Lights, like Fires

21

English Version

Lights, like Fires
((In the Tunnels with the Miners) (in the Mines of Volcan))


Walls are all I seem to see, down here,
deep in the mines of Volcan.
They just seem to look at me, and stare,
down here, deep in the mines of Volcan.

I do not know a thing, not one thing about them!
Wherein this deep, underworld maze is the key?

This world down here has a funny sun,
that is all I really know, and see
down here, deep in the mines of Volcan.

The tunnel lights are burning bright,
the tunnel lights are a dazzling sight
—at each end, and in-between,
down here, deep in the mines of Volcan.

They burn and burn, like fires…torching
the walls, of this once, eternal night, here
down here, within the mines of Volcan;

Shadows creep along these walls and floors
ceilings as well—reflections of dotted fires
here and there, everywhere, down here,
deep in the mines of Volcan.


No: 2094 12-7-2007


Spanish Version


Luces, como Fuegos
((En los Túneles de los Mineros) (en las Minas Volcan))



Paredes, es todo lo que parezco ver, acá abajo,
en la profundidad de las Minas Volcan.
Ellas sólo parecen mirarme, fijamente,
acá abajo, en la profundidad de las Minas Volcan.

¡Yo no sé nada, nada acerca de estas!
¿Dónde en este profundo, laberinto subterráneo
está la llave?

Este mundo aquí abajo tiene un sol curioso
es todo lo que realmente sé, acá abajo,
en la profundidad de las Minas Volcan.

Las luces del túnel están ardiendo vivas,
las luces del túnel son una vista deslumbrante
—en cada final, y en el medio;
acá abajo, en la profundidad de las Minas Volcan.

Ellas arden y arden, como fuegos…incendiando
las paredes, de esta una vez, noche eterna,
acá abajo, en la profundidad de las Minas Volcan;

Así, las sombras se mueven a lo largo de estas paredes y pisos,
techos también, con destellos de fuegos esparcidos aquí y allá,
en todas partes, acá abajo, en la profundidad de las Minas Volcan.

# 2094 7-Dic-2007

The Lone Pillars

20


The Lone Pillars
(New World Depression)


We were once a temple complete
Beyond the meadows, on top of a hill
Now just lone pillars standing still,
No mind to mind, amongst our fellow men
Everyone’s taking, whatever they can;
Most taking what doesn’t belong to them!
Especially Bankers and Politicians…
In America, England, Europe, China
(across Asia, and the world as a whole)
All over the place, no blood in their face;
And you and I, just looking in, wondering
What happened, what took place?
We’re just lone pillars, displaced?
Waiting for a handout from the rich
As they hold onto everything, as if
They were God’s given gifts.
And I’m just a poet, heart to heart
With the people, wondering why
The temple we once built complete
(so long ago, out of marble and grief)
Has fallen to its feet, as if from the sky?
Too much self-interest, by and by…!
And some executives swear to hang onto it
With life and limb; and others swear:
Try it! It is not the Golden Fleece, nor
The content that will bring you peace:
It is something that was once complete,
Now lost and sadly, beyond anyone’s reach.

Note: 3-25-2009 (No: 2581)

Commentary: we are heading into a world crisis, of which economics is just part of it. The world powers are gearing up: Russia, the USA, China, North Korea, Iran, Israel, and all getting ready for the big battle, the showdown and guess who is coming to dinner? The Antichrist! And for those nonbelievers, the world is simple collapsing under its own greed. Pillars of greed, it is coming to the point, why simply should the rich be greedy, we’ll all be greedy, and the rich don’t like that. They want the poor to have Godly values, without God, so they can be the only greedy ones. But we are at a new state in the human race, it is called Darwin’s Dilemma, “Monkey see, monkey do!” The plan is old, the style, new. We are already on borrowed time, everyone knows it, feels it that is why they want to get the most out of everything they can while they can (don’t you?). The world is getting greedier by the hour. Have a happy greedy day.

In My Time

19

English Version

In My Time
[Written at the Chicago Airport, in Poetic Prose]


It’s funny how time works, but it works sometimes like this: I’m in Chicago sitting at the airport (at this moment writing this) it is about 6:30 p.m., (February 14, 2006), five people are sitting by me—I don’t’ know them, but they are in my time, just as well, as I’m in their time; as Oprah is, at this moment in my time (somewhere, wherever she is); as Elvis was at one time, in my time, but no longer is, and I am, and he is not. But Elvis was before I was (was he not? Yes of course). And then he and I become, and then was not, or no more. So what can we say about all of this? One of the five people took off, just up and went, up and left. So I will never know if he will remain in my time or not (when I am dead and he is dead, and if we meet each other, we can say, we came from the same time zone, if we have good memories, we’ll remember each other, or he will remember me, I got a bad memory; if we meet that is). We all think it is our time and our time only, when this is not true, the same again: it belongs to all of us. We all get only a portion of it (some more, some less, not much, but enough, we were put here for a few reasons, one was to die—to experience it), and we are all assigned to a process, to spend it, spend our time, like dollars or euros, soles or yen; if you are alert you will know it is called ‘time passing,’ and time does pass us, it will, it has. Thus, we are assigned to spend it around each other; otherwise we’d not have been put here altogether. How we deal with it matters, even though we want to cut off its legs so it cannot walk any further, get away from us, but it does (that is why we get face lifts); it matters even though we want more of it to belong to us, me, you, but it is our time, and again I must say, short at best, long if you are adventurous (and don’t get thinking you deserve more: we all deserve to get less than what we got, so enough with this: why did God take him or her, we all deserve a short day, probable sooner than later). Why? Just because! If it was only your time, you would be on earth alone, so when I say hello to you, it is only because we were assigned to the same time zone, it is as simple as that, its all simply a gift, one we never knew we’d ever have until we got it.


#1209 2/14/06 [written at the Chicago Airport, while my wife was sleeping]



Spanish Version

Nuestro Tiempo
[Escrito en el Aeropuerto de Chicago]


Es divertido como el tiempo funciona, ya que éste funciona algo así: Estoy sentado en el Aeropuerto de Chicago (en este momento escribiendo) es alrededor de las 6:30 de la tarde (14 de Febrero del 2006), cinco personas están sentadas cerca a mi—no las conozco, pero ellas están en mi tiempo, como también yo estoy en su tiempo; como Oprah lo está, en este momento en mi tiempo (en algún lugar, en cualquier parte donde ella esté); como Elvis estuvo en cierta época en mi tiempo, pero ya no; yo estoy y él ya no está. Pero Elvis estuvo antes que yo (¿no? Sí, desde luego). Entonces qué podemos decir sobre todo esto. Una de las cinco personas sentadas cerca de mi se fue, solamente se levantó y se fue, se levantó y se marchó. Entonces nunca sabré si esta permanecerá en mi tiempo o no (cuando estemos muertos, si nos encontramos el uno al otro, podremos decir, vinimos del mismo tiempo, si tenemos buena memoria nos recordaremos el uno al otro, o ella me recordará, ya que yo tengo una mala memoria; esto es, si nos encontramos).

Todos pensamos que éste es nuestro tiempo y sólo nuestro, cuando esto no es verdad, otra vez lo mismo: éste pertenece a todos nosotros. Obtenemos sólo una parte de ello (algunos más otros un poco menos, no mucho, pero suficiente, fuimos puestos aquí por algunos motivos, uno de ellos es morir) y todos estamos asignados a un proceso, a pasarlo, a gastar nuestro tiempo, como dólares o euros, soles o yenes; si estás atento tú sabrás que esto se llama ‘tiempo pasajero’, y nos pasa, lo hará, lo hace. Así, estamos asignados para pasarlo alrededor de cada uno. Cómo lo tratamos es lo que importa, aun cuando queramos cortar sus piernas para que así no pueda ir más lejos, escaparse de nosotros, pero este lo hace (es por eso que nos hacemos estiramientos faciales); esto importa a pesar de que nosotros queremos que más de esto nos pertenezca, yo, tú, pero éste es nuestro tiempo, y de nuevo debo decir, corto en el mejor de los casos, largo si eres aventurero. Si esto fuera sólo tu tiempo, tú estarías solo en la tierra, por eso cuando te saludo, es sólo porque fuimos asignados al mismo huso horario, es tan simple como esto.

Spring Cleaning

18


(A 1960s, Minnesota Poem)


During spring cleaning my
mother worked the house
as if—she was having a GI-Party:
one of those Army clean-up parties
where everything had to be ‘Spick and Span.’
Every nook and crack in every inch
of the place, clean and shiny. She
moved the furniture around—awkward
as it was—sofa chair, table and television
lifting up rugs—and still having
strength and stamina to wash walls
clean. And in the midst of it all
I often wondered, she never rearranged
the rooms. Perhaps because she didn’t
want grandpa to become disoriented.
Thus, no one had to deal with change.
And no one knew the inexhaustible
efforts she put out.

No: 2695 (5-18-2010)

Grandmother's Plot

17


Grandmother’s Plot


Ella, she was my grandfather’s second wife, the first was a drunk, and she one day up and left—and that was for the best. Both came early on in life for Grandpa, who was ten-years older than Ella. And she gave my grandfather nine-children, nine-children, two stillborn, dead, and then she became dead To no ones surprise and she too was buried in the cemetery nearby. But little of that story is ever told, perhaps too old for anyone to remember. The two of them lie somewhere now, in separate cemeteries.

I don’t know what’s carved on her gravestone—never have known; as though it was by someone’s design—untold, never to be told, buried in some remote corner, if not hidden in that cemetery plot: as if she didn’t belong. And at that, I write this poem.


No: 2694 (5-18-2010) Dedicated to Ella Siluk

Lord Canary

16


((Unnoted History) (No: 9, poem; 1962, written while in Como Park Junior High School, St. Paul, Minnesota))

Never before published, found in 1980, and misplaced until now, the authors 9th poem,
Written at the age of fourteen years old (Written during classroom time)


Lord Canary—
a teacher by trade,
Taught of mirrors
and acted insane.

He never made sense—
all us students proclaimed,
He just talked on reflections from
mirrors, everyday.

But came the day,
he saw in the mirror:
Everyone laughing
with faces of jeer!

“Oh my gosh, my gosh”
he yelled in terror,
“what have I got here!”
and we all laughed—Mirrors!

Old Man Jay

15

[Poem: Written 1960/61; #8, Como Park Jr High School]

Old Man Jay
lived in the trees
Old Man Ja
had ten mph shoes
Old Ma Ja
had a secret
Ol Ma Ja
could not forgive the self
Ol Ma J
had it under control
To different trees
he conveyed each night:
his hopes, and wishes
under the sky's light
Ol M J
walked twenty mph
O M J
asked for forgiveness
o m j
spent all his time
trying to control
being out of controlling.
No one noticed
No one knew
that he existed
but.... o w j.
And because
he couldn't
control,
his heart gave away
he died at thirty-three,
the city's newspaper read:
"Vacancy!"


Note by the author: Perhaps this should remind me (rereading this old poem after letting it sit for 25-years, and writing it 45-years ago), that when we are kids, we are displaying our gifts, if only we could see them; here I've noticed a pattern of diminishing letters, and the psychological melt down; perhaps that is why I majored in psychology in college, and a minor in literature. We think we are doing strange things, when we are not, we are doing, or writing what is inside of us, what we feel is important. Control is a major power player in any part of human behavior; in the Army, or family, or place of employment. The Government, the word power never rises as high as control I do believe. Influence is based on leadership, but behind leadership is control, and behind that is power. This poem was written in l960/61, number #8, while attending my first years of Jr. High School, at Como Park, in St. Paul, Minnesota."