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

He’s a Saint Man

“He’s a Saint Man” is a poem I wrote while trying to emulate the Blue lyrics. My professor, Paul Hoover, gave us an assignment in which we should use lyric poetry in order to come up with a sort of song/lyrical poem, and here it’s the result. Also, this poem is part of a project-collection I have titled Larva ( Larva is a latin word for ghost). “He’s a Saint man” was published by Spillway Magazine in summer of 2011.

He’s a Saint Man

you got to believe me, man

he’s a saint man

believe me when i say he’s a saint

‘cause i’ve seen him roaming

the empty roads of huhi dragging and pulling

a wagon full of pecans

i’ve followed this man

and the dogs bark at him like madmen

every time he stops, so he has to keep on walking

‘til he reaches the crossroad, man

there near the train tracks, he stops and smokes

like he was still in the pen

he’s a saint man

‘cause he wears black suits like a real saint

he carries a bible, and he’s always preaching

for Jesus Christ at the crossroads; he’s always waiting

for his holy spirit to come, man

he’s a real saint

‘cause i’ve seen him at night tracing

the moon with his pen and his can

full of black and blue paint

i‘ve seen this saint man sitting

at the crossroad drawing

the empty church with only his broken pen

he’s a saint man

‘cause he’s always singing the morning

blues like a saint

he’s a saint man

‘cause every time he crosses Kisin’s

path, he kicks his evil ass for real, man

he’s a saint man

 ‘cause he’s always praying for my soul

he’s always near the empty wells, always fighting Kisin

he’s a saint man

‘cause i’ve followed his shadow ‘til the evening

birds flapped their wings ‘cause he’s a dead man

If You Ever Visit Huhi

This poem is one (if not the first poem) ever published in my life. The poem is a reflection of my hometown, Huhi.


If You Ever Visit Huhi


if you ever visit Huhi, find my parents,

they live in a small house with mud walls.

they must be old by now, but they are waiting

for me. tell them you saw me here in the desert,

alone, and thirsty. tell them i want to come back

home to rest in peace in my hammock. tell them

i have not slept for years and i want to dream again.


if you ever visit Huhi, go to the cemetery and find

a grave, newly dug. find don juanito, tell him

i am coming home soon. tell him my parents will

pay him with two chickens and a dove if he gives

me lots of water when the droughts begin,

i am thirsty and you do not know how painful

it is to be thirsty and have no water to drink.


if you ever visit Huhi, find doña micaela,

mi abuela, and tell her to cook me a good cochinita pibil

with lots of red onions, and chiles habaneros.

tell her to bring it to the graveyard every dia de muertos,

so those who have no one to cook for them

can taste it, too. tell her i miss her cooking

and her laughter, please if you find her alive tell her

i always think about her and my grandfather, el leñador.


if you ever visit Huhi, go to the church and find

el padrecito and tell him to offer a mass for my

soul, a mass will give me strength. knowing

someone is waiting for me makes me happy.

tell him i am coming home soon, my parents

will pray to the Virgin de Guadalupe a whole year.

tell him if he has some left-over wine, he can

pour some on top of my grave. i am thirsty.


if you ever visit Huhi, wait in the dark alleys

i once roamed, listen to my cries, be silent, do not

be afraid, as it is only me, your old friend,

the one who roams the desert. soon, i will arrive

at the town where i was born many summers ago.

if you ever visit huhi, visit the lagoons,

you will find me there drinking

water as i am dead and very thirsty.




What’s Right

Every body knows what happens when the Government fails to do the right thing to do. Yet, no one seems to do anything…

Cuando Nuestro Govierno Fails To Acknowledge What’s Right!

by Gerardo Pacheco Matus

what happens?

que pasa?

i know…

yo se…

you know…

tu saves…

we know…

nosotros savemos…

they know—

ellos saven—

nothing happens

nada pasa

they’re a bunch of liars

ellos son una bola de mentirosos

y nosotros seguimos…


como siempre

A Grape Field

and when the government and politicians deny the right to el immigrante to work legally, el patron abuses and abuses and does not let go…

A Grape Field

By Gerardo Pacheco Matus


the grapes were green and big

like esmeraldas

ready to be picked  from the trees


the day was hot as usual

a typical day en el sur de Yerba Buena

the day was about to end

when i asked my patron


“can i have mis papeles

as soon as the harvest is over

so i can be legal

here en el gabacho?”


he turned his back to me

and said, “No…

you better go to my fields

and pick all my grapes—

pull some weeds damn it


if you don’t have anything to do

mow my lawn  sweep my floors

or clean my shoes damn it

but don’t talk to me

about this garbage


the harvest season isn’t over

and i need you in my fields…

to hand pick my grapes


see, the grapes need to be

harvest soon or else i’ll

lose them all


go and pick them all

or else i’ll hire someone else

there are too many like you

out there waiting for work”

El Poema De Aquel Que murió En EL Desierto

The dream of coming to the United States can be as dangerous, shocking and traumatic. My poem expresses the pain a human being must suffer to reach El Norte.


El Poema De Aquel Que murió En EL Desierto


oh, dear mother, i pray to you

i’m your son, the one you forgot

in the jungle of Guatemala


i walked and walked for days

underneath the canopy of trees

full with monkeys, snakes, spiders

toads and jaguars only to go on

with my journey to el Norte


i roamed the land of the Aztecs

with my stomach full of nothing

i followed the train tracks for days


i was thirsty

only one old priest from a crumbling church

gave me stale tortillas to chew


oh dear mother

i kept on with my journey

even though los poilicias stole my belongings


i walked and walked

but once i reached el desierto

oh, dear mother


                              i wasn’t carrying food

or water


i walked and walked

             for three days, but on the third


                             i felt so tired 


i laid on the sand                      underneath

                             a shrub and slept

oh, dear mother

                 the nights in the desert

       are cold


the sky is full of stars

                and falling

burning rocks


                 i wished to reach

my daughters safely



i waited for the sun

                   to appear

but i never

                           felt its pain again

The Day El Rio Grande Dried

In the summer of 2012, one of the greatest natural disasters stroke the United States the draught. In some areas of the country, the draught damaged crops and killed lots of animals. Lots of people are suffering as I write this post. Therefore, I wrote this poem as a reflection about the draught.

The Day El Rio Grande Dried


i had followed the cracks

and fissures across this dry earth

until i reached el rio grande


i looked around to make sure

i followed the sun’s path

to make sure i haven’t wandered

into an unknown desert


el rio didn’t have a drop of water

the silence was airy

as if the gods wanted me

to step into el rio


to find los pollos’ corpses

and white bones that lay still

on the bottom of el rio

like dry rotten fish


pesos and coins

cruzes and necklaces

made of bones

Virgen de Guadalupe

statues lay plastered

on the bottom of el rio

remnants of lost hope


el rio grande had dried—


yet, i could still hear the screams

of fathers and mothers

with their babies crying

wrapped around their backs

trying to cross el pinche rio


i could still hear the water’s roar

a great beast ready to take away

anyone desperate enough

to venture into its hot belly


i could still see the children’s faces

once the water took away their

parents or whenever their parents

gave up hope and drawn like fish