Tag Archives: poetry

Paloma

Posted on by
Reply

Cucurrucucu paloma
Cucurrucucu no llores
–Tomás Méndez

Don’t cry, Paloma, don’t cry
there is no beginning
and no ending
but one eternal
moment

unblessed, uncursed,
unaware of itself
just like you
at the edge of
consciousness

dreaming of stolen
worlds you never knew

Don’t cry, Paloma, don’t cry
everything passes
even the passing passes
until only a thing
that might be a memory

elusive, winking in
and out of existence
just like you
remains, or does it?

Don’t cry, Paloma, don’t cry,
it’s only your dream
from which you will
never wake.

Some returned

Posted on by
Reply

Some returned,
some did not.
One had lost an arm
another was blinded.
One could never
walk straight again,
and still another
could only sleep
in splintered dreams.
Among the worst
were those who went
thinking only of
good and noble deeds,
their hearts shattered
beyond repair.

Spring song

Posted on by
Reply

Spring is here
the sun rises early
and scoots across the sky
slowing only for high noon

Spring is here
the hawk patrols his highway
field mice scatter
songbirds bicker in the bushes

Spring is here
something – a flower, a tree –
pushes up through the
loose soil of a grave

Spring is here

A prayer for hard times

Posted on by
Reply

Thank you, Sister Moon,
for lighting our hearts
in the deepest night.

Thank you, Sister Moon,
for guiding the Sun
on its relentless arc.

Thank you, Brother Sun,
patient behind the rim of morning
awaiting your time to rise.

Thank you, Brother Sun,
for your terrible light
upon good and evil alike.

Thank you, Mother Earth,
for embracing the dead
we discard along with our dreams.

We children, both of
darkness and light.

Dangerous companions

Posted on by
Reply

A child finds himself wandering alone
In a forest, seeing a campfire and, drawn to it,

Finds dangerous companions, thinks,
What is it I am afraid they will take from me?

Not the place of my birth, or of my rearing,
Or the place from which my ancestors sought refuge

Not the things I’ve inherited –
Blue eyes, brown hair, big feet and a guilty conscience –

Or the illusion of permanence that is itself
The only permanent thing I know.

My life? Such a fragile thread!