Through the hills of Spain
among the flowers and the seeds of life
a train wanders
Hernandez .... Hernandez
the night is hushed
mockingbirds listen
to the tirades of men
wounded in battle
blood of your blood
senseless death in the air
the wind swallows birds
Hernandez ... Hernandez
There is death caught by the nostrils
of the sky
there is death everywhere
the sea calling to forlorn travelers
Hernnandez ... Hernandez
your wound leaves the redness of
skys never conquered
untouched, virginal
Oh, yawning tenderness
lust on the wheels of a train
blood on the faces of bulls
soil calloused by murder
homicide of undertakers
and children
Sword of the flesh Alicante
ripe years of manhood
Oh, dawning life
overpowering weatherworn axes
heaven of your life
Hernandez ... Hernandez
Through the hills of Spain
among the flowers and the seeds of life
a train wanders
--Luis Omar Salinas, copyright 1970.
My white poison
The gap is materialistic
Music used to show me how to cross the line
The movement expressed to seek good demons
Used verse.
We have no idea,
but…the gap is materialistic,
so that is the perfect line
celebration of poetry...dreams
Poetry has surprised emotions
This does not rhyme
The material is me.
which poet will take the hole instead of me?
Which poets will take
and transformed my blank venom…?
___________________________________
Devotion to what?
The nightmares are not the end
They are only reasons to start my new trip
with my eye-patch
But all roads die at some place
I am afraid of what not to do.
This is my final notion of life.
I feel too emotional.
Here, a tree has moved to the tower
And me, the simple mortal,
with a final of nightmares: “Get out” .
The last monologues
She read (underground).
The bad boy with his "non-truth".
I the bad girl with half truth,
The world is a half lie .
Non-devotion. Non-truth/half truth
So what?.
The nightmares are not the end.
---
Shirat (song)
The only picture
I have
Of my grandmother
my Mon has it
in the large hall
of my house
/over there/ in el Barrio...
Where there are no
other houses.
My mother says that she is not an expert
in photo albums
nor the ticking of the hour
but!!, she reminds me a little of my past
and that...
she has the only picture
of my grandmother
That I remember...
and I stop here!!
I see her now
I see myself
Palmar is the "Capital" letter
San Carlos its name
All of Palmar is over there
My mother is the guardian of my future
All of my deaths live in my guardian
the reason of this past is to negotiate it with God
I do not want this place to die and it will not die
as long as we stay on guard
--Miriam Ventura, is an author of various books of poetry. These poems pertains to the book Bingo Highway, unpublished.
