or insulting people so he went to his hotel to pick up his watch but he found out that his golden Rolex had disappeared. He looked all over his room several times but it was useless the he couldn’t find his precious watch. Even for the wealthy Miguel, to lose a 10,000 dollars watch was too much. After he complained to the hotel administration he went to the police department to file a report. When he finished with the administrative procedures it was nine fifteen and Miguel was emotionally drained. Instead of trying to visit one of the restaurants that he had selected as worth enjoying he went to his room and spend the rest of the night watching talk shows. As a result of that incident Miguel lost the opportunity to visit the Smithsonian Museums and the next day he didn’t wake up on time and lost his flight to Dallas where he was supposed to meet his friend Marcos.
Miguel got so upset about those incidents that he took the first plane he could, made some connections and got back to Montevideo. A few days latter Miguel wrote to Marcos excusing himself for not showing up at the airport and explaining the reason. He also told his friend about his strange experiences each occasion he asked for the time. Several weeks after that Miguel had almost forgotten his trip when he received two letters, one from Marcos and another from the American Embassy in Uruguay. Miguel opened first the letter from Marcos and he learned the mystery of the time in the United States. As a result of lawsuits, Marcos said, nobody wanted to tell the time to another person. According to his friend, there had been a rush of lawsuits involving people asking for the time and latter suing the time giver for mistakes in minutes or even seconds. The plaintiffs would say that as a consequence of a few seconds error they had lost their jobs, business, husbands, wives, children or soap operas and the result was a strong depression for life. Some lawsuits resulted in millions of dollars in favor of the complainer.
Miguel found it was hard to believe and a feeling of relief invaded him, at least he was safe in his house and he had lost only ten thousand dollars. He opened the second letter expecting to find a report about his watch. Instead he found an American Embassy legal document that stated:
To: Miguel Mancilla.
Mr. Mancilla, this letter is to inform you that during your trip to Washington, an employee, of the hotel Rex, Mr. Jim Dole, stole you watch. However the time was incorrect and as result of that, the employee lost the opportunity to watch the first part of the Super Bowl. That action has resulted, according to Mr. Dole lawyers, in terrible suffering for him and his family, humiliations and accusations of being anti American. This is the first time in seventeen years that Mr. Dole hasn’t been able to watch the Super Bowl from the beginning. Even when he watched the replay later, the feeling it’s not the same for a true American. Therefore, Mr. Dole has sued you for $ 3,000,000 and this embassy has started the extradition procedures with the Government of Uruguay.
This embassy doesn't condone Mr. Dole theft. However, we feel that his action is no excuse to submit him to the painful treatment that he and his family have received as an effect of your inexcusable negligence. We want to notify you that Mr. Dole has agreed to pay you a hundred dollars as a compensation for your (used) watch and the judge thinks that that is a fair reimbursement since Mr. Dole has almost no criminal record (our privacy laws don’t allow us to disclose the 18 convictions on record for Mr. Dole).
I want to let you know that previous cases of this kind have almost always resulted in favor of the plaintiff and, you won't be the first Uruguayan citizen to be extradited for committing this kind of crime in the United States. We inform you of these facts, in case you may prefer to settle your case with Mr. Dole outside the court. He generously asks for just $ 1,000,000. Sincerely, the First Secretary of this Embassy, Ben Rogers.
PS. I’m including some brochures of San Francisco and San Diego for your next visit to the United States, you’ll find coupons to pay half price of a coke when buying for a new Rolex (our computerized system allows to know that you may be buying a new watch very soon). I’m sure that you’ll be interested in visiting those exciting cities and learn more about American culture.

Three new poems

I'm happy to report that three new poems are going to be publish in the 2008 Anthology Voices Along the River. The first one; Sunday, received honorific mention.

Sunday

It’s like we are nothing.
We feel, we think and we sing
but only for a few years.

The rest of the time,
an infinity of eternities
we don’t exist.

In cosmic time we are next to zero,
less than a dream, practically a memory
And we don’t know what to do next Sunday.

Are you full of yourself?

One day you feel full but you don’t know full of what.
You think about bread, wine, love or hate,
But your heart and your mind don’t let you know
Anything more than you are full.

You think, you ask, you guess
But the answer is elusive.
Then, one night you wake up
And realize that you are full of yourself.

You are too much you, too predictable, too conventional
You always think the same things in the same way
You always look the same and taste the same
You are boring and trapped
You are extremely you
You want to have other experiences but you don’t know how.

It doesn’t matter if you stop working
And move to the mountains or the beach.
Even a new god and a new country feel the same
Because you are still you.

Drinking, praying, psychoanalyzing,
Are the next logical steps
But you come back to being you again and again.

After a while you get tire of trying to escape
And accept your flaws and limitations.
Then you begin to live in harmony
With your nature and your soul,
Then you are no longer full of yourself.

I see all the cosmos from my window

The rhythm of life reverberates:

in the cadence of a jogger,
in the texture of a leaf,
in the aroma of rosemary,
in the cry of a baby.

Everything moves with mathematical harmony.

I can see life passing by from my window:

two drunk men fighting with discordant beats
and the siren of police cars filling the air
creating the musical background
to the human drama of wasted love.

Poem Published in KARAMU, Spring 2008, Vol. XXI, No. 1

Sorry but I’m still here

I can’t donate my organs,
I have cirrhosis, cystitis, and diabetes.
Father Joe says I’m a bump,
My ex swears I’m the devil, my children call me the Zero.

I’m part of the scum that productive people wish to erase.
I drink wine but I prefer pure alcohol,
I also take drugs when friends hand them to me
But I don’t smoke because it’s bad for my health.

I know most of the jails in Texas
And some in Louisiana,
But I fancy the ones in Oklahoma.
They are cleaner and they give you salsa with your meals.

I tried rehabilitation a couple of times
But it didn’t suit me, I got sick.
Now I live from your garbage in your backyard
Although most of the time you smell me but you don’t see me.

Sorry if my odor stuffs your joy
And my appearance shocks your pets.
Sorry if my existence infuriates your god
But I’ll be here until my love dries.

A new poem

I was honored to receive an honorific mention in the contest "Awaken the Sleeping Poet Festival." Here is my poem.

A Dream House

When you were here
My house was built with dreams

When you died, you left the door open
And my dreams fled behind you.

Now my house is just a stack of stones and wood
Where a television fills my brain -
With bastard dreams that I don’t desire.

Note. The picture is from the internet.

More Poems

This poems were published in the journal 63 Channels, Fall & Winter 2007.

Self portrait by Carlos Ponce-Melendez

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 perfect and matches my intrusive eyes
While my whole look defies definition

No perfection here, just a human portrait,
While my soul shuns any encapsulation.



Vain by Carlos Ponce-Melendez

I didn’t know I was so vain
But a power mirror showed - on my own face -
An ugly blemish.

Where yesterday youth used to reign
A shabby skin is now plain - who wouldn’t complain?
Making my skin the source of my own disdain.



We are dead by Carlos Ponce-Melendez

A man is a composite of chemicals that breaths for a while,
And pisses everywhere wishing for eternity.

A man digests other organisms into litter
And feelings into ideas of unclear use.

A man creates music and weapons
Poems and poisons wishing for love
without realizing that he is essentially dead.

Another Poem

A window to my past (3rd Place, Voices Along the River. Antology 2007)

I wish I had a window where I could see the sun,
the moon, the sea and the forest.

In that window I would see you
I would say hello but you would not hear me
because you would be picking up flowers for me.

Exotic birds would make fragranced music
and blind butterflies would kiss you.
I would hear the music but also the silence of death.

I wish I had a window where I could see you
the way you were before your died,
always signing, always dancing.

I wish I had a window, any window;
it doesn’t matter if I couldn’t see the sky or the sea
as long as I could see you.