Best Guatemalan Poems
She calls herself Bunny Boucher, but she was born Veronica Chermak. She’s tall and leggy with a body that looks tidy, yet lived in. She’s high and tight, but flexible like a strong rubber band in a tricked out pinball table. She reminds me of that actress Tracie Lumbar playing the actress Fern Hall in that old movie Iguana Sunset. Her topography leaves no room for global climate change. Her tropics are seductively torrid, while her poles remain perpetually cool; makes you want to straddle her equator with your meridian. She’s been to Mussel Shoals, Shucked Oyster, Bearded Clam, Moose Knuckle, Camel Toe, Beaver Falls, Cottonwood, and Rabbit Patch, just to name a few of her more well-known hangouts. Some would say she looks Greco-Roman, but I’d describe her as looking more like a Hellenized Phoenician who emigrated from Trans-Alpine Gaul, or maybe she looks more Etruscan, with a hint of Minoan when you see her by moonlight. They say she’s as pure as bloodstains on a purloined letter. She traded in her Biblical name soon after she left her home in Mississippi and never spoke of it again. It may be just routine housekeeping, but who could blame a girl for sweeping off her back porch. She recently had a front end alignment. They say her rearview mirror never lets her down. After arriving in New Orleans she passed her bar exam at Vaughan’s on Dauphine and kept the circuit judge disrobed till way past last call. She’s a sexy banshee when she’s in the catbird seat with her cherry basket swinging from a bungee cord. Last I heard she was sharing a dump with a couple Guatemalan dancers. Her room ain’t worth a dollar, but it cost a pretty penny. She pays the rent with a pickup truck full of contraband. She says she needs the space, but not the distance. Like most women, nobody’s ever been able to figure her out. But there is one thing I know for certain, her smoke may sometimes offer you a tempting indication of certain possibilities, but her fire has never been known to lie.
Hidden Beneath the Rainbow
Guatemalan villages have rainbows of dreams.
Magical thought whereupon each soul gleams.
Locked by a culture engraved on the soul.
Harvests where births’ golden customs unroll.
Living antiquated amid pompous brochures
Sleeping upon mats on plank beds or hut floors.
Boys and girls may not date or co-mingle.
Marriages arranged without knowing lust’s tingle.
In homes of adobe an empire is stayed.
Within those four walls, the future is laid.
Bounded by mountains and winding footpaths
Encroached by the world, walking different paths.
Families stay warm around a hearth of three stones,
Braving the simple life without moans and groans.
Stunning people clad in colorful handmade clothes.
The earth is their friend, their skills, and maestros.
Milling their coffee, chili peppers, and corn.
Homegrown products produced feed these freeborn.
Harvests of sweat and self-satisfaction
Hand worked acres and strength still in fashion.
Hidden near volcanoes; tucked in God's hands.
Generations of peoples have loved on those lands.
Glowing beauty shines beneath heat and straw hats.
Faces aglow, tourists hoping for chats.
Gleaming simplicity knows modernization's foes.
That exploited attraction where vacationers go.
Escaping the fast pace and the greediness flow.
San Pedro la Laguna, hidden beneath the rainbow –
© August 3, 2010
Dane Smith-Johnsen
REFERENCES: http://www.artemaya.com/artist_life_bp.html
http://www.bootsnall.com/articles/05-12/a-taste-of-tranquility-life-on-the-shores-of-lake-atitlan-san-pedro-la-
laguna-guatemala.html
saw my bluebird girl
in her Guatemalan dress
sunshine in a flash
brighten my whole day
nothing like a mother hen
all her chix about
papa so relieved
that mimi no longer grieves
loss of family
flowers can now bloom
cause we know who hung the moon
2 lil grandbabies!
thank you for teaching
me how to be patiently
waiting over here
Little Guatemalan child on the floor
In the heat, shaded by the shop door,
Alone and dirty
Clothed in filthy rags,
Holding a little brother
She’s wrapped him in torn bags
Begging for any money,
She is in desperate need,
Not eaten in days,
Little baby brother still bleeds,
In a unknown language,
She pulls on the tourists,
But they give to only one child,
To the child who seems the poorest,
So she continues sniffing the glue
Baby Bro is contaminated too
It eases the pain and hunger
It’s the thing she’s knows to do,
When later the heat resides
The orange Sun will set,
And the orphans gather together,
Collect old rubbish and tourist cigarettes,
And when the men drive by late night,
And offer them pathetic lose change,
For her innocence aged 9,
A most excruciatingly unfair exchange
She grows up knowing this life
Is the only life she’ll identify,
Unless someone will lend a physical hand
And wipe the tears from her eyes
And comfort and hold her so close,
Let her know there is love out there,
Get her life back together,
Will you go and show you care?
N.B. I visited Guatemala in 2004 with my church. We helped volunteer to build an
orphanage. This is based on the stories we heard...Words cannot explain the
situation there.
I have been around the world
Deepest, darkest corners of the globe
Down south, up north
Up high in the air time countless
Through routes criss-a-cross
Many times on sea sails
I have seen the world greatest cities
Lived in the thickets of the sahara
Several nights in the African jungle
Mingled with red Indians in Guatemalan forests
Been in and out of oval office
The white house the Americans pride
I’ve felt the might of the Kremlin
In the Duma of the Aryan race
Gone under below the earth
In Australia, the lone continent
Gazed boldly at crown of Elizabeth
Like a Duke in Edinburgh palace
I’ve dined and wined at the so rock
In Abuja the power place of Africa
Been amused and excited beyond expression
I’ve let flow flood of tears
Felt pains and agonies deep to the marrow
All on the platter of books
And behold!, the wide world
Before my very eyes and mind
To wander and wonder.
Interesting regarding a walnut. Pacing perking perching. Wow. In a hooped skirt hopping. Hoping shell just keeps safe. Much leaping many leaves. And chiming is neither timing nor temperature gauge. A Guatemalan flying multi coloured bee is quite remarkable in a circular flight. Swarm not a swamp. But misted angular versions of vehicles are thrown from hill roads with force. Such a waste. A tyre pressure is a wound and jeopardy shout of a volcanic dust is blamed from an underlying explosive. Eradicating every even evil event. And blemish in a bun is a importance in a divination duty cake. So move move move. Movement ignites even the slow free wheeling sloth. Carries over eighty-three blankets to a far flung tribe. A curtain curtailed bridge. With a pineapple head hidden in a cavern. Priestly chieftains no money but power. In feathered hats reaching to the furthest moon. And all whilst the fluttery graceful arched tails of the triangular elephants prowl the sky and in their presence the servants of the mother are safe. Cot not a cape. Good. Haha haha the ant is dancing to rock music now and doing a cartwheel. Precipitation precise. And a deluge dump. Xxxxx pinnacles xxxxx gesticulation z
Form:
I stuffed my pockets full of California minutes,
Set out from Bakersfield before the break of day.
Checked out a waitress at a coffee shop in Needles
Then blew through Flagstaff on my way to Santa Fe.
Cut loose and rootless, making random left-hand turns
Straight razor whiskey, gotta love the way it burns
Pulled up at Pueblo for my ration of tequila
Long after hours in the Garden of Repose.
I paid my lady love a call in Carson City,
Got tanked in Reno with a Sacramento rose.
Street lamps and neon on a warm midsummer’s night
Drawn toward the tunnel at the end of so much light
Broke bread in Stockton with a Guatemalan dancer.
Shook down a flop house called The Shady Rest Motel.
Laid low in Fresno for the balance of my paycheck,
Got back to Bakersfield in time to raise some hell.
I’m gonna ramble till the swallows leave for Egypt.
Gonna ramble till the Happy Prince goes blind.
I’m gonna ramble till I’ve gathered up my troubles.
Gonna ramble till I’ve left ‘em all behind.
Might put my suitcase under the bed,
But I always leave it packed for later.