Poems: Islamic Form, Haiku, Poetic Prose (& Imagery)

The Beggar Boys of Huancayo

So many times this month I’ve felt the alienation
within the city’s lost children. Its normal, like the
the cry of a weeping penguin, who calls to another
over a lost and darkening sorrow.

In many of my poems I praised so much of the
culture, the fine elements and way of life, carried
out, in the Andean cities of Peru! It all has felt
right to me.

Every way of knowing, those lost children, beggars
in the parks, on the streets of Huancayo, for some
reason, society, government, home life, does not
allow them delight, they have to find it in the
fieriest love they can.


No: 3088 ((9-23-2011) (12:20 a.m.)) In English Only ; dedicated to Christian (who likes chicken); and Jose Luis, who became a business boy overnight, by selling candy; may the Lord be with them while down here on planet earth, no one else is. Huancayo, Peru.




Three New Closing Poems
Islamic Form



A Poem for “Who”

Let me tell the other story about my life.
Understand this, please! I wrote my first
Poem at age twelve, but the journey to get

Where I am today, Poet Laureate, seven times
Over, it took fifty-years. Although I still remember
The day when I wrote my first poem, “Who”

No: 30 87 (9-21-2011) In English Only

Thoughts Derived from
La Oroya’s Parade ((9-2011) (in English Only))

People are marching, moving big banners around on
The street, in La Oroya, and I am not there. Each week
A new parade, fiesta, in the Junin region.

I take taxi rides to many of these, such events.
You’ll see nothing but the backend of cars for miles.
Such events are never on time, they have no sense of time.

Sometimes I want to tie my arms tight, around me, firm.
And leave before I get there, but I just leave early.
Don’t think poets are saints, or have extraordinary

Patience. People like us, we weep behind trees.
We have taste for fame, and fondness for dead souls.
We like counting syllables, swallowed by the stars.

No: 3085 (9-19-2011); Note: La Oroya is a mining town in the mountain region of Junin (Peru)



The Way it is

The little boy throws rocks at the pigeons.
The pigeons shits all over everybody and thing.
The hawk rips the heads off the pigeons.

Everybody and thing, has come accustomed to malice.
Or is it, mayhem, for pleasures—? It’s hard to
Tell. Why do we push towards such desires?

The dandelion in the garden that is white
Today was yellow, the day before. She almost
Looks, old before her time—disgraceful, torn heart.

What can one flower say to another whom—on the
Face of it —died so early on (or is in the process)…?
Perhaps simply: “God gave us a taste of life?”

We all live so close to dying, malice.
We all have inherited it so long ago.
One teaspoon of each is enough for me.

We have two halves to our face, one dark, shadowy
The other bright colours; beneath them, resides
A dragonfly, buzzing back and forth soaked in onions…


No: 3086 (9-20-2011)