Somehow, someway, some time, and somewhere

Long ago, ancient man (often called Ape),

Went from sub-Homo, to Homo, in one big leap;

There was this defining gene, with rapid wings,

And man reaped the benefits, from its seed—

And Intolerance, was maimed, and man gained,

A whooping, and romping, and stomping, enzyme,

Which broke down lactose (a main sugar it contained??)

Going through its brain, –all in all, man now,

Hand a survival rate, or advantage as they say:

And the population grew and changed; next

Came Adam and Eve, and a deadly seed: Caen!….

Commentary ‘Changing One’s Style’: One can call “Monkey Jump…” a lyric poem, if they wished to, and they’d be right, or perhaps, a short Ode, celebrating mankind from one point to the next, which is really an ode/Lyric poem in essence anyhow; or an Elegy, a poetic lament for the dead or absent, in this case, the missing link between them and us, or Man’s climb to whom he is. If indeed it was a climb. In two of my previous stories, one now in book form, “After Eve,” and one unpublished, thus far, called “The Fable of Big-chest (although on the internet)” I try to produce I suppose this missing link, in these stories, as in the poem “Monkey Jump…”one can see it transpire if they read both stories. The point being, poetic fiction can be divided up into historical novels, or stories to make novels, and different types or styles can be used. Poems come in many types of genres, and poets should take advantage of them I do believe, utilizing what they know the best, and not simple write what is expected, such as, and too often I believe confessional poetry, can be this draft of wind. As good as it can be, and I love reading it, poets get stuck in one mode, and every poem ends up reading like their others. An opinion.

“What’s in a name? that which we call a rose
By any other name would smell as sweet;”
-Shakespeare
“Romeo and Juliet”

Is a poet still a poet even if that person wears a bandanna, sagging pants and shoots expletives like bullets? Who determines the recipients of the title muse? When you think of poets, do you envision laureates like Robert Pinsky, Reed Whittemore, or Gwendolyn Brooks? How about Mos Def, Talib Kweli, or Tupac Shakur a.k.a 2Pac?

It’s about time that this generation acknowledges the ground breaking work of great M.C.’s, lyricists, or rappers like Shakur. The poems and quotes by 2Pac have enlightened a generation of youth. The gift he had to evoke passion, his sense of timing, and relevance to today’s world can not be denied.

Forward thinking college’s like the University of North Carolina, UCLA and Syracuse have registered that literature is a living, breathing, ever changing beast. Studying, Lil’ Kim to get a perspective on male chauvinism is feeding the minds of today’s youth and challenging preconceived notions of what poetry is. Classes that study the poems and quotes by 2Pac are learning translate the urban tongue into the “King’s English”. And they gain a deeper understanding of urban life.

What can we learn from the poems and quotes by 2Pac?

“First ship ‘em dope & let ‘em deal the brothers.
Give ‘em guns step back watch ‘em kill each other.
It’s time to fight back that’s what Huey said.
2 shots in the dark now Huey’s dead.”

“Learn to see me as a brother instead of 2 distant strangers, and that’s how it’s supposed to be.
How can the Devil take a brother if he’s close to me?

I’d love to go back to when we played as kids, but things changed, and that’s the way it is.”

This is the rawest way of expressing the plight of so many communities facing this harsh reality.
Tupac is able to resuscitate empathy and compassion in those who would otherwise not care. It is easy to see that his desires and dreams are not that different from any other man’s.

I have read many poems and quotes by 2Pac. This quote from when he was alive sums up his views on how he wanted to be pictured, “”I feel like role models today are not meant to be put on a pedestal. But more like angels with broken wings”.

This by no means glorifies the violence, bigotry, misogynism, & pornographic, lyrics that are prevalent in today’s music. It is there because it is a reflection of life. And not all of it is deep and moving. Sometimes the mood is lifted and it is time to party.

2Pac and Dr. Dre collaborated on the club banger “California Love” to demonstrate that hip hop is not all about guns, drugs, racism and violence. Although, at a time when relations between east coast rappers and west coast rappers were deteriorating rapidly, some say that the anthem was a akin to giving the east coast the middle finger. Such is the politics of hip hop. One man’s expression of pride in his hood is another man’s diss.

The east/west coast feud reminded me of another great conflict in literary history. The Montague’s and Capulets would certainly understand the enmity between the two coast. Because they understood the power that words have. Our past power might sound differently but it does not lack the ability to raise your consciousness, tug at your emotions, and challenge your views.

Deep Sad Poem

Some sad,

some lonesome days-;

old friends dying of this and that!

Some killed in the war, some waiting, some not.

Kids left me long ago, no reason to return don’t need me anymore.

Lost a job not long ago, got sick, everyone knows felt empty, worn.

Wish mother was still alive, no fake skies!

So many friends turned rotten-deep in the gut, I sensed something’s

coming, and it did, an earthquake.

Some sad, some lonesome days-; fog coming in off the ocean, summer’s

gone, gone for another season.

Trying to stay away from arguments, fights

Too old, too near the end of my plight

A lot of bullies in the city, the world, everywhere, behind desks in bars

and cafes-don’t care

hard times everywhere, that’s been, kind of my life.

Wish I could smell the fall leaves burning in Minnesota, my hometown.

But I’m too far away-in Lima, Peru (wish I was in the mountains now)

in the grooved valley-

My brother, is already there-I keep-moving to it-

Keep your distance friend-

I seen too much now under six feet of gravel

Been listening too long to the blues,

Stopping for gas, and getting apocalyptic gifts

No way to close my mind, filled with clouds and bushes

Guess I really don’t care- some sad, some lonesome days they come

and go

Uncertain as the weather.

I hear

the song birds twitching

In my gardens, they haven’t left me, yet!

The dirty pigeons leave twigs all around, nesting by the window, a mess

This city never sleeps (day or night), eight-million in all-yet empty

Wish I was back in the mountains, perhaps soon-

I don’t regret much, can’t wait for a new book to read, it’s the only

thing on earth, honest with me….

I quite driving in this city, too many cars, exhaust

They all hate my honesty -too much, it bothers them

I walk around the house half naked, but I don’t care, it’s creative

and liberating

better than swatting flies or telling lies and gossip

So many memories & some hard to live with, can’t go back, or hide

Too much dirt on the road, too deep the bedrock underneath, just be

prepared to live or die-

Love, love-empty-some harmful-

But it’s everywhere I look; it comes and runs, leaves like a fish-

If it doesn´t hook you, it gets hooked; if it hurts, its self-defense

Kids call when they think you’re going to die, and write your will

blameless they feel-and years pass

Its too late now, love, love it came and gone, left like an old warn out

song (for the children)

Uncertain as the weather.

Some sad,

and some lonesome days-

So I’ll tell my maker when I meet him on that special day!

No dime stores left anymore, only my unwise temper remains

The sun doesn’t follow me anymore, left it behind.

Left it in Minnesota along ago, with my youth, but I got along.

Rosa’s my sidekick, don’t need a wife, so I found out when I woke up,

even under

Uncertain weather.

The Woman

In the midst of moon lit snow covered mountains
under star filled skies in cool night air
hiding behind the beauty of the universe
a woman cries softly in the corner of a small room
drenched in sadness she tracks melancholy footprints
through the souls of those she touches
she does not mean to, but the hurt is there
those that have hurt her are there
and so she sobs softly.

She cries until there are no more tears
and when there are no more tears
she returns to the strong image
that she has always portrayed to others
Not realizing that others feel the same
Not realizing that she could reach out
But she can’t

The loveless marriage, the frightened children
they are but a mirror of her own life
and to shatter that mirror would be to shatter herself
She longs to shatter herself, this image, this facade
But this mirror is what holds the entire reflection of her life
She is afraid to let it go

To let it go, to see it shatter
would be to not know what she is
She is pain and while she no longer wants it
to not have it is to not understand
what the last 10 years of her life have been
But in that sadness in that small room
she breaks a pact she had made long ago

She is no longer a woman that doesn’t deserve
As time has progressed so has she
and she knows the time has come
With mascara stained cheeks she gathers her children
from their beds and dresses them quietly
This will be last time she cries in that small room

Leaving with her children in each hand she looks up
and realizes that for the first time in a long time
she is not separate from happiness
and that happiness was there all along
if she had had the courage to live it

No longer hiding behind the veil of the universe
Under a star filled sky in the cool night air
In the midst of moon lit snow covered mountains
She realizes that without the man who ruled her
she is complete
She realizes that without the man
she will never feel alone again.

The Potato Patch

One day—oh, I suppose I was, say ten,

I asked my mother to ask my grandfather

For a garden plot—, somewhere in our

Backyard:

And somehow, she got him to agree—;

Twisted his knees, perhaps—I don’t

Know—but the Old Russian Bear

Was hard to please…!

It wasn’t a garden to plow or hoe,

Just a patch, a little plot in the backyard

By the fence: that’s all.

And there I planted my first garden—

Potatoes….

It was kind of neat (so I thought), hidden

From anyone passing by; until I found out

Potatoes grow underground—

(not on top), and yes, it was

A mess, thereafter: digging, weeding,

Watering.

It seemed the season would never end,

But I did stick with it; and then came the

Day, the great day, to pluck those

Potatoes from their abode, and to show

Them to my mother and grandpa:

I was quite proud.

And when I did, when I pulled those

(roots and all) potatoes—from

Under the earth, I was devastated to

To find out: the eyes were bigger

Than the potatoes.

Traumatic I took it at first, I think

I even cursed

Advice? I have none, but I’ll tell you,

I never tried to grow potatoes again.

Note: #1183 1/31/2005; the year this story took place was perhaps l958.

IN SPANISH

Translated by Nancy Penaloza

El campo de papa

Un día-Ah, yo supongo que era, digo diez,

Yo pedí que mi madre pidiera a mi abuelo

Un terreno para jardín- en algún lugar en nuestro

Patio posterior:

Y de alguna modo, ella consiguió que él aceptara;-

Doblando sus rodillas, talvez- yo no

Se-pero el viejo oso ruso

Era duro de complacer…!

No era un jardín para arar o azadonar,

Solo un parche, un solar pequeño en el patio trasero

Por la cerca: eso es todo.

Y allí yo plante mi primer jardín-

De patatas…

Yo era en cierto modo ordenado (entonces pensé), escondido

De cualquiera que pasara cerca; hasta que descubrí

Patatas crecer debajo de la tierra-

(No en la punta), y si, esto era

Un desorden, de allí en adelante: excavando, desyerbando,

Regando.

Esto parecía la estación que jamás terminaría,

Pero yo aguante con esto; y luego vino el

Día, el gran día, para arrancar esas

Patatas desde su raíz, y para mostrarlos

A mi madre y mi abuelo:

Yo estaba casi orgulloso.

Y cuando lo hice, cuando yo jale esas

(Raíces y todo) patatas- desde

Debajo de la tierra, yo estaba muy triste por

Descubrir: los ojos eran más grandes

Que las patatas.

Traumático lo tome al comienzo, yo pienso

Aun lo maldigo

¿Consejo? No tengo ninguno, pero yo te diré,

Yo jamás trate de cultivar patatas nuevamente.

I love you in the morning

When you take me for a walk.

Even when you stand around

With people, when you all talk!

I love you in the afternoon

When you give me my first meal.

And even though its beef, or lamb

I don’t want you to buy me veal!

I love you in the evening

When we lounge and watch TV.

You in your armchair, me on the sofa

Casualty – who cares, as long as you’re with me.

I love you in the nighttime

When you let me roam the place.

And if I feel a bit insecure, or lonely

I visit your room to look at your face.

I love you all of the time

Because you are my wonderful Mum.

And you look after and protect me

When you’re with me – I’m never glum.

I’ll love you even more and more

Until my life is through.

But until that time, I know I’ll just

Keep on loving you.

A poem about man’s best friend the dog, about loyalty, devotion, friendship, companionship, trust, love, and caring, and about what a dog would say if he could talk. This is inspired by my mum’s dog Jasper, and his devotion to my mum.

Advance: “What am I missing,” I asked myself, “perhaps nothing,” I answered my second self. Then I said, “…let the actions about to happen, happen!” Who besides God, knows what is missing in one’s life anyhow?” a rhetorical question at best.

“Perhaps it is the path I am looking for,” I ask myself; the one that very few find. Perchance I should worry about bridges falling, instead of trucks coming to save me. O yes, you are not aware of the riddle of the dream yet, not yet anyway, and then you will understand what I am saying here.

Dreams are like clouds, some grow heavy inside of you; some have thunder and go away; still some are like rain that drives you here or there. Some wipe out boundaries, others bring you a great harvest. But there are also shadows and riddles in dreams; windows that quickly—afterwards—disappear into thin air, but nonetheless they are there (were there), for a moment or two: like seashells, with an incoming tide: in a moment’s time, the outgoing tide will wash them away, back into the sea where they came from, some will be left on the shore, some I say, part of the riddle I would guess.

We are really but a guest inside our own bodies on earth, and conceivably, in the next world. Like guests I say, like those seashells we were talking about: thus, for a moments time, on the shores of your dreams we can be left likewise—I’d guess; rising and falling with the tide (fantasy has its own face, like salvation and ghosts, death, all with a satisfied desires, a truths, secrets lingering).

But let’s leave for the country where the dreams are born, and the riddles live. There the skies are always bright or dark, not much in-between, and the moon rides on a silly donkey, and the world on a fat shelled turtle. Here, poems are made to touch the secrets of the mind, as the mind hurls out dreams when it wants to tell you—in a less harmful way—those secrets. Maybe you can dream a little when you read this, so the riddle suggests.

The Poems:

I had been driving on this highway, in my car, I must had gotten tired
When I awoke, I found myself stalled was on its curb (somewhat);

I had slept the night away (or so, that was my best guess).
Thus, onward I went, straight ahead, leaving behind, whatever was.
Where I was going besides straight ahead, I ‘m not sure of, just going.
Then I found myself on this transverse (crossroads) of sorts; again
I found myself crossing them, and heading (it would seem) north.
I went under these bridges, and the farther I went, the deeper the mud

until that is, until the car could not move: hence, I abandoned the car.
I looked about, I looked forward to continue my journey but it was not

to be, the mud was too thick, for man or car to move about in it

freely…!

I looked back; I had gone too far to return, I’d not make it, too exacting

and I was too exhausted.
I looked at where I was at: here—it was not possible for me to remain—

and survive that is (plus where was I? I didn’t know).
There were truck tracks all about, several feet thick, and the road

several lanes wide.
“What can I do?” I said, bridges over head, “What truck could ever drive

through this?”

All this I was facing, a dilemma if not a riddle—I tried to escape this dream-

vision, but it would not fade—go away.
So I had little choice, but to stay where I was at, and somehow the riddle

told me to wait, be patient, but action is what I was used to.
The riddle said: “Remain where you are (for man does not live on bread

alone)) does he?))”
Then it occurred to me, beyond my realm of reason—there is less

limitations,
And so in my mind I created a multi dimensional truck, one that could

pass through all this damn mud, one that could reach
Beyond the tops of the bridges without damaging a thing (possibilities).

I’m still waiting under that bridge, perhaps when I wake up and write this

out, more possibilities will surface;

Perchance, just by waking up, is a possibility, and solves the riddle.

Perhaps the only way to find out the secrets, are in one’s sleep.
Maybe we are the seashells waiting to be pulled back into the sea, the

Universe, where we came from…more possibilities.
Whatever, or is it wherever the answer lies, we are in the middle I do

believe, and the riddle has told me: “…there are more possibilities.”

If you are looking for an Inspirational Poem that shows an understanding of what a mom has to deal with, this is the one. Every mom, young or old, knows this by heart and can only hope that her children will understand when they grow up.

“You don’t love me!” How many times have your kids laid that one on you? And how many times have you, as a parent, resisted the urge to tell them how much? Someday, when my children are old enough to understand the logic that motivates a mother, I will tell them.

A MOTHER’S LOVE GOES DEEP

I loved you enough to insist you buy a bike with your own money that we could afford and you couldn’t.

I loved you enough to be silent and let you discover your handpicked friend was a creep;

I loved you enough to stand over you for two hours while you cleaned your bedroom, a job that would have taken me fifteen minutes.

I loved you enough to say, “Yes, you may go to Disney World on Mother’s Day.”

I loved you enough to let you see anger, disappointment, mistrust and tears in my eyes.

I loved you enough not to make excuses for your lack of respect or you bad manners.

I loved you enough to admit that I was wrong and ask your forgiveness.

I loved you enough to ignore “what every other mother” did or said.

I loved you enough to let you stumble, fall, hurt and fail.

I loved you enough to let you assume the responsibility for your own actions, at 6, 10, and 16.

I loved you enough to figure you would lie about the party being chaperoned but forgave you for it after discovering I was right.

I loved you enough to shove you off my lap, let go of your hand, be mute to your pleas and insensitive to your demands…so that you had to stand alone.

I loved you enough to accept you for what you are, not what I wanted you to be.

But most of all, I loved you enough to say “no” when you hated me for it.

THAT WAS THE HARDEST PART OF ALL.

Florencia

The Hidden Underworld Kingdoms of the Amuc
[An Andean Peruvian Account]

A Prose Poem

Prologue: There are many kingdoms that have come and gone on earth, throughout written history, mostly documented, but there is only one kingdom, that has come, and has not gone, that has existed for eons, it is the Hidden Kingdom of the Amuc, which consist of actually four kingdoms, somewhat interconnected; but it is not on the surface of the earth, it is in the crust of the earth. I have talked to many people in the Andes, and villages, and minors, and old timers, they all believe in them, some have saw them, others were legends to live by. Some say they have blond hair, others say they have steel wings, and are a foot tall. I first head about them in 1999, when I first came to Peru, and went to the Andes, and then I came back every year since, nine times to Peru so far, and the year is still 2006, at least for another six weeks. Anyhow, I bought a house in Lima, and one in Huancayo, in the Mantaro Valley. And then I purchased an adobe hobby farm of sorts, in the Village of San Jeronimo de Tunan, and this is when it all started. I mean this is where my story actually originated. I don’t expect anyone to believe me, but I shall nonetheless, give you the account that took place.

Close to my property, which is about 6000-square meters, with tall adobe walls surrounding the land, perhaps three feet thick, with several small dwelling within this enclosure, is where I lived on the weekends; an old Church (1539 AD) called St. Sebastian, nearby, up the dirt road a bit. There one weekend in the month of August, I was carving out a garden in one section of my land, by one of the adobe dwellings, and I found a statue, it was carved into the liking of a midget size king, but much smaller; at the time I thought it was a goblin, but I am not in Ireland, I told myself, and it was not a fairy, although it could have been, perhaps it was something in-between, like one of those Amuc people I heard about.

Oh well, let me get on with the story: the adobe foundation to my property was build about 130-years before I had bought the place, it went through the Pacific War, the one between Chile and Peru, about 1879 to 1883. So I thought it to be a statue of a grave marking of some sort. And it was, but it was not of the war I talk about, it was of a great Amuc that once lived. Oh yes, now we are getting into the real heart of the matter, are we not. Well, that is why I call this story, an account because that is exactly what it is.

So let me go on with the account: I dug deeper into the ground, in the silenced of the night so no one would be the wiser, twilight is always haunting and worth a good dig, and eerie it was, and it really made the spell of the digging more enchanting, smoke like figures even crossed the moon, and moonbeams shot (so it seemed), shot right down through the porthole I had made in the roof over my dig, and my head to give me light as I dug; the shadows swept like lotus—to and fro—over the gray ebbing clouds above the crown of my head, it was a warm evening, to say the least. I had even added adobe walls around the dig; thus, it was a structure now: twenty feet deep the hole was, with a rope ladder attached to the adobe walls, tub by tub for three weeks I dug and brought up dirt from the hole, piled it here and there, little mounds everywhere in my yard. Woops, I forgot to tell you, I found a gravestone, of a man, and it read in Quechua (one of the oldest languages of earth). It read,

“King Niobla, of Remora (the West Kingdom) scornful heart he had, and a wicked laugh for all, he stole me for his child bride, and killed my brother, father and stirred his wine with his bones; it was best for us all he be where he lay, for I had him killed one summers day: my king of the West Kingdom of Remora, now in his dull grave; let him rest in Hell, as not to contaminate those who live beneath, lest we be his salves.” 642 AD His un-grieving wife: Florencia of Drabmol (The North Kingdom)

As I dug deeper, the walls started crumbling, that is when I found the coffin of the king, and when I opened it, he did have steel like wings, as if angelic, but they were laid to his side, perhaps he felt he could fly, they were attachable. He was no taller than a foot or more, perhaps fourteen inches, in all. And he still had his skull attached, to his neck, and deep-rooted socket for eyes in his head. I was at this time, twenty-two feet below the surface, and hence, I dug another week, another ten feet, slowly, now thirty-two feet, then at forty-feet, I found a tunnel, and it went downward, but it was cramped, I am 172-pounds, and five foot, eight inches tall, not tall for today’s, primates, but tall for the average Peruvian, and a giant according to the corpse and statue I had found. As I pushed my way through these skin tight walls, I was scared I’d be buried alive, but with a flash light I saw a few hundred feet down further (in front of me), where an item in the dirt lay, when I got to it, it was a hat, for a small females head, then I noticed foot prints, small, but I could make them out to be footprints. I was starting to push my body backwards, I had had enough of this, air was thin, and I was scared, and cramped, and going ahead I saw would be more difficult, for it was even thinner, how would I make it. Then (and I must say, there will be a lot of ‘then (s)’ in this story), I heard behind me the crumbling of the walls, I couldn’t turn around, and it would be most difficult to go forward.

I did have a little shovel with me for digging; it was what I had been doing for three to four weeks now, so why not try to dig my way through to wherever the tunnel led me to, or rot where I was, and then I saw a little woman, beautiful as could be, faintly she appeared, and this is were my story comes from, not sure if I dreamt it, or was told it when I was passed out, or whatever, but when I woke up I was back outside my tunnel, in the shack I had built around the hole, it was as if I was pulled out by my feet, my shoes were off, my ankles had red marks around them.

[Opening: to the Dream]: it was in the time, perhaps the 7th century or so, a time when the kingdoms of the Mantaro Valley were captured by the Wanka Warriors, and Unishcoto, and Arwaturo along with Wariwilca were just being inhabitant (now old ruins in the Ville), it was a time when the little people, known as the Amuc, lived underground in four kingdoms, the Northern Kingdom, the Southern Kingdom (remote and small, not a fighting kingdom for the most part), the Western Kingdom know as Remora (once the most dominate of them all), which was part of the Eastern Kingdom, yet the Eastern Kingdom was the mightiest of all the kingdoms of the Amuc’s underworld at this given time, and each had its separate kings. Remora feared the Northern Kingdom, of Drabmol, and under battle, they had lost more lives, yet these two kingdoms were not completely tested to the point of one was dominating the other.

1

King Dnusirut of Drabmol (of the Northern Kingdom), accepted Prince Niobla of Remora, as his guest, he was visiting the kingdom, at his father’s request, to ensure peace was still abreast with this barbarian tribal kingdom of sorts, and at the request of King Nitsuj, of the East. But the Prince had brought up a sour issue, said he:

“I would like to take the dagger that killed your son in battle back home with me as a trophy of my conquest in battle.”

So he told the king in the throne chamber, and with tears in his eyes the king bowed his head in sorrow, but said, “Yes, I understand, it is your right of conquest.”

The war between the two kingdoms was stopped prematurely, when the king from the East told all, he would take both kingdoms from both kings should they not make peace, and it was a threat he could fulfill. Now, when the request had been made, it happened to be, Prince Dnumiunc was nearby listening, and went historical into the center of the room, said he in no pleasant manner:

“He was my brother—father, do not give him the dagger he cut the throat of my brother with.”

The father looked weary indeed, but what could he say, “Son,” he said in a humbling manner, “…oh my son, Prince and someday to be king of this land of the North, you must keep its traditions and customs, it is like particles of the peoples blood that goes for 100,000-years behind us, we must give it or be shamed, now say no more, I am already disgraced by your mouth, go and hide from my eyes…!”

“Disgraced from this mad-god that has no courage, he should have taken the knife out of his heart when he killed him on the battle field, why now…why now does the slayer come to do what he could have done before?”

Oh yes, there was heat and hate, and venom coming from the body and the mouth of the uncouth prince. Said the king with a sigh, “Say no more, lest I have you removed from this room, and that will be to your dishonor, it will be as I said.”

And that was the last words that came from the tongue of the contempt prince.

2

It was in the hallways Princess Florencia of Drabmol was walking, and she was the flower of all the kingdom, most beautiful, more so they say than Cleopatra, or even Helen of Troy, and when the Prince of Remora saw her he stopped, caught his breath, wide-eyed, said, “My gosh, who are you, a stunning beauty among these Barbarians?”

Said she with her head held high, “I, my young and obnoxious Prince, am Florencia, and I dislike you more than my brother, who scorned you in the throne chamber, now leave me pass!”

Oh, he would not move, not for love or money, king or land, he would not move, he made his stand, “I will have you, you will be my bride to be…you will be in my bed, and bear my children.”

“You insidious, obnoxious creature, how dare you speak to me like that, I am a Princess, and you will never have me, save my father will slay you first.”

The Prince, looked about, “And where is he, your father, and who is he?”

“His name is Prince Dnumiunc,” said Florencia.

“Oh yes,” said Niobla, “Him, I suppose I will have to slay him as I did his brother. Perhaps, once I am king, then we shall see who fairs best in war and battle, with the sword, and without King Nitsuj’s help, we would have you under our heel, had it not been for He.”

“So you say, but I think not.” Rejoined the Princess, “You would have been our servants, is more like it.”

“I see you have a mouth like your brother, so be it, I will tame that also, and put you under my loins, and make love to you, and you will wish I would never stop.”

“I have no lover, but if he were you, I’d cut your throat, or mine.” Exclaimed Florencia.

Then all of a sudden Prince Dnumiunc appeared, said he with hand to his sword, “Why do you talk to this vulture?” he asked his daughter.

“It was I mad prince of Drabmol, I stopped her and asked her whom she was, so I am at fault, not her. But she is beautiful, give me her hand in marriage, for my wife, or I will take her anyway, as a mistress.” Said Niobla.

“You are an infection to this kingdom, and you have out used your curtsey of being our guest, I hope you are gone by morning, I would love to put my sword into your heart, and I need very little reason more.” Said the Prince Dnumiunc.

“I am sure your sword and skill are as dull as your wit and words, hide your sword and save yourself, by giving me your daughter while you can.”

Having said that, the scourged and love hungry prince dashed off to his room.

3

[Nine months later] It was by the night they came, and through the princess’ window they bound her, and took her back to Remora, Prince Niobla was now king.

Said King Niobla, to his captured mistress, Florencia, “You will lay with me one way or the other.”

“I will not willingly, nor do you dare, my father will war with you, slay you.” Said Florencia, nervously, yet trying to keep her composure.

“He must know you are with me by now, where is this father of yours, he is not knocking at my door, I see him not (he goes to the window, it is morning in his land, looks out it, then looks back at Florencia, his eyebrow goes up, he smirks).”

“You dare not…!” repeated the princess.

“Do you think for one minute I have gone through all this, to not have my hunger met?”

“You dare not, my father will….” Reiterated the Princess.

“But I do dare, I will drink your father’s blood someday, will drink it with my wine and mix it with his bones, time will show you it will be so.”

“My grandfather will war with your kingdom, and we almost tore your armies to shreds last time we battled,” said the princess.”

This was true, and the West, feared the Northern barbarians, but the new King would have his mistress nonetheless, and make her queen, one way or the other, or have her live as his mistress, like it or not, and he threw her on his bed. And it was that way for three months, each night, every night. He could not get enough of her. And then it came to pass, he was called to attend a meeting in the Eastern Kingdom, by none other than, Prince Dnumiunc, and King Nitsuj, and to bring Florencia along. Oh it was maddening for the new King Niobla to do so, but he heeded the King’s command from the East, lest he lose his kingdom be lost, and Florencia—and he was no fool.

4

King Nitsuj, sat on his throne, as Prince Dnumiunc stood in front of him, and King Niobla, likewise, said the old king, King Nitsuj, “You have taken a princess out of a kingdom, and spoiled her, what do you have to say for yourself King Niobla?”

“This is true,” said the new King, “and the heart sometimes cannot stop itself, I love her with all my heart, and I had to have her. I requested she be given to me, but her father has venom in his tongue, and blood because I killed his brother in fair battle, as all wars have battles, and loses, and now he wants revenge, and uses his daughter for this; had I not asked for the dagger I cut his brother’s throat with, he’d have given her hand to me in marriage perhaps.”

“This is no reason to take what is not yours in battle. You did not win the war, you slay only a man, a prince, not a princess, you are guilty, what should be the judgment on a king who takes another kings granddaughter, what would your judgment be?”

“I want him dead!” bellowed Prince Dnumiunc.

“And what do you say to that?” asked the presiding king.

“Let Florencia decide what is to be done with me.” Said the accused prince.

King Nitsuj, looked at Prince Dnumiunc, “And what do you say to that?” he asked.

Said the angered Prince, “So be it, she will cut your throat, and your private parts off,” and he laughed with a vengeful grin.

At that, the old king had Florencia brought out, and she was asked what would be her judgment on king Niobla. She hesitated, so her father said, “Have him killed, Florencia, you hate him as I do.” But she could not speak those very same words.

“I must think of this a while,” she expressed, “perhaps a week would do.” Her father held his breath, a sigh came out, it was tension, and he was flabbergasted.

“I am with child, do I slay its father, and then tell the child when he is a young prince, ‘I killed him because he raped me?” All looked at her indecisiveness.

Said the old king, “It must be settled by you now, or I will make the decree…” and he murmured her indecisiveness.

“I cannot make the assessment today, it must wait.” Said Florencia.

“So be it,” said the Eastern King, adding, “you will have the right to join King Niobla at his kingdom, or your own, but should you choose his, you will be wed, and made queen. Should you choose your father’s kingdom, in the North, you will be Princess, and do with the child as you please. That is how it will be.”

And so it was, and Florencia picked out the Western Kingdom, and King Niobla wed her as his wife, and adored her beauty, but hated her insults, yet for some reason he did not revenge those insults, but played with them with wit, for amusement. And they had a daughter, and the king was not happy, perhaps as most kings, they want a son to hand down the throne to, yet he accepted this fact, and adored her all the more, for it kept the Queen in place. He used it, now and then, off and on, when she got too unruly, he’d threaten her with the child, saying in so many words: he’d take the daughter away from a mad woman as she, and have her placed in some far off outpost of the kingdoms.

(Often I have choked within my dreams, to awaken just in time to regenerate, and I asked God to reveal its source, and he did

Onoskelis, of beautiful form, female demon, concubine to Beelzebub; her body of a woman, fair complexion, legs of a mule, I caught her knitting knots within my dreams and commanded her to yield, and she obeyed, with the seal of God, within my being, and I commanded her to speak: “I am a spirit,” she said, “that has been made into a body. I make my home in caves, and have multi-personalities that lead me into fits of rage wanting to strangle men, at times perverting them from their true nature. I prefer, honey-colour skin, for we are of the same constellation. Many deceive themselves, in thinking I am more than what I am, and excite me to be an evildoer, beyond revenge: I come from the Black Heaven, by way of an echo, emitted from an unexpected voice-I came out of its matter. The moon is my time to travel, when it is full.”

Then I asked, “What angel thwarts you?”

And she said, “The king.”

And I addressed this a second time, by saying “Tell me the truth, and for your offence I shall bind you in chins!”

And she cried to the High Heavens, “I do not lie, it is the King of Kings!”

So I called out the name of the Messiah to bind her might, night and day, to make her powerless to enter my dreams, to smash her spinning hemp to numb my fate within her hands, as not to strangle me, or any other man.

No: 2600 (4-26-2006) Note: when I went to the Easter Islands (6/2002), the spirits were after me, thinking I was going to bind them in chains, and they made it rain, and thunder, they were restless, and sent a crazy woman to my cabin to spy one me, to find out what my intentions were: I ended up confronting them, and they confronted me. They live in the caves and the rock dwellings, the volcanoes throughout the island. The spirits are very much alive between the three heavens, earth, and the underworld.

The Cliffs to Torre Torre

(Huancayo’s Envy))Peru))

Prehistoric Geological Monument near Huancayo

Tall up by the cliffs, in the township of Huancayo, stands

A cluster of piercing stone like pillars, lightening rods

From the Ancient-gods, with thousands of years being:

weather worn and torn and blistered;

These pillars of stone reach—heavenward.

Around this cluster, an engulfing, natural enclosure

Like an old cemetery guarded with erect towers and tombs;

Brownish rocks, baked by the sun, washed by the rains

from the heavens:

It is called ‘Torre Torre’ and rests below the cliffs of Huancayo,

alone.

It is the envy of the Valley, where both warrior and poet

have traveled.

Note: The poem, ‘…Torre Torre’, is not referring to the island called ‘Bora Bora’ in the South Pacific, it is a geological wonder in and around Huancayo, Peru, beyond the Andes, in the Valley of Mantaro. How it got its name, I don’t know, but I’ve been to the site a number of times, and it is always fascinating to see the course the wind, and weather have taken on this geological wonder, how they worked to mold such things as these stone towers; primeval geological erosion. Fascinating I say, for surely they’ve been here longer than the city of Huancayo, habitants by some 325,000-citizens; an old Wanka culture once roamed this area, perhaps dating back to 1000 BC. The stone pillars are more tucked away in what I’d call a gorge. One can go down to see it, and actually walk through it, or one can go onto the cliffs above it, and look down over it, and if more adventurous, climb down into it, or like me, just observe it from a close distance, both ways.

One Of Us

Naughty Poem

Vicki as you know I am not there,

I am sorry, I am on some distant sand,

but I just wanted to say “I love you”,

and I think these are words you will understand.

Because I have been ‘Blued’ for 18 years,

and in that time, I have missed many a special event,

but having said that, you have been there for me,

and I should know, my angel has been heaven sent.

Because you have often taken the load on your own,

your selfless actions have kept the family strong,

and never with any regard to your health or well being,

you have kept the home stable, all along.

You sacrifice every minute of every day,

and always, you are firmly last in the queue,

and Vicki, I just wanted to say “thanks”,

yes, I am very proud of all that you do.

Some say it is the military way,

some have said it is just the military life,

but I know nothing could be further from the truth,

I am so very proud of my wonderful wife.

Because you always put everyone ahead of you,

and all you ask is my love and respect in return,

but I am not sure I have expressed that so well,

so all my past efforts, I think I will burn.

Because you are so much more than a wife,

and I am going to tell you this before these lines end,

not only are you the love of my life,

yes indeed, Vicki, you are my very best friend.

I consider myself the luckiest man alive,

you and our daughter mean the very world to me,

and I just wanted to thank you for being you,

you have made my world a great place to be.

I want nothing more than to grow old with you,

I want you to see our love etched on my face,

because I am going to spend the rest of my life with you,

and I promise, for most of it, we’ll be in the same place.

But our bond is stronger than anything we know,

even though our relationship was a bit rocky in the start but Vicki,

I want you to know that you are here with me,

we’re always connected, no matter how many miles we’re apart.

But the longer we are together the more we become alike,

so I think you should give up and stop all the fuss,

come on! Get crazy, cross over to the dark side,

yes Vicki, it is time you became one of us!

But in the meantime, just know that I love you,

in truth, I love you with all my heart and soul,

for with you in my life, I am complete,

yes,you are the one that makes me completely whole.

And tonight, please go outside and look skywards,

and there you will see a twinkling star,

and that will be me, sending you my love,

telling you exactly just how wonderful you are.

So I will finish by saying Happy 17th Anniversary,

I guess that is really what these words are for,

s o here is to you Vicki, you are truly beautiful,

and here is to our everlasting love, for evermore.

Carlos Guido y Spano’s Tomb

(1827-1918)

In a rocky tomb, he sleeps

The Romantic Poet of Buenos Aires

Carlos Guido y Spano;

Discreetly, quietly

His toes, his nose

Takes hold on the loam,

No longer acquires the air.

Nobody sees him, perhaps

Betrays him

(Dead almost, a hundred years);

The small particles

Seep into his room.

He was once the Grand Poet

Of Argentina now forgotten;

He sleeps in his leafy bedding,

Evan the cobblestone—

Along side his tomb,

Nearby workmen

Hammering away,

Yet he is earless and eyeless,

Dead to the day…!

Note: White in Buenos Aires, Argentina in April of 2007 I visited Carlos Guido Y Spano’s grave site, his tomb, to the folks on the city and the visitors to the grave yard, it is obvious, they are more enthralled to visit Evita’s grave, as I have twice so far, in passing years. In a way it is sad, here is the likes of Henry W. Longfellow, and most folks just pass Carlos’ tomb up. Yet he is in all the history books, school learning books of Argentina, if only, they would see the beauty he gave Argentina.

History of the Poet Time does march on, as I have heard said so many times in the past; thus, times unalterable path has left this poet a vague memory in the minds of his countrymen, even the school children know him but a gray picture of a grandfather image on some wall in the library, in some corner, or in the lost pages of a school book.

Born in 1827, he died in 1918; he lived along life, to 91-years old. His name and memory should although endure, and not be dropped into oblivion, he was worth his salt, you could say, more so than what Argentina has produced today, so I feel. That is not to say, they have not produced a few good writers, but no poets equal to Carlos Guido Y Spano. Some streets in the city have his name on it, if only people would look up to it and see, and give it a thought; Romanticism was his forte, or I should say, his work was more in fundamentally romantic elements of poetry, manifesting in Modernism poetry, and flexible prose.

Prologue – with the advent of the Middle Ages and onto the Renaissance, progress had come to Europe, and important men took the seat of familiarity, it was the time of: William Tell (1306 AD), Edward the III of England, Louis the IV of Bavaria (1333 AD); Othman Empire founded 1299 AD, the first clock, 1348 AD; the French used the cannon in 1308 AD; the Compass, 1320 AD. Window glass was introduced in around 1300, the Dark Ages was over, and on came Martin Luther, 1521 AD; William Shakespeare, 1546, ended up reading his plays to Queen Elisabeth. And then there was growing legends in Kulmbach, and its Castle called Plassenburg.

Hate Poems

The Ghost of Plassenburg

Perhaps the ghost did it, so many have said in the past,

or perhaps it’s been bad luck or poor leadership, whatever

Plassenburg Castle was ill-fated for much of its past.

I have myself heard many a ghost stories in Germany,

heard their footsteps in an old Babenhausen, fortress (1973);

a World War II story, someone was thrown out a window

four stories high, those were those footsteps, still alive.

But the ‘White Lady,’ of legend, of Plassenburg,

still haunts its dark corridors; I saw her one morn.

I’ve heard her called by many names, Agnes is one,

but all are the same, the ‘White Lady’ of Kulmbach.

The legend goes—she killed her two children cold,

for the love of a fashionable young count;

and when he washed his hands clean of her, suicide,

but with her dying breath, she left a curse, for her ghost.

In 1553, Kulmbach and its castle were under siege;

and the thirty-year war was also extended to thee.

Napoleon besieged it in 1806, blew it to bits.

You see: ill-fated—bad luck, or the White Lady…!

Just a Dog’s Life

[A Sad Poem]

I suppose those were dark days for her

Those days when I left Tasma at home

Home, in my house with my maid

(I had gotten married, and was gone

Gone away, far away, to the USA):

Old and sad, brown faithful eyes
Thirteen years had passed between us

Between her and I, the last few

Just stood still, I was gone:

Slowly dim, her eyes became—.

My maid, she starved her to death,

You could see her ribs, and the inhaling of

Her deep-rooted chest, now sunken-in;

She limped, my doggy, so fair was she?

All those faithful years in Lima, disappearing—

But I had to leave her it was my destiny.

And when I arrived back home, I fired the

Maid-rat, and fed my dog steak on steak,

Until she had meat on her back—

But I had to leave again, and she

Died soon after, she just up and died:

I hope she understands—there was

Always love for her, but now I

Had a man; perhaps, not enough

For an aging dog: with just a dog’s life…

Parts of the day, and nights I watched the sea gulls,

chase the ship, sometimes along side us,

sometimes in back, sometimes perched, as if in the air,

but up there, by the Captains helm,

the gulls would roam, seemingly, uncaring,

staring into his room;

snubbing the whole world, and its land,

under a blue sky looking down onto the blue water.

Now I paced, in the moonlit night, paced

like a child, back and forth

along the side of the ship, going from Island to island,

in the Galapagos (it was September of 2003):

I had a cup of coffee in hand,

left over from dinner, in the lower café.

A few ship staff, climb up and down the white ladders

there wasn’t much of a currant in those waters,

carved in smooth, calm silk-it seemed,

I’ll sleep well tonight this evening,

until the pain of my mother’s death ascends

to my head again: it seep you know,

into my head as if there was a hole, a

hole in the boat, that leads to my brain

but somehow, these gulls and their wings

gliding in the moonlit night, pasted me

on deck, seemed to pacify me, especially when

we went by little islands full of seas and sorts:

I could always hear the times hit the rocks.

I’m nobody! Who are you?

Eu não sou Ninguém! Quem és tu?
Tu És – Ninguém – também?
Há, pois, um par de nós!
Não conte! Eles espalhariam – tu sabes!

Que triste – ser – Alguém!
Que vulgar – como uma Rã -
Passando junho inteiro – a anunciar um nome -
A um charco admirável!

VAHN

The Veins of other Flowers by Emily Dickinson

The Veins of other Flowers
The Scarlet Flowers are
Till Nature leisure has for Terms
As “Branch,” and “Jugular.”

We pass, and she abides.
We conjugate Her Skill
While She creates and federates
Without a syllable.

fost ieri sa platesc intretinerea si sa iau paine si nu m-am oprit la primul magazin, nici la al doilea, nu ca ar fi mare distanta intre ele, dar am avut prilejul sa ma var iar prin cateva gradini si am gasit cate ceva…

scriu un poem.

in rest, TE IUBESC infinit de mult

A word is dead
When it is said,
Some say.
I say it just
Begins to live
That day.—Emily Dickinson