Poem | |
Because of you, in gardens of blossoming
Flowers I ache from the perfumes of spring.
I have forgotten your face, I no longer
Remember your hands; how did your lips
Feel on mine?
Because of you, I love the white statues
Drowsing in the parks, the white statues that
Have neither voice nor sight.
I have forgotten your voice, your happy voice;
I have forgotten your eyes.
~ excerpts from Pablo Neruda’s poem, “Love”
Flushed hands spill passion, softly wild
In a languid explosion you rise
With threads and threads of angst piled
Spewing flamed embers’ cries
And I feel your veins in my chest
From twilight laced I rile again
Down fingertips my soul’s unrest
To drain on verses from your pen
A language of fire scents my mood,
That marks thorns when love and rage twine.
Sweet flowers ache as plucked lyres brood
On frail stars, veiled light breaks my spine
Dear Neruda, salt of heart clears
Offering balm of gentle smears
~ Pablo Neruda , a Chilean poet, and diplomat,
was awarded the Nobel Prize for Literature in 1971.
For Francine Roberts’ Tribute by Sonnet
More great poems below...
Poem | |
Toconao, Oase im Sand
Wunder in der Atacama
Wo das klare Wasser fließt
Dort am Rande der Düne
Verschlingt schon die Quebrada
Allmählich der heiße Sand
Noch wandere ich langsam
Dort im einsamen Traume
Wo ruhig in den Gärten
Noch leise Wasser plätschert
Im kleinen steinernen Kanal
Mein einziger Begleiter ein Hund
Toconao, oasis in the sand
Miracle in the Atacama
Where the clear water flows
There at the edge of the dune
Swallows already the Quebrada
Gradually the hot sand
Yet I walk slowly
There in a lonesome dream
Where quietly in the gardens
Still purling gently water
In the small stone canal
My single companion a dog
Toconao, oasis en la arena
Milagro en el Atacama
Donde el agua claro fluye
Allí al borde de la duna
Cubre ya la Quebrada
Gradualmente la arena caliente
Aún ando despacio
Allá en un señero sueño
Donde tranquilo en los jardines
Aún chapotea silencioso agua
En el pequeño canal de piedra
Mi único compañero un perro
Note: Tocona is a small Indio village in the Chilean Atacama Desert. This oasis village
is located 24 mi south of the town of San Pedro de Atacama at an altitude of 8,153 ft
above sea level. The most notable building is the church. The bell tower is separated from
the main church structure and dates from 1750. The main source of its 546 inhabitants is
based on agriculture and artisan activities. The word "Toconao" comes from the cunzo
"toco" that means "stone". Toconao is also known for its alleys of the orchards in the
"Quebrada" (= gorge).
Poem | |
No doubt there are some folks who will scoff at the concept I propose,
But I think God chose courageous leaders when times of adversity arose.
He's done a pretty good job of selecting people who acted with determination,
To bring triumph out of chaos leading others to their ultimate salvation!
He selected Moses to lead His people out of bondage to the Promised Land.
Through many trials and tribulations they reached freedom under his command!
He chose a Babe to lead His Kingdom here on earth for the redemption of man.
Though He was rejected and was to die on The Cross, He rose to rule again!
Washington was named to break the bonds of tyranny that bound this nation.
He faced formidable obstacles - lesser men would have given up in frustration!
God wisely chose Lincoln who led a broken nation with wisdom and resolve.
Though facing untold challenges he persevered that a united nation might evolve!
That mighty oak, Roosevelt, led the nation to victory during World War Two.
God named him the leader and gave him the strength to see the battle through!
Surely God chose Martin Luther King to deliver his message of reconciliation,
To strive for the integration of all races and religions of this great nation!
Senor Luis Urzua, the hero of the Chilean mine disaster and highly respected boss,
With superb leadership reunited 33 miners with their families without a single loss!
To list all great leaders who by God's grace have emerged down through the ages,
Is certainly beyond my meager abilities but would fill tomes and tomes of pages!
Robert L. Hinshaw, CMSgt, USAF, Retired
© All Rights Reserved
Poem | |
Bernardo O’Higgins Riquelme
was born in Chillan in central Chile.
The bastard son of Ambrosio, Marquis de Orsorno,
his Irish-born father hailed from County Sligo.
Bernardo’s mother was Isabel Riquelme.
She was from a prominent South American family.
Bernardo was supported financially
after the father became a Peruvian viceroy.
Bernardo was sent to London while a young boy
where he was able to acquire a formal education.
He soon learned to despise Spanish domination.
Bernardo sought to fight for independence from Spain.
His homeland should not be a colonial domain.
He would share the same ideas as Francisco de Miranda.
This man hailed from the north in Venezuela.
Both men espoused the prospective idea
of a free and independent South America.
O’Higgins joined the Logia Lautaro in 1810.
He was helped by Argentine Jose de San Martin.
In 1814, the rebels suffered a costly defeat.
Into the Andes Mountains, the rebels had to retreat.
This loss came at the Chilean city of Rancagua
It started the period known as the “Reconquista”
In 1817, the rebels won a great victory.
The Battle of Chacabuco ended Spanish sovereignty.
Chile and Argentina were both declared independent.
Bernardo O’Higgins became Chile’s first president.
Thanks to wikipedia.org online encyclopedia for pertinent information I obtained to
write this presentation.
Poem | |
Nobel Prize Winner
Poet of integrity ...
More great poems below...
Poem | |
There's a time for loves to be won and lost… At least there was for us.
For 33 Chilean miners, lost below… life was simply stopped.
Alive and well, but buried deep… 2,200 feet below.
They had such a daunting, beautiful dream… to see the sky once more.
Being hot, little water, dark, only bites of food…17 days was asking a lot.
But life was true and held on strong, even when in the bowels of the earth you’re lost.
With each day the hopes began to fade, always bolstered by others to be strong.
Little did they know their prayers were there, were being answered in spades above.
Time went on as governments stopped, to send whomever they could to help.
The world looked on, every eye glued, as prayers they also imbued.
For once in their lives everyone together worked, for a common cause that’s true.
Building, digging, drilling, and planning… together as life below held on.
No one knew the miners were truly alive, as the earth held them in a deathly grip.
But faith held everyone together, for 17 days, on this fateful trip.
Breaking thru a small hole to them in time was a monumental task indeed.
To do it bigger again, was asking God to plow the way and give them back again.
Drill bits broke, and no one slept, as dreams of home, the miners spun.
Several drillings were stopped by fate, as a single one held on.
Many things could have stopped those lives such as slides and after shocks.
Remember the mine was unstable, or it wouldn’t have fallen at all.
Everyone below was tired, hot, worn out, and sick by the time they reached their goal.
One small, flimsy, missile tied from above would have to drag them to the top.
Would it snag? Would the earth crumble? Could it take the buffeting there and back?
The tunnel was finally reinforced. The first people went below, as we held our breath.
One by one, for 24 hours they were brought up from beneath the earth.
Never in the time of man, has a feat been held to so tightly for 69 days and finally won.
Thank the Chilean government, it’s people, the world's and American help, for bringing them back.
Then like the miners did… get on your knees and thank the God above.
Yes… it was one unified, miraculous leap of faith, with God holding every ones hand.
It brought back faith in many things including God and yes, even your fellow man.
Poem | |
Two thousand feet in the belly of the earth
So near the opulence of golden ore
And so far the poor man's dream of worth
From the falling sweat of toil
Around the Chilean house
The wringing hands toll in silent prayer
This early subterranean image rise
Before the stark and brimming eyes
Of thirty three souls in the chasm of purgatory cast
Held rigid for sixty nine days of fast
From food, family, freedom to choose
And the narrow ledge
Over the collective precipice of hope.
Testing all Dante's vision here
And proving false a deeper perfidy
Than exploitation of a working class
There is no vulnerability like being poor.
The limits of mortality
Assigned us, no other boundary knowing
Yet one day short the chasm keeps
Behind the pace of prophetic analogy
Of three score years and ten.
Out of the dungeon carved for greed
A sudden caving in of hell
Yet stubbornly resisting, the church bells chime
Joyfully again, another salvation thrilled with grace.
The Andean anxiety capsuled sink
Hanging from the edge of a nerve
Binding tautly the national frame
Our ingenuity is a hope of resurrection too
Again and again through misted eyes
And suddenly the tension drained of silence
Through the river of men
Broke in a flood of cheers.
This is not 20,000 league beneath the sea
Nor a giant leap
For workers scraping rocks for bread
The only fiction is the process
That continues to hold life ransom for some
No new belief will come
Like dragon's breath consuming the cruel past
No utopia shall rise
Outside the shadow of the cross
The earth travailing in our dread
Bring forth their souls
Thickening the umbilical bond
After sixty nine days, the adaptation urges
The heart to keep its place
And they convicted will descend again.
We seek in life still a quite familiar space
In all the changes we taunt with ambition
We keep our old environment
Of prohibited movements and meager conditions
All hope long
Praying for a little escape
Why else would some still shock fettered
Declare ... to addicted applause
We shall soon go under again.
My soul rejoices today
To see the grave defeated impromptu
Pumping the heart in victory. I celebrate
The upswelling of faith,
The certainty in the heart when we pray
The big news of good
Out of the dismal events of his coming
The final exultation
When the trembling mountains tumble
Broken feathers and unbroken screams
Looping in the cradle of light
Confirm my new birth
Above the eagle's flight;
And all the miners safely home at last.
Poem | |
Ricardo wrote poetry with much flair
the literati later,were to declare
'Twenty Love Poems & A song of Despair'
And his 'Residence on Earth'
a Nobel prize to reflect their worth.
Inspired by Raul's photo contest
Pablo Neruda(Nefttali Ricardo Reyes y Basulato) diplomat/poet of the Chilean left
Poem | |
From a homeland in Chile
Growing up with a song of despair
His humble beginnings, and a Chilean ode to serve
Born to be noble, prized with diplomacy's oath
Exiled he was, but never his words
And his verse fell to the soul
Like dew to the pasture....
Inspired by Raul's contest
Poem | |
Words found him
While the wind was playing
While the rain was crying
While the sea was singing
And the light was coming
Out of the Chilean sky
Opening his infinite eyes
And poems arrived
Poem | |
This Chilean gem
Twentieth century joy
His styles were vast
Much more than just a poet, was
Poem | |
He died as all humans die,
and yet his thoughts have never ceased...
to declare a mortal an immortal:
expressing himself with works
full of sensitivity and awareness.
He lived and breathed that Chilean air,
sent from the mixed breezes of the Andes;
and sitting down on a warm rock,
he contemplated the white peaks of those mountains...
gleaming from distance, to instill more tenacious memories.
Pablo glorified the human spirit
with its unflinching fortitude,
to describe the joy or sadness of a certain age;
and absorbed in profound thought,
he continued writing until death stopped his breath.
Poem | |
In the Pacific south east
Starved of trees
For a transporting feast
Moai, they are called
This island of the extinct
Three volcanoes in all
Terevaka, Poike and Rano Kau
As years passed
Statues were toppled
Civil war and disease
This island buckled
In this modern world
With Chilean Citizenship
Over 3000 remain
No longer past hardship
This volcanic island
Called Rapa Nui
Is Easter Island
To you and me
Poem | |
Ricardo Eliecer Neftalí Reyes Basoalto
Motherless at two weeks of age, sought her.
Within his heart and mind, imagined her.
Age ten, before life had hardly begun,
He, whose talents his family did shun,
Loved her, felt her. She closed his eyes each night.
A boy arose to man with victim’s sight.
Life, splashed with discord from the beginning,
Sometimes sent his thoughts fast-forward spinning.
A Chilean born poet, communist
Political materialist…gist –
A Poetry Pulitizer Prizewinner.
Whose poetic successes still linger.
His legal “pen name” is no mystery.
Pablo Neruda died in state by cancer’s fate.
© Dane Ann Smith-Johnsen
May 20, 2010
Poetic form: Rhyme
Poem | |
Okies silly one now I want a verse about an old broad who thought she was a flamingo!
(BIG SMILES Thank you for the fun challenge!)
“She Thinks She is a Flamingo”
“Me hablo espanol.”
Yes, you heard it right.
I speak Spanish. My feathers?
Oh, beautiful, the gracious sight.
Long. Fluffy. Pink. Bright!
I am not just any flamingo.
Although I do speak…
I am Chilean born.
Never am I forlorn.
Seldom in control...
See! “Me hablo espanol.”
Are my bloodlines pure?
Why do you ask?
Am I totally sure?
Finding out is NOT my task!
Gallivanting in Galapagos.
Extinction was the rave.
Lying on the beach.
Tying my tie.
It was almost out of reach.
Use good manners and speech.
Fresh shrimp in a bowl!
“Si! Me hablo espanol.”
Does it really matter?
Bring me another platter!
Oo la, la! Or yeah, yeah! YEAH!
I just want to say.
I’m flying to a party.
Good Ole U.S.A…
I love to boogie-woogie.
But the Cha-cha is in my veins!
On one leg, I tried to prance.
Did you say, “Dance?”
The shrimp I love to eat
Make a very special treat.
They turn my fluffy feathers bright.
But never stink my feet.
What is the link?
Bring me the mirror.
I want to see myself clearer.
Wild hat! Sun glasses!
A little bit fat! What say you?
I am NOT a flamingo?
Then, what? No! Not the jacket, again!
Again? Ha, ha, ha, ha…
She thinks, therefore she is...
NOT a flamingo!!!
Fun, silly challenge accepted! How did I do?
NOTE: Thankfully, my pain medicines end. Post-op medications did not send me this far out
there. Sadly, however, there are people in the world who really do SUFFER from endless
mental delusions and other mental illnesses in varying degrees of severity. We must keep
them in our prayers. Mental illness can be very debilitating. Although this was written with
fun in mind, reality must NEVER be ignored. God help us remember, respect, and show forth
love to our fellowman in need. I LOVE YOU SOUPERS! My days are uplifted because of your
creative wisdoms and kindnesses. Poems are good for the world. SMILES belong to each
one of you. Lovingly,
© Dane Ann Smith-Johnsen
December 16, 2009
Poem | |
In the last months of my career as a full-time teacher in 1998/99 in Western Australia and the first months of my sea-change and retirement in Tasmania at the age of 55, Augusto Pinochet was back in the news. I had first come across his name and his activity in Chile while teaching high school in Whyalla South Australia in September 1973, the very month I was hired for a position as senior tutor in human relations at the then Tasmanian College of Advanced Education, now the university of Tasmania.
On both these occasions, in the 1970s and at the turn of the millennium, I was so occupied with my 60 hours a week job as a high school teacher and senior tutor, and then 25 years later as a post-secondary teacher as well as my role in the Baha’i community--another people-centred activity--that I did not really appreciate the details of the story connected with this Chilean dictator’s role in politics and contemporary history.
I won’t go into the details of Pinochet’s political role and his personal, military and notorious history in this prose-poem. Readers can easily find that out on the internet or in books should they be interested in the topic. But on watching the doco-drama, telemovie, Pinochet in Suburbia1 last night and on reading some background on his life and on the history of Chile, I came to form a considered opinion—not so much about Pinochet the man as about the importance of international law in the modern world.-Ron Price with thanks to 1SBS TV, “Pinochet in Suburbia,” 11:55-1:30 p.m. 6 June to 7 June 2010.
My world was a hot, intense landscape
in a dry-dog-biscuit of a town far down
at the bottom-end of the world where I
had come as a young man so long ago--
when I heard the name Pinochet---“was
he an Indian?” I thought to myself trying
as I was to survive after falling in holes in
my young adult-life…..I fell in a few more
before I heard that name in the closing years
of the mirabile dictu incredible century. He’d
been a busy man as I had been a busy man in
those years from 1973 to 1999 and he was a
busy man again in suburbia in the UK1 before
he disappeared from history bit by bit2 while I,
too, was disappearing from history, bit by bit,
taking up a life in cyberspace much safer and
protected from the slings & arrows of fortune.
7/6/'10 to 25/5/'14.
Poem | |
That goldfish bowl.........
Wedged on my head,
did nothing instead
Just left an almighty hole,
where I dropped,like a piece of lead
(Not a piece of eight!)
Is it me?
Well, never mind
Lets see what I can find
There is a light up ahead.............
Maybe a bite to eat and a bed
What a week it's been
More like space fright!
That chap upfront
Clearly insane in the head
I pushed his buttons instead!
(Especially the red one!)
You can't say I didn't try
I don't want to space fly
Those chaps up front
Clearly didn't know what is was all about!
It's been a busy one
All said and done!
I jot down my scribbles,
while eating my nibbles
Quite a few narrow squeaks,
These past weeks!!
I like a challenge or two
Make mine a double!
As I clawed my way through the rubble!
My bullet charm.............
worked an absolute treat!
Even though its missing a "T"
I have come to no harm
No mean feat!
I nearly choked on that steak!
Fortunately that Chilean red wine
dissolved it in time!
I feel so alive!
Drinking Octane 95!
I can't go to heaven
I haven't even started chapter seven
The next challenge to try........................
Lets see if I can die!
Poem | |
Let it be that - we are simply disconnected
And all of it that was before is now neglected.
Just as in an international call
And I'll stop knowing what you whisper all
Over her right ear,
Petting her mere
Hair. Listening to the cheerful imps
Of your disturbing thoughts. A glimpse.
And recognizing every rustle
Around you. A twitching muscle.
Here's the sound of keys jingling,
Here are her fingers mingling
With your fringe, here's the wind strangled in the curtains,
The load of memories it burdens...
Sms beep, the block is off,
The parquetry squeaks yet the steps are easy,
Flick of a lighter and that's it - the tone. How cheesy...
And I'll stay a bit in the telephone booth
Reciting poems of my youth.
Awaiting for the firing of invisible squadrons in my temples to cease.
Oh would I ever feel the ease?
Of simple being, I'm happy as old colonel Frehley
Who died with a reciever in his hand.
Let it be that as if it's five years past.
And we are all steady here at last.
We're not as booming with the decibels,
But we're worth a 1000 for a ticket.
There might as well be time for cricket.
We are working like real men,
Making money as easy as trimming a bush. We stem.
We're not giving our minds any downtime.
What's mine is mine.
And I am aware of what I am worth.
It doesn't matter that nobody is willing to pay the price.
We run in circles just like mice.
We meet and knock back three
Glasses of Chilean semi dry and you look at me.
And then you say "I am pround of you, Polozkova!"
But no - nothing breaks inside me.
That August we were still drinking outside
And you were wearing
My jacket - we are joking, singing and smoking...
Probably you never knew that from that night on you
Become the protagonist of my hysterics and mimes. All anew.
One day we'll recall this -
And wouldn't be able to believe it ourselves...
Let it be that my vim and naughtiness
Are back; My slouch and flabbiness
Are gone; And nothing's beating me inside
No pain within me would reside.
And there's no need to write
My poems. How can I ignite?
Let it be that I don't sob hoarsely with every chorus
Just like a dyed-haired singer with little morals.
How nice that you're sitting
In front of the screen and thinking
That you're reading
Of somebody else.
Poem | |
A fine missionary was Ursula
eyes gleaming bright in the Chilean sun
Shining a smile from ear to ear
Striking, with black horn rim sunglasses on
Her humility made her a giant
Her kindness: an admirable friend
Her spirituality soaked to her depths
and flourished upon those she would tend
Walter was widowed and quiet
His gentleness drew to him children
One never could pass him without a warm smile,
a hug, while he asked how you're doing.
Ursula and Walter wed in their sixties.
Glint in their eyes as they walked down the aisle.
Holding hands, her in a simple cut dress
Him in a suit and a smile.
She couldn't hold onto him tight enough
and he passed on with a breath and a sigh
She sought all her solace in friends and her God
Prayers of the righteous ascend to on high
Now, in her eighties and failing,
I'm urgent to see her again
To thank her with tears in my sorrow-filled eyes
As her life of endurance comes to an end.