Pueblo Poems | Examples

wind strong moon

weighty winds whirling
	tempestuous character ~
		robin wings flutter

(March Full Moon – Pueblo)

Let's Meet At Olvera Street

Olvera Street
It's where we're spending Mother’s Day
Children run around La Calle, and play
La placita de Olvera Street
Family's coming, it’s where we’ll meet
We’ll do some shopping with the merchants there
Spend time at the Candela Shop Square
Spiced and decorated, colorful and unusual candles
Buy a pair of huaraches, traditional Mexican sandals
Time for a new peasant blouse and a shirt that says Chicana
We’ll lunch at the famous taquitos place and listen to some Mana
                                      

Olvera Street is in the oldest part of Downtown Los Angeles, California, USA
El Pueblo de Los Angeles Historic Monument. Historically, it abutted the original Chinatown, which was later removed to its modern location to make way for Union Station. There are 27 buildings of various ages still standing.
Los Angeles was founded in 1781 by Spanish pobladores, on a site southeast of today's Olvera Street near the Los Angeles River. They consisted of 11 families and were accompanied by a few Spanish soldiers. The new town was named El Pueblo de Nuestra Señora Reina de los Ángeles.

Avalon By the Bay

To Avalon! To Avalon! Twenty-six miles from door to door.
The Catalina Channel Isle: my destination off the shore.

We sail a wide and glassy sea, arriving Friday evening, late.
The Grand is seen from far away, guards the harbor, silent waits.

To stroll the boardwalk, drool as salted taffy’s pulled,
tour Zane Gray’s pueblo house, protect your lunch from diving gulls.

Catch a movie at the Grand’s mesmerizing, giant screen:
magical, this castle fort, not believed unless it’s seen.

Sleeping on the boat at night, rocked to sleep by gentle wakes,
row the dinghy in the morn, skindive for abalone steaks.

Journey back home Sunday night, late arrival into port.
Monday morning, foggy dreamland: school simply does not comport!

—————

(memories of childhood trips to Avalon Harbor on Catalina Island off the coast of California)

Easter Musing

On Fort Apache Indian Reservation, in Arizona, there is an old pueblo ruin called, "Kinishba", aka "Dull brown house in the middle of nowhere". 

On a hill overlooking Kinishba, there is an older ruin where I enjoyed sitting to listen to the wind whispering among the pine trees as I photographed fauna going about their daily routine.

One morning, I was watching snow fall and melt on the ancient paths below, when I suddenly realised that -although water is heavy, and easily spilt - there was not one single path leading directly from the ruin to the spring at Kinishba! 

Everyone knows the proverbial "straight and narrow" is the shortest distance between two points, yet every path to the spring had twists and turns for which there was no obvious reason!

One might imagine there may have been a long-gone tree, bush, rock, shrine, or some other superstition to account for those deviations but, whatever the reasons may have been, the snow made it crystal clear that people will ignore the easy straight and narrow to follow the long and winding path of their ancestors for no logical reason whatsoever, century after century after century. 

Good luck to you!

Cantina Dream

Emerging from the shadows of the mission’s broken wall,
The moon falls on her shoulders like a ghostly silken shawl.
She wears a chain of silver and abalone shells.
Her eyes as bright as emeralds, her voice, like Spanish bells.

She wanders past the courtyard, the potter’s earthen jars,
The lights of the cantina, the lullaby guitars,
To step beyond the threshold of conservative affairs,
And let her dark desires be the focus of her prayers.

She conjures desperados burning ranchos built of straw. 
Her reckless indiscretions led to brushes with the law.
She’s broken her piñata and found herself beguiled.
Her heart was always restless, but now she’s running wild.

She glides among the canyons like a ghostly vagabond,
Her freedom the expression of the innocence she’s pawned.
She wraps herself like water around the un-carved stone.
It’s easy to imagine, but hard to let alone.

I look for her in turquoise that mirrors desert skies,
The wind that sweeps the mesa, my lover’s sleepy eyes,
The haunted midnight pueblo, the cool adobe dawn;
Though mountains rise between us whichever side I’m on.

Travelogue

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.

Duck and Cover Drill

Duck And Cover Drill
David J Walker
 
I still 
Remember the drills 
Holding our heads under 
The third-grade desks
 
“Perfect,” our teacher said
Repeat after me
“Duck and Cover”
“Duck and cover”
 
And us boys on the 
Playground 
With wide-eyed pride
That our town 
Was important enough
For the Russians to bomb
With nuclear weapons
 
Pueblo
Had a weapons depot 
That no one we know
Had ever seen
 
But we had seen the
Graining film of  the
Mushroom cloud above the
Blast that would last only 
Seconds before 
Everyone and
Everything  was gone
 
Everyone but our 
Third-grade class 
Safe under our desks 
Heads beneath our arms
Where we would stay still 
Until the alarms were sounded
All clear from the
Duck and Cover Drill

Retaliation For Small Pox Blankets

Fort Pueblo 1854, retaliation swift, no one was toying.
We rebels thought the British Empire annoying
Nonchalant agents ignored the plan with noncaring eyes. 
It is a misnomer that the Europeans are the good guys.

We were the bad guys during the Indian Wars, totally unfair. 
Giving smallpox laden blankets to the natives without care. 
Making our friends our enemies, a move that was dire.
Making us less than people, a mean kind of fire.

In retaliation for the small pox deaths, White Earth led a raid.
He brought Apache and Utes in, to slay as if it were a parade.
They came to many a dwelling, and killed quite a few.
Dire displace of a woman and her sons, count of two.

Trumpland

I ride the mesas
Wherever I go
Are Hopi, Zuni,
And tall Navajo

So many people
On dry, barren land
All Trump says is,
"They sure have got sand!"

Zuni Weather

A Zuni who prays every day
Saw a cloud in the sky back in May
He yelled, "Do or die!"
Which made the cloud cry
And that's why its still raining today.

Lima

Perched on a cliff,
Towering from the sea.
Embracing a cool breeze;
Lima is the city.

Miles of pueblo jovenes,
Surround her heart.
Like a flock of sheep,
Not wanting to part.

Slums lay there
In shades of beige.
When they really want
Be red with rage.

In Cono Sur
Dreams fade in and out.
Children run free;
Through fields of drought.

In hillsides huts
Families strive 
With endless hope
But never thrive.

Fear falls upon
Their honest faces 
Perils of reality dawn
In this dangerous place.

So different from
The city's heart;
In these forgotten slums
People fail to start.

In Miraflores,
Privileged are the people.
Abundant are the shops
And churches with steeples.

Men here hold keys
To an absolute power.
With steel arms of might
All they do is devour.

Climbing up the submit 
On backs of their countrymen
They control liberty 
Through venal assemblymen .

The streets are wide
Lined with houses of white.
Men pruning hedges
How lovely a sight.

Life in Lima
Is a glimmering façade.
Most live in slums
Or her many esplanades.

This is the Lima
They want all to see.
Grand desert city
Down by the sea.

The Strength of the Bald Eagle

Powers beyond measure with messages of the spirit, 
the BALD EAGLE soars with might, so majestic I can hear it.
Bestowing freedom flying higher than any other bird, 
and when in silence in the night his voice can be heard.

Symbolizing courage with intense eyes to catch prey,
the strength of the BALD EAGLE will always be portrayed.
The distance of mother nature providing such nobility, 
has brought faith in humanity and given such dignity. 

Powerful and robust is a BALD EAGLE in high flight, 
a predator during the day and on the watch at night. 
Native Americans see them as a leader for vision, 
without restraints or impractical stipulated provision.

Soaring with grace as the American national emblem, 
with those silky-smooth feathers, they fly with momentum.  
Pueblo Indians associated them with energy of the sun,
holding great perception, and to never be shunned.

I once had a dream I was soaring with a mighty BALD EAGLE, 
it meant freedom with great strength and that we are all equal. 


SPIRIT GUIDES CONTEST
June 8, 2017

Fuente Ovejuna

(In the late Middle Ages, the people
of the Spanish village of Fuente
Ovejuna rose up spontaneously and
killed their cruel overlord.)

No, there were no words. 
Nobody seduced the villagers 
with, "What Is To Be Done?" 

No-one came with drums 
to smite the heart 
and pummel the Pueblo walls. 

Best call it a communal twitch, 
a spasm in the Pueblo soul. 

Nothing seized us, entered into us. 
More accurately, something went. 
We seemed to have mislaid ourselves awhile. 

Of the doers, who shall abide the deed? 
None recalls the doing. 
What can it be likened to? 
Falling down a wellshaft? 
Oppressive closeness, 
voices that were all torque. 

When we returned, 
ugly sunlight had transformed The Thing 
into a thing more prosaic. 
The village was itself again. 

But It had lost Its head. 

People (we were plural once again) 
were still as corpses. 
Someone said, without conviction, 
"Tyranny is dead". 
A throat was cleared. 

It didn't look like Tyranny. 
It just looked uncomfortable 
where it lay, contorted. 

Some of them spat and shuffled off, 
some just stood uneasily, 
impressed at their own embarrassment.

Native Remembrance Day

I would like to pay tribute to those who died
While introducing you to our native pride
We are Cherokee, Iroquois, and Lakota
We are Navajo, Algonquin, and Dakota
Our lands were open and free to roam
But when the pilgrims came, we lost our home
We are Omaha, Sioux, and Pawnee
We are Mohegan, Crow, and Shawnee
Our people were brave, our tribes were strong
What was done to them was very wrong
We are Hopi, Ottawa, and Comanche
We are Pueblo, Cree, and Apache
Now my friends, let the truth be told
Our people were killed, beaten and sold
To this day we get no respect
The word used to describe us, we must reject
A football team even bears the name
Which brings us dishonor, grief and shame
So tell me the truth, what would you say 
For us, is it a Thanksgiving Day?

Blue Madonna

I need to see a certain pueblo blanco,
and go in the white, high church to pray.
They have, by all reports, a blue Madonna.

I will kneel by the blue Madonna,
and pray for all the people - every one.
I'll pray they'll have good fortune in the pueblo;
that their Madonna - blue Madonna,
will see them safely Home.





6/26/2015

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