Pajaros
Callados
Thanks to Alberto Garcia Zatarain
Tus palabras
amargas
me retan
cada día.
Por la
mañana,
en la cama
solitaria,
los rayos
del sol vuelan
a lo largo
de las paredes
como pájaros
de oro,
pájaros sin
voz.
No encuentro
mis palabras,
las palabras
que se escapan
como pájaros
callados.
El cuarto
brilla
con la luz
del sol.
La cama
espera en la sombra,
Silencio.
Tus palabras
amargas
me retan
cada día.
El rayo de
sol
se posa en
la mano
como pájaro,
espera un
momento largo
y después,
se va.
Las palabras
se escapan
como pájaros
callados.
En la cama.
En la
sombra.
Solo.
Quiet
Birds
Your
bitter words
challenge
me every day.
In
the morning,
In
the lonely bed,
The
rays of the sun fly
Along
the walls
Like
golden birds,
Silent
birds.
I
cannot find my words,
The
words that escape
Like
quiet birds.
The
room shines
With
the light of the sun.
The
bed waits in the shade,
speechless.
Your
bitter words
challenge
me every day.
The
sunbeam
perches
in my hand
like
a bird,
Waits
a long moment
And
then is gone.
The
words escape
Like
quiet birds.
In
the bed.
In
the shadow.
Solitary.
3/21/17
The Empty House
Off to the side
Of the road,
A deserted house
Looking onto the long plain
Of shrubs and gravel—
A
house with its share
Of
ghosts?
I want to fill
The empty house
With my emptiness,
I want to sit
In the ruined living room
And look out
At the snow
On San Gorgonio,
At the clouds marching
Across the sky,
At the peach sunset.
Watch what is full and outside
Of the walls
Of this empty house.
I am an empty house,
Standing upright
And facing the fullness
Of the outside
With eyes emptied of
Opinion, expectation
Or hope.
An empty house.
5/10/15
The Mountain/Ahab in the Desert
The hump of the mountain emerges
Out of the clouds
And recedes back into the clouds,
The layer of snow on its flank
As white as spume.
Like an adversary waiting on the horizon.
An exile, I am miles from the ocean.
Does the wind cast away the waves
The way it tosses gravel
Across the windshield?
Does the wind make it impossible
To stand on the good leg
And the wooden one?
Nature signifies its disapproval
And we draw our lines in the sand.
Is it unjust, or simply absurd,
To take it to task
For the misfortunes
That sweep us off
The good foot and the other one?
No matter how quickly I drive,
The mountain recedes into the distance
Like an adversary slipping beyond the
horizon.
Its lack of humility
Weighs on my soul.
5/18/15
Cul de Sac
The
mountains to the east
Are neutral,
featureless
In the
afternoon sun.
That is the
condition
Of this
place,
Looking
through the windshield,
At this
moment,
Looking for
certainty
And only
finding
A cul de
sac,
That place
that wakes me up
At three in
the morning,
Words
reverberating,
Threats, accusations,
rage –
The sun not
yet
Reddening
the tips of the mountains.
Close the
bedroom door,
It’s cold
out there.
My brother
calls it
PTSD.
The
mountains are heartless
And I am
alone.
My goal this
year:
Start the
motor
And drive
myself out
Of the cul
de sac.
11/7/16
The Leonardo
Mountains
I was always
a child of the city,
I always
loved the crowded sidewalks,
The old
museums and the refined culture.
In the midst
of the noise of the city,
I accepted
the silence between the people
Around me as
the price for
A life of
the mind.
But the cost
of life
Amongst the
skyscrapers
And the run-down apartments
Was beyond
my reach
And now I
find myself
Before the
brown mountains
And the
tough, green shrubs,
At a
distance from the sidewalks
And the cool
faces.
Perhaps I
truly find myself
Now in the
midst
Of the
mind’s silence.
But each
time I face
The
mountains, angular
And sharp
and blue in the distance,
I remember
the canvasses of Leonardo,
And in my
mind,
culture is
still alive
And worth
the pain
Of exile
from the distant city.
5/11/15
(The Leonardo Mountains also appeared in Cholla Needles 2017 Yearbook.)
