Long Carob Poems
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(Note: taken from a diary of a young lady)
In memoriam of Jose` Maria
aged twenty, drowned.
I lounge on an uneven stone
under the uneasy shade
of an ancient carob tree,
away from the hot rays
of the summer sun.
I sit alone, abandoned,
I contemplate in vain,
for my thoughts wander on you,
who left me in the lurch.
I stare vacantly towards
the mighty sea that
like a cyclone of frigidness
buffets the darkened rocks
that form the inlet.
Wave after wave
enters the narrow strait
and rumble onwards
to the horrendous shore
throwing iridescent sprays
over the plaque of cold hard marble
that hides a tragedy of life.
Under the Iberian sky
prickly pears ripen
a stone's throw away
from the glinting shore
amid the green olive trees
slightly wet with sea spray.
The plaque seems to glow
in the hot summer rays.
I wonder what made Jose` Maria
swim in that turbulent sea.
Maybe he searched for treasure lost,
or hunted for the slippery octopus,
or mourned over lost love.
A life destroyed.
Am I not astray too?
I am so far away from you,
forsaken and unloved,
for you are like the sea, drowned
in a cyclone of frigidness.
Time moves on forward fast,
Like rapids hurtling unheedingly headlong
Towards a sheer deep cascade,
And plummet down below in a mighty roar
To flow relentlessly towards the infinite sea
Drifting straight into eternal oblivion.
Yet time can ne'er erase all memories,
And special ones will always linger
In the obscure corridors of my mind.
Hence I can never forget my dear,
The night that we first met.
Were not that night the stars conspiring
To throw a luminous light on our love?
Did not the twinkling stars shoot out their ways
In the clear expanse of nightly sky?
There under a lonely carob tree,
Where dry old leaves crackled
Under our woollen spreads,
You smiled graciously at me
And suddenly I knew
How eager was I for a love so true.
We were like two of those gems above,
Shooting their way across the skies.
And fate decreed that those two stars should meet
In an astral collision and fuse into a lasting blast.
Light sparkled above sublimely
An ethereal fireworks display,
That lasted for one long memorable moment,
But the light in our love will last
Until the end of our days.
Is it Epson Salt?
All those nice villas along the coast are empty save for stray cats
and those too poor to live inland because the sea stinks like
bouillabaisse gone off. Marine life and sea plants have died out of too much
acidity caused by industry, and now it is too late to clean up the mess.
Fish in tanks are guarded and so expensive only the very rich can afford it,
say, bacalao; we have to eat fishcakes consisting of ninety-eight percent
mashed potatoes, and the rest is cod skin. Cod liver oil is the cure-all medicine,
it’s too expensive, and only the well-off can afford to buy it,
and they, the rich, live years longer than the poor.
This has raised concern and social unrest, politicians on the left,
insist the poor have the right to be given a teaspoon
of the healthy oil every morning;
Mind there is synthetic cod liver oil, but it tastes awful.
Seagulls and terns have adopted well have earth-hued feathers,
sit in carob trees, sharp-eyed keep an eye for scraps of food and
scare tiny tots with their inane pirate shrieks.
From a safe distance, when the wind is calm, and on moonlit nights,
the sea looks as beautiful as written in fairy tale books, by
a marine biologist.
Is it Epson Salt?
All those nice villas along the coast are empty save for stray cats and those too poor to live inland because the sea stinks like bouillabaisse gone off. Marine life and sea plants have died out too much acidity caused by industry, and now it is too late to clean up the mess.
Fish in tanks are guarded and so expensive only the very rich can afford it,
say, bacalao; we have to eat fishcakes consisting of ninety-eight percent mashed potatoes, the rest is cod skin. Cod liver oil is the cure-all medicine,
it’s too expensive, and only the well-off can afford to buy it,
and they, the rich, live years longer than the poor.
This has raised concern and social unrest, politicians on the left,
insist the poor to has the right to be given a teaspoon
of the healthy oil every morning;
Mind there is synthetic cod liver oil, but it tastes awful.
Seagulls and terns have adopted well have earth-hued feathers,
sit in carob trees, sharp-eyed keep an eye for scraps of food and scare tiny tots with their inane pirate shrieks.
From safe distant, when the wind is calm, and on moonlit nights,
the sea looks as beautiful as written in fairy tale book, by
a marine biologist.
The morning's first cup is sweetest, rich and hot,
as I look through my kitchen window at the hickory.
The low branches will come off first.
Once upon a time I'd climb it, perch atop the high branches,
then in the throes of leafing, to gaze unfettered at the land.
Should take the day to get them all,
put them through the chipper.
Dawn creeps upon October's harvested plain,
sun igniting pumpkin flames in the lazy creek that bends at the tree,
early mist caressing damp carob earth.
The trunk will come later this week.
Dew-stained fences meander idle tracts of shorn fields,
air pungent with hay, apples and barley.
Etched against apricot clouds spread in lemon sky
strides the hickory, alive with orange light
and bustling with wrens and robins,
far off roosters crowing morning prayers.
The stump will be out before the first snow.
We'll be moved to town for winter by then,
won't hear the wind crying over memories.
Dawn of man
Out of the night came the dawn a mild breeze
blow petal off a rhododendron, a magic carpet
on a whitewashed wall sunlight and shadow dance.
The dogs were still asleep, the cock had not crewed
Quietness, except for an old man fearing his death
his solace is in the day.
A plane across the sky leaves behind tired dreams
of next year’s vacation.
Alfredo is up starting up his little tractor harvesting
carob beans before it get too hot; he used to have
a mule took a long time back then; the mules made
the landscape looks prettier.
I have been here a long time a tranquil bay far from the sea
leave to me soak up the peace before setting sail
for the timeless ocean.
If I were to stray from the straight road,
meander along twisted olden paths
let me not see an ordered place
like some new grown garden
designed by some modern nursery
to whom you must pay a hefty price.
Give me the lonely winding trails
lined with hard square granite
which farmers use for rubble walls,
that in turn give some shelter
to the prolific cape sorrel
swaying their yellowish flowers
with light sea gentle breezes
that fill the air with misty sea breeze
and manure maturing in the sunny rays.
A sudden bend might reveal
the reddish volcanic scoria
so oft used in Christmas cribs.
Afar dogs bark and jump with glee
at birds that occasionally fly low,
while the stately old palms
stand like a rock at some juncture
in this heavenly bliss.
At last a wooden bench I'll find
not far from carob trees.
There I will rest alone at peace
as far away as possible from it all.
The Indian elephant
I knew of an Indian elephant who worked at a circus
on an act where unhappy animals sit up and beg
and sad clowns who know they are pathetic dance
one day, the elephant stopped the act, addressed
the public
why is it that the rich pay no tax but have a choice
of food to eat and do not help the poor
out of poverty
I, he said, pointing at himself, get paid green bananas
and stale bread. not good for my digestion
I blame the capitalist system,
When the authorities heard of this, they asked if
he had a working permit, but the circus owner didn't
want any problems, so the elephant
was fired
The obedient press told lies about him, an angry
the mob chased him out of town.
He took up living between two carob trees and
since no one expected to see an elephant there
no one saw him.
My best friend, a dissolute labor leader, and I
often sit on the elephant's back and play poker
the ex-labor leader knows how to negotiate
wins, the elephant is happy he is free,
eats yellow bananas and snacks on olive leaves.
My husband bought some ice cream –
Rather costly, but on sale.
“Organic” said the label
So assumptions did prevail…
Perhaps it would be healthy
(Though we usually don’t care)
Or made of some ingredients
Imbuing it with flair.
Instead, it tasted lousy.
Though the package called it “mint,”
Of that specific flavor
There was not the slightest hint.
The “chocolate” chips were carob,
Lacking any chocolate flavor.
I filled my bowl but sadly,
It was not a treat to savor.
The lesson to be learned is that
No matter the expense,
“Organic” equals not much taste.
(To purists – no offense.)
Set smoke, so sweet, so delicate
Something fuliginous, so intricate
Ocher bronze is all that I can see
You're beautiful, a dime to me
Spheres of the purist maple syrup
Sums them up; affectionately
Flowing through my heart, forever over my soul
Suspensions of golden medallions, never to control
Carob or chocolate cold never be
Subbed; for your lens looking at me
Caliginous, foreboding, but never forbidden
Like a chestnut mare; not broken, or ridden
My devotion is firmly planted, in your Earthly visions
You absolutely slay me with your warm decisions
Whimsical; they are made of fine mahogany
Eye's like yours set all apart; yet set me free