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Infected Ideologies [a Poetic Portrait]

the disease of extremism is infectious-; whoever cannot think of their child growing up without it is part of the phenomenon! (the choice of the day). fanaticism,– with a powerful ideology are seeds for suicide! murder: giving reasons to rage!… ask: leninist che hitler bin laden they will show you to a noble act of death!… (that is what they say). throw out: poverty, the disadvantaged- save the ideology, that is the infected, the choice!?

#812 8/212/05

Notes by Rosa Peñaloza: the author has not written to be political, rather psychological as his mind works-both in poetry and perhaps with all his writings. He writes as he sees things, be it close up, or from a distance. And he sees evidently terrorism more in an ideological frame than others do. Right or wrong, he looks at the character, the soul of the phenomenon. When he wrote the book, "Islam, In search of Satan’s Rib," many thought of the book being anti this and that. When in essence, he was looking at the God’s you might say; again, not political, per se, rather, psychological, if not theological, and not trying to persuade anyone to any certain religion. He received a letter of thanks from Arial Sharon, and a picture signed by him, as a compliment. This poem seems to reflect some of that old message he tried to write in the book.

Wars, Air of Ambiguity [for: Lt. Laura Walker] in SPANISH and English

Wars, air of Ambiguity

Dedicated to 1st. Lt. Laura Walker (From an old soldier/Vietnam Veteran)

[Advance] We fight in foreign lands not because we necessarily love its culture or land, but because we believe in pragmatism (life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness); simply as it may be, it can be costly.

The Poem:

We all lose something in war And sometimes gain something: Idealism, physical, cynical (no blood in the face), Psychological, innocence-; We’re all victims of violence For sure? (accepted or not).

A character in a book dies in The clap of an eye-, In real life, it is not so simple, No dreamy solution. It is the duty of the soldier to kill (Or accept being killed); Just when, is when it becomes Complicated? Disillusionment creeps in?, As does an air of the unknown. In war there are only epigraphs; Death, to a part of the human race Is really what takes place? It starts as it ends, with The human effort exhausted.

There is nothing more admirable More brave, more flawless, Than one who gives their existence For another’s-especially in A foreign land! for pragmatism?

In Spanish Translated by Nancy Penaloza

Ceasar Vallejo: Black Roses [In English and Spanish]

Cesar Vallejo: Black Roses

Bow down your head ol’ poet- To face God’s grace ahead There are no more trenches

To dig today? In the forest of your head,

So-: Bow down, bow down,

Ol’ barbaric poet! Death rides the horse ahead I hear the crackling of a whip See the crazed eyes of death.

He summons you to his den- The devil and his wind,

So-: Bow down, bow down Your blood stained brows He will take you to the edge.

Closer, closer, I see you now Eh! a moving satanic cloud- I see a festival of black-roses, I hear clamor in the crowd.

Bow down, bow down, Ol’ poet ?I hear your applause!

#666 [5/15/2005]

Versión en Español Translated by Nancy Penaloza Edited by Rosa Penaloza

César Vallejo: Rosas Negras

Inclina tu cabeza viejo poeta- Para encarar la gracia de Dios adelante No hay más trincheras Para cavar hoy ? En el bosque de tu cabeza,

Entonces-:

Inclínate, inclínate ¡Viejo poeta barbárico! La muerte monta el caballo adelante Oigo el crujido de un azote Veo los ojos enloquecidos de la muerte.

Memoirs of a Wastelands Rim [a Poem: now in Spanish and English]

Memoirs of a Wasteland’s Rim

It still was light when she paused at the wasteland’s rim- Over, the rim rest like a sleeping brute, a wooden frame Adjacent to the blue where early stars hung like oil lamps Hanging from old beams and shade?the wooden frame Her footing caught the beams, as she had fallen onto it Alone, she watched the forenoon, climbing around her A drifter woman, marked by life, and slanting dreams With appearance of hurt and molded muscle on her face Her figure etched against the wooden frame, She tried to jump, and lost her balance, hanging like a bird Now sipping the gloom in the ledge and shattered hopes She yielded before the sluggish advance of sunset Blood dripped, with her dying darkness And a crimson moon hurled a flame across The shadowy clouds, burning throughout the sky The tormented sky above her?

Uamaks Aquatic [suspense: now in Spanish and English]

Delicately, my mind was selecting a muffled tune, out of the dead dark empty space surrounding me?

I saw a shape on a rock, not sure who it was; I had a sensitivity though, a feeling call it, or second-sight; I’ve heard that before, not sure if I want to put a lot of credence into it, but so be it, the sensitivity and numbness was there. I didn’t’ sense any danger in the moment, in the moonlit figure, sitting on the rocks, lurking, looking out into the deep. I did get an awareness of cramps in my stomach though, like centipedes nibbling at it-from all corners-at the pink and red flesh of my internal organs, stinging their poisonous little fangs into them.

I stumbled about in the thick foliage, lost in its prickly overgrown wild plants and mud, and god knows what else; in corollary, I came to the edge near the sea, over looking the aquatic, edge of the cliff, it was many years ago since I had been here. I zigzagged through the last of the bushes, carefully now, it was the rim of the cliff, and then got I into a clearer opening. I could only hear the noises of shifting waters now-the waters below me, as clattering waves hit, and splashed against the overhang-the sea cliffs, directly in front of me. It was but a few seconds after dark, behind twilight, yes indeed, it had disappeared, swallowed up by an agitated night.

Grandpas House & From Iraq with Love [Two Poems]

Grandpa’s House [The ole Real House]

The house needed painting Sun-blistered and flaking Grandpa started to have us Boys-Mike and I- start Doing some scraping-

While he, pealed off the ole Paint, and started painting?

Just a humble wooden house With several rooms, but Strong enough to keep the Winds and winter snows out, How he loved that ole house!…

An’ his well-kept yard, which Contained lilac bushes, and Big shade trees; where birds And squirrels lived-season To season, scattered on?

Branches-they looked like Play things (back in the 50s)

#807 8/18/05

Note by the author: "We all grew up together I suppose you might say, my brother and I, mom and grandpa, a few aunts in the beginning, all living in an extended family environment; that is how it felt anyhow. Although the house belonged to my grandfather, we all lived together; now it all seems so long ago, and what pops out of my mind is: I never did take a liking to painting houses after painting his a few times."

From Iraq with Love

American’s most often are Certain of what they want From the world- In a large measure, In charge: Gold, machinery, Symbols It’s what it’s all About?

Breathing-in, Minnesota [a poem: now in Spanish and English]

In early fall, in Minnesota, the rain falls, falls, In buckets, buckets and more buckets-: drops Likened to music from its many streams-land Of ten-thousand lakes; moistened gravel, gravel Everywhere?

Grandpa sits on the porch-daydreaming of, of Something, perhaps winter around the corner-; As the flies disappear, with the mosquitoes? Leaves will soon vanish, shadows will come early

Maybe he’s thinking about summer: miles and miles And miles and miles of cornfields; his childhood now Long gone, he hums a hymn, a song; looking at the Metal-piped fence, he made, with three poles, on the Embankment, leading up the steps to the porch; It’s worn-out like him.

The winds in Minnesota smell fresh, fresh from all The foliage, there’s a lot of it. The eighty-three Year old man looks about, on his screened in Porch -fetches his pipe, lights it up, sucks in a Drag, pushes out some smoke: it drifts and drifts In the corners of the house

"Ah!" he says-proud of his life events-I say to Myself (I’m but ten): "No doubt He’s already lived this?"

An Old Wood Pile [a poem with notes]

Old skin, once held tight Against her skeleton- Rose no more, just draped Loosely over unpadded flesh; Un-tightened muscles, and tissue, Lost its courage, no-fortitude-, Gone are the days and years That stood against the Indomitable elements; The skeleton, now a landmark Hidden under flesh and blood Guts and moral fiber, backbone? Collapsed from drudgery Time, time: cascading inside-. Bones now leaving impressions Accepting fate Like tarnished silver!… Hands look like autumn leaves Fallen from a tree Winter’s around the corner The door of time is closing Like an old wood pile Being burnet up- Hard to open things Hard to do anything Precariously balanced- Painfully slow?

She hears my feet Cross the room-her pale Sweet blue eyes, flicker Like butterflies?

Tilting her face To catch her breath She says: "Who wants to live like this?"

#793 [8/11/05]

The Exit Poems [Iron and Fire & No Heroes]

The Exit Poems [And Socrates]

Iron and Fire

Iron can be soften by fire- grows hard in the cold; and all the gates therein are, as it was, closed again. So, often are those misled? by luxury and pride, who push humility aside-: thus, redemption their vanity and perfection their virtue? and in the end, they all collided.

#789 [7/9/05]

No Heroes

I’m still living all the places I’ve been Dreaming of places I’d like to see Catching airplanes, trains, and buses

In-between- Like a phantom at twilight!

I have no heroes, just extravagate hope; They all seem to lose at the end, where

I begin-. Disbelieving in light, wherever it was- By the exit-waiting for the movie to end!

#790 [7/9/05]

Socrates, a man of iron and fire I’d say, and a hero too many; even a hero to the great Plato, for it was him, who cleared his good name up. They killed him for his philosophy (as they had killed Galileo for his). But here was a man who was not afraid of battle, or war, and lived his philosophy. He slept in tents, and figured it was time to live, ‘I’ll write later,’ or have someone write for me. Sometimes we cannot do both, and have to weigh the valor out. Thus, he achieved his noble glory; unfortunately I am not sure if I can say that for Plato or Aristotle, both of great minds, but we are, at the end, measured by our souls.

Arizona Blue–Gunfighter: The Wolves Nest [Chapter One of Seven: The North]

[Episode Five]

Arizona Blue-Gunfighter

The Wolves Nest-in the North

[Episode Five]

Northern Minnesota Area?

Winter of 1877

Chapter One of Seven: The North

The area was known as Pigs Eye [St. Paul, Minnesota]; Northfield was a little more notorious since Jessie James robbed the 1st National Bank, in September of last year, and more to the West. But that was neither here nor there for Arizona-Blue. He didn’t like this part of the country for no other reason than it was cold, unpredictable weather, and he didn’t seem to offer enough freedom, it wasn’t bad thirty years ago, but it had become too tame, Even Mark Twain thought so. His conclusion of why he was here was: ‘Sometimes you just keep on riding and riding and end up where you don’t care to be.’

As his rode through the thick of the snow, he had come to a cabin, up in an area where the deer was running as wild-to and fro-as the mavericks were down in Arizona, Texas and Wyoming. He smelt the smoke from a nearby chimney. He was a hundred and fifty plus miles North of St. Paul, but it seemed like he was in the Artic.

— Next Page »

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