the lovers
in their arched window
memories of stained glass
are oblvious
the wreckage of cathedral
the sweep of a lake
into distant sky
one man's grief
is not for their eyes
devouring each other
the silk of soft kisses and words
the silences between
they are safe
his head
in her lap
her hands
protective
the war
is far away
in the mountains
and forests
but tomorrow
riding snakes of green trucks
they will travel
north
and south
both dressed in green
clutching AK47s
remembering
the lovers in the cathedral
and the man
and his grief
whisper prayers
remember the streets
at night
rich
with children's voices
and the crack of bat and ball
locked cobbles
weaving a pattern
beneath running feet
and the stars
tonight
perhaps
the stars will light his son's sleeping face
hammock strung
by a bridge
or his body
still
in the mud
tommorow
perhaps
there will be news
from esperanza
tomorrow
perhaps
there will be the end
or the begining
of hope
(nicaragua 1987)
i saw her in nicaragua
i saw Her
in nicaragua
in a tree standing
at the edge of earth
as it fell away
to hills distant in the darkening night
i saw Her
at the end of a day picking
rich red
coffee berries
on slopes sly
with rain
i saw Her
the slivered moon's horns
and a single star
like a jewel
tangled in the branches of Her hair
I saw Her
many arms of living wood reach out
to embrace all of the world
that was Her
the rolling-sea-wave-hills
that were Her
the sweet smelling night
that was Her
i wrote a poem
not this one
and sent it to someone
who would understand
but it was lost
along distant threads
leaving only the invocation
i
to
goddess
a poem never spoken
i saw Her in nicaragua
and wrote a poem
not this one
they lie
the water was not soft
a wall
one hundred miles
north to south
one hundred
and fifty feet
to heaven
a movement
of earth
sent it
water
not soft
it is said
that life
is valued less
in countries
where death is
familiar
but
perhaps
the tears have just
dried up
have been cried so much
that they have dried up
and they blow
like dust devils
in somalia
perhaps
or
perhaps found
a place
here in this water
one hundred miles
one hundred and fifty feet
and salt
and bitter
at masachapa
the bodies of fifty children
were washed
ashore
still
lifeless
the bodies of fifty children
and more
taken
and returned
by a wall of tears
and many swallowed whole
so
what need for weeping
on an already drenched shore
dictatorship
earthquake
revolution/counter-revolution
hurricane
and this weeping wall
of water
not soft
that cries
for all of the tearless world
for one nation
not broken
but
the mother
whose daughter
lay twisted flotsam
on the beach
the father
who searched for the bodies
of children swallowed
by the sea
wept
salt
and bitter
it is said
that life is less valued
in countries
where death is
familiar
but
they lie.
Poes�a: Poetry in Spanish Return To Home Page
