Grammar Lesson

Will it be nouns

or will it be verbs

who choose to sing

escaping their cage?

Break away!

Crawl? 

Walk? 

Run?  

NO!

FLY!

Be the baby bird who

one evening

lifts wings, flutters,

floats up, high

flaps and reaches

feathers full,

turning and looking

to land

somewhere new,

some place wonderful.

Hold it.

Grasp the instant.

Be the noun and

be the verb

be the same, but seeking,

rolling, now alighting

on a branch,

near a flower,

rhyme or fall, 

beat in time.

Lift your song

and once again,

call and fly.

Amazon.com (a poem)

Package at doorstep 

means you, excited,

scurry up wooden steps.

News: your red

plastic Halo Megablocks

arrived, finally

lifting gloom

to forgotten heights.

Play!

Play as long

as you can.

Play, but also

sing to them,

leave no note,

not one,

held inside 

unsung.

Sing!

Let your red

Halo song symphony

burst out of nothingness,

divine in delight

each figure making

something out of nothing,

in your mind,

with energy sublime.

Clatter

I'll just admit:

wind is harassing

my little red shack.

Trembling, it cries,

and sounds like

a big baby rattle

(an object made,

I do believe,

to mimic some

ancient sound) 

It’s not unlike

the insanity

of endless ideas

clattering my

eyes and ears,

fingers and tongue

to collaborate

and re-create

the simple echo of 

what I’ll just admit.

The only truth, ever

At times I learn

no truth for whole days

until my boy insists

that I listen. 

Floating, sinking and

floating again

in his sound, his voice

the stories invade,

heroes in conflict,

dramatic dialogues,

no pauses:

bit rather

action and action.

I listen.

I float 

in his voice,

repetitive, 

so excited,

dense in detail.

My heart slows,

dances in little 

somersaults

amongst clouds. 

Only then do I

release tiny sighs,

open my fists,

smooth the frown

stare at his moving lips:

Only then do I

see.

How real we are

in the stories we tell

no matter the fiction

from which they spring.

No longer the quizzer,

the teacher, 

the disciplinarian.

I am the listener

the only truth

I need to remember, 

ever.

Poesía

EN LA BRECHA

José de Diego

¡Ah desgraciado si el dolor te abate,

si el cansancio tus miembros entumece!

Haz como el árbol seco: reverdece

y como el germen enterrado: late.

Resurge, alienta, grita, anda, combate,

vibra, ondula, retruena, resplandece...

Haz como el río con la lluvia: ¡crece!

Y como el mar contra la roca: ¡bate!

De la tormenta al iracundo empuje,

no has de balar, como el cordero triste,

sino rugir, como la fiera ruge.

¡Levántate!, ¡revuélvete!, ¡resiste!

Haz como el toro acorralado: ¡muge!

O como el toro que no muge: ¡embiste!

Love, polished and pure

On the whole

your love is good,

pure and polished.  

But say

on the school yard

your son does bad

action one day

-like- perhaps hurting another,

maybe too brusque for taste,

too boy in the moment

embarrassing you,

or perhaps, worst

exposing imperfections.

So you withdraw

symbols of love

-like- eye contact,

caresses,

silly smiles, voice

and he cries.

He sobs,

begins to shake

like a child

(he is a child)

He reaches up,

to nothing,

or crouches down

into a tiny ball.

“I’m sorry” he whispers

between tears,

hoarse, paused,

then adds

“I’m scared”.

“Daddy?”

Then, only then,

do you cry

begin to sob,

to sob with him,

for him,

sobbing alone

from a hurt inside

as wide as the sky

And then, right then,

do you know

what love was,

and just what

it might become.

-Glenn Kenyon, 2010

Poeta Favorito: Francisco Alarcon

Primer día de clases

parado frente
a la teacher

apreté aún
más fuerte

la mano
de mi abuela

la teacher
se sonrió

dijo algo
en inglés

pero yo no
entendí

mi abuela
luego me dio

su bendición
y se fue

yo me quedé
hecho silla

en un mundo
muy extraño

Face Down in Warm Water

Face down in warm water

I’m a log,

ripples tickling and sun screaming;

but I’m a whale,

an old gray whale,

inert and down facing,

humming mighty melodies;

but I’m a fly

stuck in water’s tension

watching a watery spiderweb

of polygons growing, then shrinking

then growing again;

but I’m a prism

taking in light now

spewing it out then

in rainbow forms,

on a pebbly blue pool bottom;

but I’m an otter,

with offspring on my back,

turning, tugging, tipping;

but I’m a daddy

face up in warm water,

laughing in unison

with the boy

who would be my hunter.

Poesía

Un poeta favorito: Federico García Lorca



Si muero
Dejad el balcón abierto

El niño come naranjas
(Desde mi balcón lo veo)

El segador siega el trigo
(Desde mi balcón lo siento)

Si muero
Dejad el balcón abierto