there are some people
I do know
they speak of places
I can't go
ooh then some
if God is real
might should I ask
the chores of one
done by two
Makes easy the task?
Hadian speak to the Romans.
Yes God is Real
He's real in our Souls
Yes God is real
that We have washed
and made us whole
Gods love for us
is what we should know
yes God is real
cause we can feel him
in our souls!
Answered by the Romans
This was spoken when Hadrian wished
to build the Temple of Venus and Rome.
While in Rome a woman asked
if she could kiss the
dark haired Spaniard. The fella answering her questions
laughed and told her she was referring to Caesar she
humbled herself and said she thought
Caesar was a legend and a myth.
until she saw his face she didn't believe. The jews
around her told her that he wasn't the savior god
but he ( Caesar) wished them to worship
him as god, something
these men refused to do. She smiled
at them and said Hail Caesar might I feed my
people. Several woman than throw tomatoes at her
and called her a whore. She rose stained and shame
""Si, Dio e reale!" " Si, Dio es real!"
I
the waves glisten in the moonlight
and there stands the wrestler with time.
trying to grasp the concept of youth
his being is like a grain of sand
underneath the san clemente skies.
the cedar aroma drifts from the end of the pier
and into a starry night
of which lays out to him the map of
the past, the present, and the future.
beauty etched into the universe
for as long as the earth spins —
the wrestler with time.
old houses scatter shorelines near
and far beyond the bend.
there’s a soft passing of a train
and the sounds begin to blend.
it seems to sweep him off his feet
and set his caged soul free;
he is the wrestler with time.
the fishermen with their buckets
pack up and disappear
under the dim glow
of scarcely placed lamp posts.
as he glances over at his wrist,
laces dangling over tower thirteen.
it is there where the wrestler with time
seeks for an understanding of why
youth fades and one’s
appreciation of beauty changes
as the days go by.
(2021)
I
San Clemente is always a nice place and tonight, she was something different.
wound up by a creator’s hands to such beauty around how could one be indifferent?
I vividly remember how beautiful the full moon was, while a slight breeze was blowing,
serenity in the form of waves crashing; the pier empty as the moon was glowing.
on that cloudy night, into the black backdrop, battering breezes sent chills up my body
put on my coat, and in my ponderance, setting like J Gatsby at the dock less gaudy, caught the moonlight reflecting off the waves.
it formed a line that seemed to go on forever, even though the dense coastal haze.
the night looked like the cover of Ride’s Nowhere I suppose, and
I wrote this poem so that this moment in time shall never decompose
Big Bear I met her there
She was in the snow.
San Clemente
By the sea
Her hair golden brown.
Arcata
I like her,
Her redwoods running free.
from the book The Brooklyn Sunflower by author Patrick Edward Tarpey
the waves glisten in the moonlight
and there stands the wrestler with time
trying to grasp the concept of youth
his being is like a grain of sand
underneath the san clemente skies.
the cedar aroma drifts from the end of the pier
and into a starry night
of which lays out to him the map of
the past, the present, and the future
beauty etched into the universe
for as long as the earth spins
the wrestler with time.
old houses scatter shorelines near
and far beyond the bend
there’s a soft passing of a train
and the sounds begin to blend
it seems to sweep him off his feet
and set his caged soul free
he is the wrestler with time.
the fishermen with their buckets
pack up and disappear
under the dim glow
of scarcely placed lamp posts
as he glances over to his wrist
laces dangling over tower thirteen.
it is there where the wrestler with time
seeks for understanding of why
youth fades and one’s
appreciation of beauty changes
as the days go by.
-j.m.
San Clemente
San Clemente is a mini state in the north of Portugal, just at the border of Spain,
it was founded by a flatulent bishop whose idea of healthy living was to let trapped
air freely flow. The town Clemente, is very charming with narrow roads meandering
around tiny village houses, car driving is not legal but you can hire a nice scooter.
I walked into a bistro ordered breakfast. The girl who took my order broke wind
I pretended not to hear, but I noticed similar noises came from tables where other
Clementinians sat; they also had perfumed hankies tucked in their sleeves which
they sometimes took out pressed to their noses, when not smoking strong
Turkish cigarettes. It was surprisingly cheap to rent or buy a flat there, thought of
renting, but the lady showing me round was so excited that I began smoking again.
But for me the freedom of releasing intestinal gasses at will was a liberty too far so
I drove across to border into Portugal and ate my dinner there in relative peace.
This is a very special day in Bulgaria, my friends. Here -
http://www.balkanfolk.com/news.php?id=23 - you can read more on it.
marigolds
marigolds
San Clemente*
and the sun that is
opening
we will lose ourselves
before they find us
in the eternal searching
for ourselves
(and the mind again
steps over us)
did you recognize the happiness
Ahasver**
marigolds
(like an epoch)
San Clemente
and I am bowing
The original:
*In one lateral chapel there is a shrine with the tomb of Saint Cyril of the
Saints Cyril and Methodius who created the Glagolitic alphabet and Christianized the
Slavs.
**Wandering Jew; the name Ahasver is adapted from Ahasuerus the Persian king in
Esther, who was not a Jew, and whose very name among medieval Jews was an
exemplum of a fool
/from wikipedia/
Translator Bulgarian-English: Vessislava Savova
rarebird
© bogpan - all rights reserved.
marigolds
San Clemente*
and the sun that is
opening
we will lose ourselves
before they find us
in the eternal searching
for ourselves
(and the mind again
steps over us)
did you recognize the happiness
Ahasver**
marigolds
(like an epoch)
San Clemente
and I am bowing
*In one lateral chapel there is a shrine with the tomb of Saint Cyril of the
Saints Cyril and Methodius who created the Glagolitic alphabet and Christianized
the Slavs.
**Wandering Jew; the name Ahasver is adapted from Ahasuerus the Persian
king in Esther, who was not a Jew, and whose very name among medieval Jews
was an exemplum of a fool
/from wikipedia/
I trip to the O,
For grease monkey fries and a 40oz,
Scaling the Cathedral of Learning,
This is Oakland.
A roll of the die,
Stadium of choice,
Clemente Bridge connects us,
This is North Shore.
Fat Heads,
Tattoo parlors,
A thrift shop heaven,
This is South Side.
An Incline ride upward,
Pricey housing here,
Best view of the city,
This is Mount Washington.
Carnegie Hall,
Monty Python monthly,
Music and theater are alive here,
This is the Theater District.
Nightlife rays,
Morning meat shops,
Fresh food, legendary sandwiches,
This is the Strip District.
Extreme movie luxury,
Shopping for dropping dead,
Adjacent to one of many flowing rivers,
This is the Waterfront.
Culinary capacities,
PNC bank abound,
Fear of death by rubbing alcohol,
This is Downtown.
The only bar to attend,
Ice skating around a Christmas tree,
Mirror sky-scrapers,
This is PPG Place.
Three rivers,
Connected in a field of green,
The most amazing fountain on the edge,
This is the Point.
This is Pittsburgh.
Standing there.
Standing.
This is so-called the 'Clemente'.
Named after one of those players.
A player of the game.
I can see everything from here.
The whole city.
In all of its glow and smog.
I look up and see the great MT,
I could never imagine a better view.
I run my hands down this padded silver coat.
It's not even keeping me warm in this cool fall day.
I look down.
Staring.
Hard.
At that river below me.
It seems so welcoming,
So inviting if you will.
I step to the edge of the yellow.
And leap,
I fall.
Fall.
Falling pink-booted first,
And for seconds I feel so very free.
I've never been so free in my life.
I hit the water with a smack and go under.
I'm not drowning.
I'm coasting the current.
I can feel the freezing water piercing through my jacket.
It feels as if a million knives are piercing my heart.
In every direction.
But I feel free.
Freer than ever.
I am me.
I am free.
And then I awake.