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Isaac Pizarro Poem
Let’s be real about our situations
And let’s review our modern limitations.
We used to meet people and read books
Now we just meet screens and read nooks.
From the age of liberation to suppression
We try to fit into the new obsession.
We are no longer in control of our own
Without tweeting about it using our phone.
We are not free from our new masters
Even if we created these modern disasters.
We click buttons to make a “friend”
Whilst looking for more time to spend.
There is no imagination, just an empty mind.
There are no new inventions, just new versions to find.
What ever happened to riding your bike?
It got replaced with hitting that “Like”.
And so, it begins. Off to work with your life in the cloud.
You look at your friends list; 500+ so proud.
Come back home; watch screens and instead of chapters.
Say hello to our new digital masters.
Copyright © Isaac Pizarro | Year Posted 2014
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Isaac Pizarro Poem
By the Sun and Moon, we see our home; Mother Earth and Father Sky.
These are the four corners of the gardens.
Teardrops from the sky sprinkle the rosemary, sage, and lavender during the Moon’s reign.
As the Moon resigns for the day, hues of golden light arise from the dusky clouds.
Dew droplets dance as the winds whisper through the sacred grounds.
Mixes of the scents in the damp, early dawn are a temptation too desirable to ignore.
Four old statues look after the four corners. These were the Great Elders.
Each elder looking after its children in unison; One can’t be without the others.
The River of Life runs through the garden like veins giving action to idleness.
The choirs of songbirds fill the air with songs that travel through the winds.
A wise gardener tends to his children; speaking softly and fanning fragrances.
“Life is a garden;” said the wise gardener. “Filled with both life and death.”
“Life is very memorable but death is only temporal. For every new season, we are born again.”
The wise gardener continued “But, what is life without the proper nourishment?”
“Be the water in the watering can. Be the minerals in the soil. Care for your own garden…”
“…because no one else plants the same life as you do.”
Copyright © Isaac Pizarro | Year Posted 2014
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Isaac Pizarro Poem
You see, I live in this world that promises my freedom.
I do what I do so I can live in this kingdom.
I pay my bills, do my taxes, and even work over-time
I always pay my rent; never leaving a single dime.
Then one day, it hit me, like a ball to a bat
I was thinking about the world over where I sat.
I pay for water and air as if there wasn't any.
I thought this world had clean free water already.
Big corporate elites stick a price to my liberty;
“You can only live here if you know our history.”
“My land is your land, but you can’t stay here.”
“I’m the boss of my people. I’m the puppeteer.”
I look up to the sky and see my Earth be sold
Like food from a market not even paid for with gold.
We sell sand to the beaches and trees to the land
Nothing is free. We are all marked as a brand.
Yet I go on with my life and have no worry.
I start my day and end it with my eyes all blurry.
I sit down and watch the screen, as I see an ad wiz by:
“Free earth for life. You need to call now and buy.”
Copyright © Isaac Pizarro | Year Posted 2014
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Isaac Pizarro Poem
Thirteen men of doubt we were; forsaken from our own minds.
We weren't like our masters. We were like raw iron with no grind.
Without any experience and faith, we seemed weak to all.
Yet, we were the thirteen that were said to hear the call.
We were mined from our deposits, and forged into a force.
A force of will, strength, faith, and courage, we were no longer coarse.
Thirteen men of strong will we became; the force of serenity.
Our offense being water, and defense being earth, this was our identity.
War has broken loose. The greediness of man stole our lands.
As thirteen we were chosen; to risk life for peace while we stand.
Against one-thousand men, while outnumbered, we were still stronger.
Our twenty-six hands turned to that of ten-thousand. We took doubt no longer.
One-thousand men defeated, but no lives taken; the hand of peace spoke.
Will is never lost. It is only found. When attained, men are one not broke.
Thirteen guardians of courage we remained; from ore to edge.
Thirteen men of realization we became. Of peace and faith we pledge.
Copyright © Isaac Pizarro | Year Posted 2014
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Isaac Pizarro Poem
Fire crackles from within the aged wood-stove as the curandera reads from her book of recipes. Her rusted voice echoes around her old hut as she recounts the moments of her youth starting with, “When I was your age.” Her bony fingers clutch an egg while she draws circles on my back, reciting her consejos. I sit at her table as she crushes bitter truths and hard lessons in her mortar, which she adds to her potion. Counting my many pains from grief to heartbreak, she sets down a bowl of the strong steaming stew. Eagerly, I sip the broth seasoned with her tenderness and care, soothing my sorrows. Though her potion sears my throat, I take it without question, knowing the curandera has wisdom sewn within her wrinkles. Before I take my leave, she cleanses my spirit with her burning sage. I walk back into the world saying, “Gracias, madre.”
Copyright © Isaac Pizarro | Year Posted 2020
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