Moved

This blog now lives on in a website of mine: lit.iajrz.com
Este blog ahora vive en un sitio web propio: lit.iajrz.com

Cosmic Tantrum

Utter quiet.
Not the animals of the night, falling asleep
not the animals of the morning, still stretching
not the gales of autumn
not the rains of spring.

It is, perhaps, a signal.

--

   in the midst of quiet

a pungent feeling of sadness broke the last piece
the last pillar
the last binding

an ancient five-year-old's face scrunches
mouth contorted into an awful grimace
fists close
air rushes into the lungs

and the fit starts

--

The animals of the night,
the animals of the day,
all takes flight.
The very trees are shook, their bark torn apart in an effort to escape.

The gales blow in, then out
rain falls, then turns to mist
    a crack opens in the floor, and hell abdicates
  ghosts, ghouls, devils- all beings crumble in horror.

--

   in the midst of chaos

reality melts into order
pieces shift into new places
    the universe
        has bent.

the face relaxes
the fists open
the grimace fades
breathing slows

and then life starts.

Untitled (gone)

Fellow's really weird, see
he swam offshore --
no one has to choose an option
we all have to make a choice

He chose to swim away
(swim, how fitting)
swim away into the night
to an island close by
He could've burnt the world
he could've had his way
fellow's really, really weird, see:
he swam offshore instead

He packed his looking glass
and a packful of lenses
and some hollow sticks -- bamboo
built this silly, clumsy thing
to see all that he'd just left

Offshore onto an island
where he sits and just looks back
burns his dreams in wide, green leafs
gives his words unto the sea

Gazing through his looking-stick
blurry past and future lives
islands all that can be gone to
others never to be had

In a way it's all in plan
in a way it's all awry
mist is now his sole companion
on the cloudy, too-cool nights

And he always truly wonders:
what of life would it become
if he only swam a little
if again he went offshore
fellow's really weird, see:
'cause he knows he could've known

On the morning the smoke signals
on the afternoon the bottles
on the night the signal fire
looking always for an answer
from his self-imposed exile

Nostalgia II

Thinking of walking
in the sand
And the way the footprints would get erased
by an errant wave splashing white

forgetting, then
the beach from the dream
the feel of the breeze
the time of the day
the name of the scene

a brief pain,
gut wrenching, but soft
like a caressing wind soon gone
knot raising to the throat
stopping halfway

why am I nostalgic?
what am I remembering?
what did I forget?
it is not raining, so, why-
why are my cheeks wet?

Nostalgia

A shadow
among the lights
came, unbidden
and caressed his face
summoned his tears
wiped them off tenderly
and with a clear laugh
a smile
an echo
resumed its stay
among the memories.

Untitled

Yes, there were gorgons
and they were fierce
and walked behind the unseeing wanderer, the lost one.

And shadows of voice came in and out of existence
and the lost one reached out
touch, voice, soul, hope and desperation, craving for company.

Heavy thuds and the lingering question:
what is this, why is this?
can never there be a touch upon my shoulder, quiet in my soul?

And the shadows of voice were left behind,
stilled,
and the road was made, by one and three, a garden of statues

the bait, unknowing
the huntresses, goading
and a trail of cold solitude soon to be forgotten in the grand scheme of things.

3600

Un suave y constante martilleo en el ambiente.
Las capas de polvo engendran del éter, de lo imperceptible, y hacen tangible el paso del tiempo.

Entre golpe y golpe se van sellando destinos, se hacen los caminos predilectos, las trayectorias incorregibles.

Un grupito de casillas efímeras, se escapan entre los dedos a la vez que se juntan a un lado u otro de la balanza, según las inclinemos. Y no es si no hasta que hay una montaña que se hacen obvias, ineludibles... Y nuestra postura necesita, pues, de justificación.