Best Guatemala Poems
The Mayan Warrior Princess
In eerie recurring dreams, like things seen dimly before dawn,
blurred memories of a temple pyramid resurface from an era long gone.
My ancient soul trapped between two different worlds,
one new - the other centuries old,
remind me that I have been here before,
and of that I am absolutely sure.
Familiar faces and scenes from a past life I see,
recollections of Piedras Negras continue to haunt me,
with images of Lady K’abel, Mayan warrior princess, I used to be.
Time’s reluctant prisoner, I sense it will never set me free.
In a foggy haze, like a sleepwalker in sluggish slow motion,
body painted cobalt blue, I am ready for my heavenly mission.
Midnight velvet hair flowing, I lie on a red bloodstained stone altar,
as temple priests prepare me for the sacred sacrificial slaughter.
Piously chanting their practiced prayers in unison,
they adulate the gracious gods for a new divine king’s ascension.
The sharp knife swiftly pierces my sweating, feverish virgin skin,
but reliving this scene, I no longer feel pain or anything.
And as the universe greedily grasps my restless soul, I float into oblivion
knowing the harvest will be renewed and ultimately, I will be reborn.
Note: This poem is dedicated to my maternal great grandmother who was
a Mayan. The Piedras Negras, mentioned above, was a thriving Mayan
city-state in Guatemala, Central America, from about mid-7th century BC
century BC to about 850 AD. While this site is considered remote, during my
childhood, I visited frequently with family who still live in this fascinating region.
When I visit, I am completely at home and the experiences are amazingly
mystical. Piedras Negras means "black stones" in Spanish. The name in the
language of the Classic Maya has been read in Maya inscriptions as Yo'k'ib',
meaning "great gateway" or "entrance."
06-25-2014
Contest: Past Lives
Sponsor: Carolyn Devonshire
Placement: 3rd
A free verse done in a quatern form (1st line moves to each stanza but is here, I have more syllables in each line in free form then is allowed inQuatern
This scene before me is one of ideals
A dugout canoe of faded yellow, afloat
The fisherman winding his every day hopes
On a pop bottle spool with only one hook
Amid cliff sides of rising mountains, they come
This scene before me is one of ideals
Desires for adventures rendered sublime
In and out the cultures drift, on the divide
Accommodate the wandering nomad in us
Sharing our similarities, learning to trust
This scene before me is one of ideals
Country and culture calling out to the world
Accept the intrusions on centuries old life
Finding the rhythm, new outlooks attained
Why the world matters you’re shown right away
This scene before me, is one of ideals
written: 10-13-2019
Copyright Protected 2019 Jeanne McGee
Written in San Marco, Lake Atitlan, Guatemala
As the morning carries different bird song
My body stirs from its cozy slumber, begone
Aloft to the mountains volcanized hard crest
Dark clouds beat upon its jagged green breast
Then raindrops fall down in a long mighty yawn
The sun fights back to bring on the silvery dawn
So full are the colors of rainbow phenomenon
I wake to nature’s bounty completely impressed
Like sitting at the table as a humble breakfast guest
To see her splendor spun in swirls of bright chiffon
Green is the valley that man tills with his brawn
Growing rich gifts of the land it does spawn
As dawn wanes to noon for earths timely request
I let go of the morning feeling happily blessed
My head filled with pictures nature has drawn
written 9-22-2019
copy right protected 2019 Jeanne McGee
San Pedro, Guatemala
Underage Immigrant Crisis Part 1
We are having a big problem here in Texas, by the border.
It is turning into a dilemma. A lot of underage children are
coming into the United states, from El Salvador, Honduras
and Guatemala.
These immigrants are only kids. They are running away from
poverty, gangs and their lives being threaten. They come here
to reunite with parents, or relatives that already live here.
At one time President Obama said that any child that reached
American soil, would not be sent back to their native Country.
I think that people confused his words. He never said for them
to send them by the thousands.
Now it seems that their own families are sending them, or
paying the coyotes big money to bring them here. Last year
24.000 children cross over. This year they expect 90.000.
What can we do? This is a big problem.
In their journey to get here - these children encounter a lot
of dangers. Some get raped, some get killed and some are
taken by the Cartels and forced to work for them. Still some
get here, but without an ear, or some fingers missing. They
do that so their relatives can pay more money to save their
lives.
These kids come to the Texas Valley, than they bring them
to Houston. From here they take them to California, where
they are not wanted. I think we should be more human with
them, by that I mean - maybe we should let them stay with their
families that are here already and help the ones that have no one.
What do you think?
To be continued:
07/11/2014
By Lucilla M. Carrillo
HURRICANE HATTIE
It came like a thief
After midnight
Stealthily
Unawares
Mischievously
Spitefully
Desperately
Determined
With preconceived plans
Across the Caribbean Sea
Suddenly turning west
Making a beeline
To British Honduras
In Central America
It foiled expectations
That it would arrive
At seven the next morning
And
Instead
Made a surprise visit
Six hours earlier
And
Like the Gestapo
The KGB
The Secret Police
Attacked
While people were
Least prepared
Snoozing
Snoring
Dreaming
Of better things.
Discriminating
It attacked
Belize
Ignoring neighboring
Guatemala
Honduras
Mexico
As if
Remotely controlled
By some
Vengeful fanatic
At 150 miles per hour
And more
It
Clobbered
Battered
Hammered
Pounded
The coastline
Of
The Jewel
People still ’memba
How in ’61
It wrecked havoc
In Dangriga
Belize City
San Pedro
Cay Caulker
Among others
As it
Thumped
Hit
Broke
Lifted
Pushed
Carried
Dumped
Submerged
Their valuables
And
Like a Repo Man
Dispossess them
Of their
Treasured belongings
Within the
Make-belief safety
Of its eye
Poor people
Thinking it was over
Sought their fortunes
On the beaches
In the shops
In others’ property
When Hattie
On a round trip ticket
Came back hurriedly
And with
More gusto
Lashed out
As a category five
Storm
Typhoon
Hurricane
To teach them a lesson
In
Tort
Honesty
Respect
And dignity.
In the end
One third of the coast
Was devastated
One third
Damaged
And
Another third
Standing
With 264 dead
And millions
Of dollars lost
The place lay wasted
Spoiled
Thorn
Flooded
Damaged
Wounded
Smashed
Muddied
Polluted
As
Debris
Corpses
Belongings
And victims
Wallowed in its wake.
As it distanced itself
From
Its handiwork
And Observed
With a smirk
Its power
To
Subdue
Man
Woman and child
It grinned
In satisfaction
At its exploits
And its supernatural supremacy
To shape destiny
And vanquish the vulnerable
I’m an alien
From a poor country
A refugee in a rich country
From a far away third world country
Where corruption as cancer is spread every where
And people starve of hunger.
Within frontiers at El Salvador,
Nicaragua, Guatemala.
Refugees like me come and go
Through the frontiers to Mexico, USA, Europe.
There is a great difference in the world
Between rich and poor countries
Holland is a European rich country
The older you get the most isolated discriminated you feel.
As in Honduras in Holland there is unemployment.
Families are unable to fulfill their basic needs for their kids.
You can protest it won’t help!
There’s Unemployment, drug addiction
As cancer poverty spread everywhere in the veins of third world countries.
People are searching in the garbage.
Can you explain me this difference?
Does it make any sense?
I have a best friend.
He doesn't speak English, but
He lets me ask him anything-
He's got big brown eyes that watch
As the world goes by like falling stars-
He just watches, always watches...
He's too warm for North American winter,
Shrinks from snowballs like firecrackers,
But then we go for ice cream, eat it
Walking in the park-
We complain about how cold we are
But love the taste of the open air
Too much to go back to the car yet...
Besides, maybe he's only a little
Taller than I am, but he's still
Big enough to shield me from
The worst of the wind chill-
He seems bigger here, somehow,
Taller among the trees...
I ask him what he dreams of,
He says, "De Guatemala."
I ask him what he dreams;
He tells me about the coa-coa trees,
Orange trees, mango, tangerine...
How he lived by a river,
Went swimming every day
Since it was always summer-
Tells me until my head is full
Of so much color that I wonder
How he can stand the oppressive
Weight of so much of gray...
It's been gray for so long, here...
He tells me how when he's sad
He always comes to the park
Because the trees feel like peace.
I ask him why he gets sad-
He says sometimes, he misses home,
But sometimes he doesn't know...
But that's okay-
Sometimes neither do I...
My best friend and I decide
To come to the park
Together more often.
The morning sun hovers coyly
behind broad shoulders of the John Crow Mountain
before unwrapping petals of fever plant and Venice.
Mama’s countenance was far contrast to one so radiant,
so when the old Leyland bus went shuddering along gravel road
the first beams break through pinewood forest.
The old New Hampshire Red was up last night,
bamboozled by the plump moon,
but all was still in the petite hours ‘fore daybreak.
His first boast was far too late;
Banties have already blown their tops,
and warm rays long ago penetrated rabbit fence.
Leghorns proudly announced fresh eggs.
Beds were unoccupied and unmade.
Voices came, children in euphoria;
oppressors were off to nine to five.
Nightingale sang an encore
before morning forage,
and gaiety commences.
Brown skinned pickneys,
like the color of the Balaclava clay,
with reflections of innards on innocuous visages.
The hoopla lived until the Leyland snaked along treacherous drop
and the sun hastened to avoid mama’s air.
Chores rushed,
and mama voice ruined our names.
Tomorrow, at first light, we will be children again.
Most of us have heard of lands where dogs licked their humans’ faces
and are driven about in carriages in nappies,
while we loathe our predicament
some counterparts wrestle in grown-ups’ arenas;
innocence lost to palm wine and brown-brown,
and blood moves consciences far less than September’s rain.
Will tomorrow’s shoots be allowed to be children,
delightful progenies?
Let the bright sun shine on Columbia, Cambodia, Guatemala, and Sierra Leone.
The Atomic Café stays with me, over
even the most perfect of days.
I think about the arrogance of power
and how most people live in a daze.
I think on the geniality of the average citizen,
how willing, how trusting, how guileless they are.
The salt of the earth, reasonable men,
seen by their politicians as game that is fair.
Fair as in good pickings.
Fare as in someone who will pay.
Fair as in these are just the midlings.
Fair as in to assume they will do what we say.
I am sick to death of a society
that divides up into predator and prey.
One group seeking only comfort and security
and the other group seeks only power and display.
Who were these men of the Fifties,
that explained to us as if we were children,
that, yes, we could destroy whole cities,
but, yes, atomic power could also save men.
We bought their maps and graphs and cute cartoon
of jovial Mr. Atom and how he could help us,
while in hospitals these devious men of doom
experimented on innocents with plutonium inserts.
They explained at great length the threat from outside,
moved trusting men at will with just the sound of a siren,
sprayed cities with virus to see how it spread and subside.
gave acid to the unknowing to see how it affected the brain.
They demonstrated with a flourish the benefits of "our system"
and we in our search for comfort bought a new car and color TV.
They felt free in our bought silence not to mention Iran,
Guatemala, or black budgets we were not allowed to see.
All these are quite obvious some fifty years past.
Those guilty men at least thought it necessary to explain
their actions and are with us no longer. Their descendants at last
have clearly learned the game, our understanding of issues is lame.
The public, once bought, has no need for explanation, or outcome.
Constant fear is now the new game.
We all now mutter platitudes of gain and freedom,
and live our lives as if they both mean the same.
Guatemala Tour
The Mayan’s were the focus
Of our Guatemala stop
We saw some ancient ruins
Had a lunch and stopped to shop
That there describes the outline
Of any tours you take
But the devil’s in the details
In the memories you make
Again we took a bus ride
This time the streets were paved
We passed twice through a village
The natives smiled and waived
Our tour guide was part Mayan
Her native outfit worn
She told us of the coffee plants
And how Chiclets gum was born
We passed active volcanoes
Smoke poured from perfect cones
And ancient rock formations
An ancient god in stones
We got up to the ruins
Saw a model of the site
That let us see just where they lived
And where they learned to fight
Some temples were uncovered
Some were buried still
We saw a death-match ball field
It gave us all a chill
We got to climb the stair steps
Where ancient rites took place
And walk there in the footsteps
Of the ancient Mayan race
We even saw some Mayans
In a private ritual pray
Asking their gods for guidance
In the ancient Mayan way
There were fires on the altar
There were flowers all around
We were privileged to observe them
There on that sacred ground
The ruins were inspiring
So old and so pristine
These ancient Mayan ruins
Were the best things we had seen
The ride back was a long one
We had to stop for lunch
With home-made fried tortillas
Fire-charred chicken with a crunch
We walked along the shops there
Some bought souvenirs
This was a trip we’ll talk about
For many, many years
Hot Tamale
By Dane Smith-Johnsen
Man from
Guatemala,
Educator-
Hot tamale.
Lessons learned
Adoration churned.
Another’s love
A young heart burned.
From darkest fear,
You drew love near.
Esteem encroached.
By promises cloaked.
Straightforward.
Real. Life had zeal.
It was a huge ordeal.
Living had been.
Battered by sin
Until that day,
You ran my way.
My mind would mend.
Subdued was evils’ trend.
As fears were peeled,
You taught me to feel.
Numbness and pain,
No longer could gain.
Death’s grip on my soul,
Lost its control.
Stifling hurt desired demise.
You pierced my heart.
Oh, those jet black eyes.
Kindness bequeathed.
New hope dearly reached.
The man from
Guatemala,
“My Honey”
Hot tamale.
Through love,
Helped me find.
Myself. Now, I live.
Written for: Christopher Higgins' "Get Your Rebel On!!" contest
supporting the anti-communists in
the Soviet Union from
1944 to 1989---
supporting al-Za’im in Syria in
1949---
installing Shah Mohammed Reza
Pahlevi in 1953 Iran---
supporting Colonel Carlos Castillo
Armas in 1954 Guatemala---
providing weapons to anti-communist
Tibetans, from the mid-1950’s to the
1970’s---
rounding up & supporting the Laotian
Hmong to fight communists in Laos,
from the mid-1950’s to the 1970’s---
providing weapons, money and aid to
Colonel Ahmad Hussein and Colonel
Ventje Sumual’s forces in 1958
Indonesia---
attemped to assassinate Fidel
Castro various times, training
anti-communists to invade Cuba
in 1959 through the failed Bay of
Pigs operation and Operation
Mongoose---
supported coup of Rafael Trujilo’s
regime in the Dominican Republic
in 1961 and his subsequent
assassination---
supported the Ba’ath Party killing of
Abd al-Karim Qasim in 1963---
instigated, supported and provided
money to those carrying out the
coup & assassination of Ngo Dinh
Diem in 1963’s South Vietnam---
supported Joao Goulart’s removal
via coup d’etat in 1964’s Brazil---
supported anti-communist
right-wingers in 1967’s
Greece, killing what had been a
democratically elected government
there---
did everything under the sun to
eliminate the government of elected
President Salvador Allende in Chile,
from 1970-1973, including the
murder of Rene Schneider---
supported the military overthrow
of Argentina’s democratically
elected Isabel Martinez de Peron in
1976---
At times, Spanish becomes
An incomprehensible
Tangle of strange words
Like strange woods
And unfamiliar sounds
That roll like hills
And confuse my senses-
English is my natural
Habitat, but to my lover,
English is a new land
Which still feels altogether
Unfamiliar under his feet...
So in the moments
We cannot find enough
Common ground to
Communicate with
Spoken words,
We've learned to
Read eachother
Like maps-
He doesn't need labels
To recognize the shape
Of my expression;
He uses the curve of
My lips as a landmark-
He has studied the course
Of my tears like inlets
And the sigh of my breath
Like waves against
The coastline, since
I swore that my arms
Would always be
His harbor-
He has traced the planes
Of my face with his fingers
Until he knows them like
The back of his hand...
His hands are as familiar
To me now as
As my own backyard...
His palms are traced
With lines that wind like
The rivers of Guatemala
That he swam in as a child,
Or like borders,
But they are always
Open since his hands
Are like a compass-
When being lost feels
Like loneliness,
They lead me into
His arms-
When the world keeps
Sliding around like
Fault lines, they
Lead me back onto
Solid ground-
When a storm blows me
Off-course, they lead me
Back home...
It's funny how
Being with him
Is like reading a map
Of a foreign country,
And yet...
Will still lead me
Home.
Many, many years ago when I was nearly three,
I joined my parents and we made these nationalities.
My mom was born in Berlin,
to my Hitler youth grandpa.
He didn't like some Germans,
but for his country he fought.
My dad is of an Irish name,
and he lives in the states.
And at a friendly's restaurant,
he met my mom one day.
Now Irish dad and German mom,
are happy as can be.
-But soon they felt, to be complete,
they needed to have me.
I was born in Guatemala,
many miles away.
Till my parents saw my picture,
in the USA.
And so they took a journey down,
to get my sis and me.
And thus, there are two Latins,
in the Dowling Family tree!
Now I’m married to a German
who is my best friend.
And the day she has my kids,
the whole thing starts again.
I reckon here's a lesson,
to those feeble shallow minds.
That love extends beyond a race,
or culture, place or time.
So maybe you can look at us,
and say it's only right.
That anything is possible,
in this beautiful life.
Oh, I’m the future now!
I’m the future now!
It sounds funny I know,
but we're all over the globe!
We're the future now!
Broken dreams
Tonight I`m happy and sad
I refuse to cry over lost friends
I`m drunk too
It feels good to up the anchor of sobriety
Let alcohol give winds to my sails.
I`m a clipper buying tea in China
not useless toys
Sleek the line and the women admired me
let the clipper sail
I don`t care I will stay here and
make love to you.
I`m sorry I left you, my Liverpool girl but
I went to Brazil to harvest coffee beans
Guatemala I got there by chance
the beach in the moonlight
I have not forgotten my promises
one day more, just one day more
but the ship always sails to other shores
and I never got to write
the poem of my life