Thursday, June 1, 2017

Cholla Needles, Issue 5 (2017)


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.)