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
Copyright © Robert L. Hinshaw | Year Posted 2010
Ask not for whom the bell tolls
Said little fairy bell sitting in the meadow
Among the Prim Roses reflecting, the sun’s glow
The Cow Slips in the rain
The Lady Smock trips on her train
Ask not for whom the bell tolls
The Snap Dragon bites, the Willow Weeps
The Baby’s tear’s, it often weeps
So ask not for whom the bell tolls
The fox has new gloves
The mother in law a tongue, the lily is for peace,
So ask not for whom the bell tolls
The Blue bell, Cow bell the Canterbury bell
The White bell Pink and Oconee bell
Please ask not for whom the bell tolls
The Bell flower the Chilean bell
The Chinese bell and all
So when asked for whom the bells tolls
I say it tolls on all bells in the fall.
© Mandy Tams 3/08/2015
Local names for bell shape flowers .
Copyright © Mandy Tams The Golden Girl | Year Posted 2015
Coplas on Wine
( here, the famous AntiPoetic Chilean Poet Nicanor Parra, b. 1914, uses the more popular form of the « copla » genre that he contains in quatrains of 8 to 10 syllables with two lines of each quatrain rhyming at random, though not in perfect rhymes, in order to approximate the lilting « song » forms. He does not adhere to the syllabic and rhyme schemes of other more fixed forms, such as, the « Copla de arte mayor » or the « Coplas a pie quebrado », rather he favours the form known as « Malas coplas », songs composed and sung by the blind in the streets. Parra also uses words which are particular to Chilean expressiveness.)
Feeling nervous, but not without defiance
towards all that constitutes competition
in the face of those who deprecate, I beg
pardon and consdescension.
With my face deadpan in coffin
and my butterflies of old
I also wish to affirm my présence
in this solemn celebration.
Is there (anything), I (dare) ask
more noble than a bottle
of wine well interposed
between two twin souls ?
Wine possesses power
to command respect and to destabilize
transmuting snow into fire
and make fire turn into stone.
Wine is all things : it’s the sea
boots for twenty immeasurable distances
the magical interior insulation, the sun
the parrot of seven tongues.
Some drink to slake thirst
others to forget obligations
and to espy tiny lizards
and cracks and fissures in stars.
The man who’s not drawn to drink
his cup filled with liquid like blood
cannot be, so I dare think
a Christian of staunch descent.
Wine can be sipped
from vessels of silver, crystal or clay
but it’s best when in copihue*
in fuchsia or in white lily.
The poor allot themselves their portion
in order to placate their duties
which they are unable to fulfill
neither with tears nor with strikes.
If I was asked to choose
between diamonds and pearls
I would choose a portion
of grapes white and black.
The blind man with a cup
sees sparks and lightning streaks
and the lame of birth
who break out dancing the cueca.*
Wine when one drinks it
with sincerity inspired
only then can it be compared
to the kiss of a Virgin damsel.
In the name of all this I raise
my cup to the sun of the night
and drink this sacred juice
which makes brothers of us all in heart.
• copihue : flowering plant cultivated as adornment.
* cueca : popular Chilean dance.
© T. Wignesan – Paris, 2016
Copyright © T Wignesan | Year Posted 2016
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).
Copyright © Gert W. Knop | Year Posted 2011
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.
Copyright © Robert Pettit | Year Posted 2011
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.
Copyright © Agatha Jetaime | Year Posted 2015
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
Copyright © nette onclaud | Year Posted 2012
The extraordinarily warm current exhaled
a heated argument to the basement glacier
But ours for sure wouldn't be the fate
of intended strictly surface dwellers
the southernmost swooping falcon
likes of Terra Nova to be engulfed
in a watery grave
at big island of the north or there near
So I converged 'round the cape to confer
with the school of solely orchestral trumpets
chorus funnels on the Chilean coast
inspiring many minaret muses of a mariner
The gulf stream expelled us as we grew tired
of staring at the stationary stone faces of Easter Island n' besides Magellan kept yellin'
but I retorted like Yorba Linda's own Nixon-
I'm not a felon
I only have a hankerin' for the brown sleek skinned Polynesians
n' offshoot mixes of Asians
a broad spread myriad
of the female persuasions
But the chief of the tribal trial
which'd be like ancient Greek's oyster shells
unfavoring in a pile
plus he never cracked a smile
for all the while
it was the hymen of his own daughter broken
who gave me a parting gift of a shark tooth
necklace as an appreciation token
but their hand gestures chimed in
with the agitation of elevated
But again ours not to be the slated romantic
fate Apache/Comanche version of hari kari
of young lovers-Tucum and Cari
No time to find asylum harbor
or wait for assistance from Cook or Cartier
n' before they prodded me to the plank
it was the channels of rivers in the ocean
who whisked me away I'd have to thank
though already missin' my sweet skank
So like the wave of a blanket we crossed
the west African coastal mountains
n' the arid wind picked us up foraging sand
all the way 'cross the Sahara n' back
yet only saw brief outlines of cameltrains
who railed on even in water lack
with tinged blue headdresses of their
n' large canvas bags swingin' in rhythm
in pendulum motion containin'
precious cargo of salt packs
Then alas spewed back in the relentless
waves of the Atlantic
n' we'd just made a fluent but arduous
as if propelled on Poseidon's
on the flip
so now we were a bit frantic
but soon we'd be quelled
by the strong boned
delta woman of the Amazon
who had a reputation
of being overtly sensual
n' pruiently tantric
of our torsos
with the precipitation
of the rain forest
n' veined in with the thick foilage
to nurture supple green leaves
to be ultimately inhaled
by all living creatures of creation.
1-6-2017 Duncan R.M. Ferguson
Copyright © Duncan R. M. Ferguson | Year Posted 2017
Power of Journeys
New horizons speak in hope and pull me to Pablo Neruda’s country
‘Twenty poems of love’ inspired by Santiago Robinson Crusoe Island
Serene landscapes volcanoes Andean mountains are outspokenly funky
I seek the space vibes vastness Chilean seduction loudly and silent
Few books opened my voice more than ‘The Gulag Archipelago’ scripted
by Alesandr Solzhenitsyn and thus my eyes have to explore the Siberian Plain
Despite all that ice a melting pot of souls minds and cultures encrypted
I need to welcome silence once more and Lake Baikal into my inner terrain
‘The Paradise of the Blind’ with heart blooded ink by Duong Thu Huong
wants exploration quiet reflection uncontaminated comprehension
Nature wrapped in philosophy the Mekong Delta is where I belong
Peace solitude reclusion at times require my full travelling attention
On this voyage Pinochet Stalin and Ho Chi Min can stay in their grave
Blending and mixing with beauty wise words Mother Earth is what I crave
Copyright © Kai Michael Neumann | Year Posted 2017
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
Copyright © James Fraser | Year Posted 2009
As soon as I heard
You were the First African American Male
To win the Pulitzer prize for Poetry
I wanted to run out and celebrate
I wanted to wake up Hughes and Dunbar
And Baraka and say we made it
No one would have been prouder than Maya
She sold ten million books
And didn’t win a Pulitzer
And you win after selling one thousand-five hundred books
Surely this is even more incredible
They finally let us in their world of literature
After a hundred years
You did good Gregory
Our fourth Black Pulitzer prize winner in all
But the first African American Male
The more I stared at your picture I thought
My he looks Cuban or Chilean
And I read that your wife is from El Salvador
And Pardlo is far from a Black name
But that doesn’t really matter
We made it
You are Black enough for me
I was so thrilled I ran
To read all of your poems I could find
And then my champagne glass tipped
As the pages of the poems flipped
Not shocked that none of the major articles
Mentioned you being an African American
More confused that you only mentioned it
In the context that the White media
won’t correctly honor you as they did Hughes
So an NAACP image award had to do
But I know you didn’t pick the Pulitzer
It picked you. Still I am happy for you.
You mentioned your battle with alcohol
And that your family was dysfunctional
Alcohol and dysfunction
Are metaphors for African American
So again close enough
But not even that was my greater issue
I listened to you on You Tube
And the thing that made me gasp
Is that you could never read your poetry
To An African American fifth grade class
They wouldn’t understand your syntax
And would be lost in your anapest
Never get your personification
The more I listened the more I heard
Rita Dove again
The last time Africa America has heard from her
Well I can’t say when
But I am still happy you won the Pulitzer
For the next twenty years of your life
You will feature at Harvard near a Ghetto
At Stanford near a ghetto
In Detroit and Chicago near Ghettos
But mostly White audiences will celebrate you
Because your sponsors
Don’t want to stop their cars in BedStuy
The very neighborhood you live in
And you will impress people with your
But city blocks away
In a ghetto dreary
Where the Halogen dreams burn dim
They will hear that the man of words
Has no words for them
And growing up in suburban Wilingboro
You will never write a PREFACE
You’ll Never know RIVERS
And you will never know why
Or why the CAGED BIRD beats its wing
But still I am so happy that you won.
And assuming being an African American
Had something to do with you winning
Please be an African American
Be like Gwen and refuse
Sponsorship from Taco Bell and Pepsi
Be like Langston or Baraka and
Get charged for being Un American
Or be accused of being crazy like
Or even like Nikki and cuss somebody out
Even if you have to do it gracefully
And even if you do it only once
I too am honored by your NAACP image award
And I know you will fight up there for more
African Americans to be included
in the “86% White Publishing World.”
Please Mr. Pardlo remember that we just need more
Black people down here
Just to be included in the eating world
And in the employment world
Please use your beautiful words for us too
And so I close with these words:
In the Guardian, you asked why
Black Writers are so Invisible to White people?
Well I say, If they don’t hear your poems
Or if they don’t see you or hear you
Far beyond the posh Harvard hills
There are forty million who will
2017 A Letter To Gregory Pardlo.. (Pulitzer)
Copyright © Poet M.e. | Year Posted 2017
Nobel Prize Winner
Poet of integrity ...
Copyright © Satin Doll Diva | Year Posted 2010
I spend time with a friend
well, a pseudo-friend
an acquaintance of sorts
no, I guess he'd be a friend,
shit, who knows
one of those types you never really share your heart
that authentic trembling you
he's more like a radio station
on a long lonely road trip in the night
or late night cable when the kids have left
a thousand channels
bright flickering nothing
we meet after hours in the deepest of dives
I just sit, listen,
curl myself into that hunching shape
looking like someone piled old laundry on a stool
and act as chaperone
an escort of sorts, you know, like those fresh faced kids in college
earning some bucks walking lifesize cartoons around for pictures
and with a bar top slap, I know he's got one, he's revved up
a steampunk machine running on old rye and spasms
"know this! I have faith in our sacred family values, our brave military and our cellular plans!"
(it's hard to not chuckle a bit, enjoy the aerating effect a good laugh does to spirits and your pallet, just avoid aspirating too much or you bellow and cough like an amateur drinker, good god don't show weakness in a place like this or the crows will circle and I swear the shadows lengthen under the bar)
most times, as I sit next to him, removed from his sphere
detached observer that I always find myself
I notice he talks to that small sliver of himself seen between the dirty glasses
piled up against the old mirror with faded silvering
and the blackened spots frame his face
like an old time picture
representing a vast loneliness of a nation
this goddamn solitude we find in crowded rooms
"My opponent here is working with Chilean miners, violent video game makers and angry chefs, goddammit"
once curse words are added, we'll be on our way soon
the barkeep's tips weren't that big
and the mutterings from the corners are beginning
as his outbursts begin to chisel into the hazy bubbles of regulars
I pull him out into the night
away from cheap wine and leaded glass
red faced, blustering,
cool air confusing him for a moment
and, lightswitched, he walks with a purpose,
back to the maindrag and streetlights,
calling it a night with a wave and one last holler:
"I want an America where Somali pirates and Rupert Murdoch yes-men cannot corrupt our precious environment!"
I just stand and wave back.
Copyright © Andrew Foreman | Year Posted 2016
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
Copyright © Dane Ann Smith-Johnsen | Year Posted 2009
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.
Copyright © Carol Eastman | Year Posted 2011
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.
Copyright © David Smalling | Year Posted 2010
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
Copyright © Brian Strand | Year Posted 2010
List one: climb up to Machu Picchu,
ride the Orient Express,
see the Terracotta Warriors,
find a monster in Loch Ness,
brave the winds of Patagonia,
hike along an Everest ridge,
visit Paul Gaugin’s Tahiti,
stand on Sydney Harbour Bridge,
stroll round Angkor Wat, Cambodia,
cross the Alps in a balloon,
gaze in awe at Easter Island,
catch a rocket to the moon.
List two: sit in the garden scribbling,
eat a wedge of Stilton cheese,
drink a glass of Chilean Merlot,
watch the sunset through the trees,
play the bass just one more time
in the pub with my rock band,
look both ways then cross the street
holding my granddaughter’s hand,
see my grandson run towards me
smiling, waving, full of life,
meet my son and talk and listen,
phone my daughter, kiss my wife.
Yes. Two lists. There is a reason.
Once I heard a wise man say
Dream as if you’ll live forever;
live as if you’ll die today.
Copyright © Bill Lythgoe | Year Posted 2017
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
Copyright © Vesna Kovrlija | Year Posted 2012
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
Copyright © Carrie Richards | Year Posted 2010
This Chilean gem
Twentieth century joy
His styles were vast
Much more than just a poet, was
Copyright © James Fraser | Year Posted 2010
The crying grass
(for the late Victor Jara,* Pablo Neruda
and Salvador Allende)
by ‘bro. zayid’
In this stadium
of footlaunched spotted balls
of what should be promising soccer stars…
In this stadium
reeking with the stench of terror
and the numbing sounds of death…
In this stadium
whose horror riddled circling winds
repel the doves and the sparrows…
In this stadium
echoing with insane insistent
martial march of hardhoofed soldiers
primed for fleshopening madness…
In this stadium
of gagged people’s poems
of throat slashed people’s songs
their bloodmuffled melodies
missing their companion audience’s eyes
repelling the wings and the whistles
of the doves and the sparrows
with their blood splatter
on our faces and our shirts…
In this stadium
haunted with the harrowed harmonies
of a guitar played with krushed fingers
and a bayoneted heart…
In this stadium
of paraded corpses and paralyzed eyes
of long lines of skulls
freshly popped open in the back by gunfire…
In this stadium
where democracy was lynched
by imperialism’s sanctioned
and then buried in an anonymous heap…
There were no heroes here…
Only the massacred and martrys…
Their bleeding breathless torsos
had just watered the crying grass
and their stars had just been
shot thru the eye in the sky…
In this stadium…
In this stadium
there were no promising soccer stars
No footlaunched spotted balls finding goals
No tickets to be bought and sold
No fans on hand to cheer
No smiling confetti
sparkling for all to hear
No cameras rolling and snapping
to capture what happened
in that horrific vomitous moment…
In this stadium
In this stadium
In this stadium
barking and cracking with orders to fire
and the gutsplitting bursts of bullets
There were no heroes…
Their bloodied breathless torsos
had already watered the crying grass
and their stars once heated with hope
had already been shot
thru the eye in the sky…
*Chilean people’s artist Victor Jara…
Killed in a stadium massacre in a purge that accompanied the CIA sponsored military overthrow of the democratically elected socialist president
Salvador Allende in September 1973…Several thousand Allende supporters were rounded up by the military at a
soccer stadium and slaughtered in a mass execution…
Augusto Pinochet, who emerged Chile’s dictator for years, is responsible for over 3000 killings and the torture of over 30,000. There was a recent effort to have Pedro Pablo Barrientos Nunez, one of his surviving officers believed to have directly responsible for the beating and shooting of Jara, held liable for his role Jara’s death in this massacre…
©1999 all rights
Copyright © zayid muhammad | Year Posted 2016
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
Copyright © Dane Ann Smith-Johnsen | Year Posted 2010
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.
Copyright © Andrew Crisci | Year Posted 2010
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!
Copyright © Matthew Brackley | Year Posted 2006