La Calavera Del Desierto

I wrote this poem thinking about those who won’t ever make it to the US. Too many. Too little to do. I consider this poem my first official Spanish poem I have ever uploaded to the blog. Feliz Dia De Muertos.

 

La Calavera Del Desierto

 

era una calavera sucia que salió del desierto de Arizona

arrastrándose y retorciéndose como una culebra

cubierta de polvo rojo, cansada y tragando bocanadas de aire

como queriendo decir algo acerca de aquel infierno

llamado Arizona, mas muerta que viva; llorando, gritando, llorando

 

la calavera llevaba una atadito de ropas viejas y sucias

amarradas a la espalda, una gorra con el logo tipo de corona

no pantalones o falda, no blusa o camisa, no billetera o cartera

no botas o tacones, no medallas de oro o aretes de plata

no nombre o apellido, solamente demasiados sueños gabachos

 

la calavera andaba desnuda en aquel día cuando el sol quemaba

hasta el alma, en aquel desierto lleno de culebras de cascabel,

escorpiones amarillos y rojos, y hormigas rojas como el sol

 

allí en aquel desierto, la calavera logro llegar hasta un camino

lleno de piedras, se arrastro hasta las sombras de un saguaro

esos cactus gigantes con las manos abiertas llenas de espinas

y empezó a escavar un hueco para poder descansar en paz

Gerardo  Pacheco

Redwood City, Ca.

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La Catrina

El Dia de los Muertos is coming soon. Leaves are falling down, and the air has that unmistakable smell of decay. “La Catrina” is a poem I wrote to commemorate El Dia de los Muertos. I hope you enjoy it.

La Catrina

 

“La Catrina…call me La Catrina”

 

i spoke to her in a dream

her cheek bones were made of shiny ivory

no tears carved her gray face

a big yellow cempasúchil flower

was tucked inside of her black hair

she was the great queen of the night

 

La Catrina didn’t smile or frown

her lips were red like my Corazón

her eyes trapped my weightless soul

 

La Catrina spoke to me with her feeble voice:

“i’ve roamed the desert

waiting for los innocentes campesinos

i need someone to light my candles

every Dia de los Muertos—

 

if anyone dares to cross my path

i’ll take him or her to my kingdom

among the black stones and nopales

there among el campo santo de huhi—

 

son, you can calle me La Catrina

los Mayas call me kisin

los Aztecas call me mother

los españoles call me la muerte

 

i’m old and wise

i live in your dreams

no one escapes me ‘till I said so

 

La Catrina…you can call me La Catrina”

 

We Are the Children of The Jaguar

Columbus day is coming soon. I cannot stop thinking what would our lives, as natives, would have been without the spanish influence. The occupation and destruction of our great cultures  and nations is our legacy. We as natives of this great American continent must not forget on this columbus day that we are as big and important as any European nation. Therefore, I have written this poem “to commemorate the so called finding of America.”

Children of the Jaguar

By Gerardo Pacheco

 

we’re the children of the Jaguar

left to live to rot to dream in the jungle

 

at night, we follow the Jaguar’s shadow

through the underworld

 

we speak to the dead

we listened to their feeble hearts beat

like butterflies flapping their wings

 

some smile too glad to see us

others cry and shriek like crows do

too fearful to see our father

the Jaguar walk among the dead

 

all night, we follow the Jaguar

through this labyrinth of bones and shadows

 

we wear the Jaguar’s coat

for protection, so mother Death knows

we’re the children of the Jaguar

 

day and night, we wait in the jungle

chewing and gnawing our fathers’ bones

until the sun breaks our spell

 

day and night, we wait for the sun

wearing the Jaguar’s skin

we are the children of the Jaguar

 

El Desierto

El Desierto has a great influence in my poetry because this place is full of magic, danger and great imagery. Everything becomes alive in El Desierto. Everything dies in El  Desierto.

 

El Desierto

 

The sun appears in the sky,

white crosses & names are

attached to la Linea,

dreams & memories are

scattered on the brown sand.

 

bones of children lay

next to plastic bottles

they used to carry water.

 

Skeletons of mothers & sons

are covered by time & dust

close to the well of dark waters.

 

The cactus

catches a young girl

with its needles;

her unmoving corpse

grows roots into the earth.

 

The sun fades away,

the moon is out,

the coyotes are walking

carefully with a new flock.

 

I think I’m alone.

I look to the wall,

people floating—

 

like in a dream,

I run to them

crying & crying

reading their names.

 

the moon was gone,

the people too.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Crow and The Soldier

“Crow and the Soldier” is a poem based on Ted Hughes’ Crow. Hughes’ writing has had a great  influence in my writing since Professor Dungy  suggested I had to read  Hughes’ “Crow: From the life and songs of the Crow.”

Crow and the Soldier

Crow walked alone in the desert

looking for scorpions to eat

and when he saw the last soldier

walking towards the hills

out of the old country of stone

his anger burnt his guts

 

Crow knew the war was over…

Crow screeched and screamed like a wounded beast

soon, no red or green soldiers would patrol this old city

soon, new nations would arrive to destroy this old city

 

Crow screeched at the soldier

and flapped his giant black wings

against his black chest to show his anger

but the soldier kept his head high

he kept on walking carrying

his machine gun and green canteen

 

Crow gave up and plunged into the sand

Crow wished he had some water

to moist his black tongue

 

Crow waited for a new war to begin

soon, crow’s laughter would roar through this old city