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About The North Coast times-eagle. (Wheeler, Oregon) 1971-2007 | View Entire Issue (April 1, 2003)
PAGE 7 NORTH COAST TIMES E A G L E , APRIL/MAY 2003 DOS ESMERALDAS (TWO EMERALDS) POETRY Dedicated to the love of my life Gillian Dos emeraldos tengo yo Que las cuido noche y día Verdes como el amazonas Son dos piezas de arte Talladas por las manos de los dioses. I have two emeralds That I guard night and day They are green like The Amazon They are two pieces of art Made by the hands of the gods Cada vez que me miro adentro de ellas Veo a la mujer que me ama A esa mujer que esta conmigo En las buenas y en las malas La que me habla cada noche Y me canta Mi musa, mi calabaza, Esa niña desobediente Que me hace amarla cada Dia un poco mas. Every time I look inside them I see the woman who loves me That woman who is with me In good times and bad times The one who talks to me every night And sings to me My muse, my pumpkin, That stubborn little girl Who makes me love her More and more. The rose of my garden in winter The one who calms my thirst in summer That little one with an innocent smile And an angelical beauty. La rosa de mi jardín en invierno La que alivia mi sed en verano Esa chiquilla de sonrisa inocente De belleza angelical. La sirena que me adormece con su cantar La que me escucha llorar, Cantar, reir y gritar La dueña de mis esmeraldas La que me ha embrujado. The mermaid who enchants me with her voice The one who hears me cry, Sing, laugh and shout The owner of my emeralds The one who has bewitched me. You know that you have left me Hungry for your love Thirsty for your body Those nights full of passion Where I lost myself in your mouth Where I write poems on your Back with my breath Where you call me Your love, your heaven and your everything And I get drunk from drinking All the drops from your body That have been fermented from the air Between your body and mine. Tu sabes que me has dejado Hambriento por mas amor Sediento por tu cuerpo Esa noches de pasión En las que me pierdo en tu boca En las que escribo poemas en tu Espalda con mi aliento En las que me llamas Tu amor, tu cielo y tu todo Y me emborracho de beber Las gotas de tu cuerpo Fermentadas por el aire Entre tu cuerpo y el mió. '■GUILLERMO REYES FOUND ART (ON A WET SIDEWALK IN ASTORIA) ‘Light is slow. Behind every black hole is a sun.’ -PAUL EV ALT (9&X) THE GREENING OF SPRING PERSEID METEOR SHOW, 2002 Vagrant longings surface as dreams of wicked-grinning roses purveying empty delights of hunger gnawing at rot and with careless regard my inward seeing reveals the greening of winter soon springing l. 'í í ■ i/V / • ,v* a star cleaved the sky in two as it leapt, screaming from heaven. It reminded me of a wayward angel, caught in the jaws of gravity’s teeth, blown off-course and pinned to earth like a butterfly tacked to the collector’s board it left in its wake a stream of particles faintly luminescent before dissipating -E. A. ANDERSON like swirls of foam in the cosmic ocean strewn upon our distant shore and it was silent. no comforting rush of wind or far-off snarl of impending doom, to take a picture would be pointless — and if they say pictures are worth a thousand words, EABY-KU then not in a thousand pictures could the real thing be captured, the silence echoes on to vega, Fear, like hot water to algol, altair, to deneb here the night is a shattered scream — Splashed against a baby’s skin a callous and cruel echo of an angel’s demise. Twists me suddenly another speeds to eternity. there must be a hurricane up there... i sit at home on earth to sip cold apple cider and count the dying angels before they slip away, and are greeted by the dawn. -MARGIT BOWLER GETTING USED TO DUMB COMMENTS Your mouth twists like mumbo jumbo when you talk and my thoughts are like hair growing backwards, getting tangled in my brain. -SUSAN ANDERSON MY FAVORTTE PLACE I am going to tell you my favorite place. And it is the river The river smells like peace in the air. It looks like God It tastes like water and feels like Grandma Donna, It sounds like George Harrison. The river is peaceful when I walk. I love to hear the waves. The river soaks through my soul. The river is a joy to my life. It is a part of who I am The river is blue. My mom loves it too I love the river. I just love the river and the waves -DONNA JOY DEUFEL (AGE 7) LEAVES DON’T FALL IN SPRINGTIME < ..fili i.'«/IjiL'iévo Leaves fall in Autumn, when the time is right iijiT bT?.1 ' Blushing beauties, float, spiral, like lily pads in air, circling, free of the vine, billowing to death’s corridor, where legend has it, heaven is next Spring. Leaves don’t fall in Springtime, the time just isn’t right. Innocence growing, plummets, heavy, bubbles with life to live, screams, unwilling to fall without a fight, and legend has it, heaven is sacrificed, everytime. Yib v" . ELEMENTS OF WAR _ .-.U , i'- » .—f 4 rl- ., ; . 1 In times of darkness We burrow deep underground Searching for more light Blowhards blow harder Fridays at 5, and their signs Say: Give War A Chance Misinformation The more we know the less we know No smoke without fire While old women stretch Graceful as swans in chlorine Transcending dry bones -SID COOPER -THEDA SPRACKLIN -RICHARD SCHULTZ (1952-1993) SOME DAY IN MAY Deep in the shadows we linger Intrepid malingering Waiting and watching for the sun to appear Now just a smear. Whoever dares to venture out Must allow a few minutes To break free from clouded thoughts And restless dreamy haunts Far down from where we hide The sidewalks are cold outside And dreary from the night’s misty dust. Our morning reeling is something unbearable And to face another day pushes the crisis our way. Suddenly the sun stands up and stretches Filling up the far corners of the valley Reaching for the most intimate shadows Treacherous mountains of leering darkness Slip away for the day and rest. The burglar who uses dark for his flashlight Is secretly upset by the change And lightly repulsed by the creaking hinge As the back door opens to invite the Newness in for breakfast. Now he must readjust for another day A simple portion of the month of May. Where the millions of stars fade into bars And chrome-distorted people start Their fancy motor cars. -ROBERT LEGG We came for the rain thinking I guess the dreariness would suit us while the others ducked or ran for cover We entered the city and settled into apartments and underneath bridges a good place for dwelling we thought We’d walk the wet city at night shining like a dark dream — always so much more and less than we had hoped We loved the drowning the struggle against the unseen forces every morning we'd rehash our tiny dreams so caught up in the gasping We never even saw the others poke their heads out never noticed the drying the growing We lay confused under our bodges and stared still at the spectrum of the ram — grayness ahead and behind us all the little brown puddles -TERESA BARNES
