Poems to Ponder On
Abraham’s Flight
Like a bird with long wings,
the Lord God, came flying through the dust—
He had flown over the darkening waves.
He had flown around the planet,
a grip onto the hand of Abraham; now
they were back to where they had started.
There is a long pause.
It is complicated for Abraham to understand
why God didn’t slay or punish the many sinners
they had passed, and witnessed doing violence.
Abraham had voiced his opinion on the matter,
to give them harsh death,
leaving a tinge of a rattle in his throat,
each time his righteous anger came out.
God tells Abraham: “What has not yet come
to the surface, years that are still far-off—
you do not see, you are detached from the
good they might bring.”
No: 3119 (9-9-2011)
Old Fires
All those days we have lived
The world on Edge
You and I, all of us—
Loneliness to ashes;
It will all be forgotten.
We are all old fires,
Roots—we can’t
Even rub sunlight into.
NO: 3117 (10-6-2011)
Below the Planet’s
Waters
Reflections of hills; mountains
of mist below
What are they? The reds, browns,
that float?
Landmarks—perchance, long
forgotten…
Perhaps valiant stories!
Perhaps someone’s death—!
Blind, cloudy creatures, with
their spines turned up to us—
Crouched, smiling up at shadows
and the landscape below
. . .
How different their world is
from ours!
As I cling onto steel railings
above—as
they below (swim carefree about)
bored, waiting for a storm.
Notes: Written after reviewing the Art Sections of the magazine ‘Exploring Tosca’ ((summer issue, 2011, page 37) (Gail Weber, Editor)), thus, inspired by the work of Marcia Soderman, the painting named: “Contemplating Deep Waters” No: 2986/7-26-2011
The Syrian Bunker
(Triple Haiku)
Like a hawk in his
Nest—so resides a Syrian
Soldier, in
His bunker, in the
Golan Heights, readying for battle
Above the heads,
Of, men of war—; the
Bulls of Bashan, wait, and howl:
“What is sorrow for?”
Notes: On a visit to Israel, July of 2010, the author wet into the Bashan Valley (Golan Heights), once Syria, and explored the historic and notorious site, “Rephaim Circle” some five-thousand years old; in addition, he found himself beyond the valley, unexpectedly, by Syrian bunkers and minefield, those used during the war of 1967, between Syria and Israel. The Bulls of Bashan are the armies mentioned in the Bible that will encircle Israel in the latter days (as they did in 1967 and 1972, wars, to try and conquers Israel and will perhaps try again, such as: Egypt, Syria, Jordon, and perhaps Iran and Lebanon, and one of the new bulls, Russia).
The Winter Dark
As winter comes the trees darken
(unnoticed by human eyes, for a long time).
For eons this has happened—had taken place.
This brought on a kind of loneliness, despair—
(this new awareness)
for mankind.
Man said: “What’s the use…?”
Uneasily, building fires inside of winter caves—
(no longer living under winter stars).
Thus, he learned to live like the trees—I guess,
by dark, in the winter.
NO: 3116 (10-6-2011)
The Beaver (and the soul)
The Beaver lives deep inside its dam—
So, deep that it’s difficult for light to seep in
To pass from twig to branch to the tip
of his tail, to his eyes…
So many timbers packed on top of
One another, muffles the sound
of his voice…
That the language of the beaver is
Often misunderstood, and perhaps for
a moment, lost!
This is the hull of his wooden ship…
Liken to the hull of a man’s soul, when
it is
lost…!
No: 3106 (10-4-2011)
Legend of:
The Ancient Huacrapuquio Tiger
I wonder
If he was afraid of dying—found
Deep in a stone crevice (bones complete)
In what one day would become the
Village of Huacrapuquio—
But now,
All day long I’ve been walking among
Their dirt and stone streets,
Trying to keep still, silently
Listening,
To old residue—echoes that linger in
The shifting dust and sand—patiently I am
Gathering, the slow, the empty
Echoes of the past…
And of the secret shelter where this
Ancient tiger fell to his death
10,000 BC…
Fell to his earthly grave, until the day
The city dug up the road, to
Put in plumbing.
His frame tells me his short, but
Lively, life’s story—
He was young, strong, lean, but careless—
He’d leap at his pray, with those
Strong short hind legs; and with his
Long front arms—limbs that had
Paws like small boulders—and
Talons, sharp as giant thorns—
He’d mall his prey, then with his
Sabre-teeth, he’d put them to sleep!
No: 3105 (10-1-2011) While visiting the village of Huacrapuquio in 2007, eleven thousand feet up in the Andes, the Mayor of the village showed me the bones, and location where the ancient tiger was found, considered the only complete set of bones in the world, of such a tiger, and thus, the structure of the tiger, was amazingly different than expected by experts on this subject, and thereafter I drew a picture of the tiger from its remains. (See front Cover.)
The Rainy Season
(Summer in the Mantaro Valley)
Old men dream and rest more than they sleep—(that’s a fact)
especially during the rainy season in the valley…
It’s as if the sun gets drunk in summer—here, high up
in the Andes,
and all one gets, is cold light.
Ah! I want to turn it off!
My neighbour’s yard used to be cut and trimmed—
But now it’s just all weeds—, it’s as if, each rainy season,
he has a long hangover.
Everything’s bright and colourful, growing from the ground
up, here in the valley!
An old man is wobbling down the street, half drunk, kicking
stones, I can see him from the pantry window.
A young boy is scaling a railroad track, a trains whistle can be
heard, but he doesn’t look back, he kind of looks like me.
A bum is just waking up under some cardboard, along the
Mantaro Rio, and there’s a bird’s nest in a tree above
my grave
I’m still half asleep, but what a dream.
No: 3100 (9-29-2011)
House of the Falcon
((The Chanka in the Valley of Canipaco) (Colca, Peru))
Part One
The Ancient Chanka Warriors
House of the Falcon
Even the finest of the Chanka warriors, contained darkness
All their language, woven from fifteen hundred years packed
Together—as they grew larger in the Valley of Canipaco
The Hanan Chankas soaked up the stain of their enemy’s blood
Drank it from their skull caps, hanging them upside down
These old thinkers, of the House of the Falcon, remind us
Battle and death to those throats open to invasion.
They built stone fortresses in the District of Colca—buried
Their kind, in caves, rock crevasses, mausoleums.
Part Two
Uscovilca and Ancovilca
Canipaco Valley
The twin gods of the Chanka race, the founders, Uscovilca
And Ancovilca—: one inherited the teeth
Of the great lion, the other, the great thumbs of Goliath
And thereafter, the Chanka race never had had a whole
Day of peace, and thus built, Tamborhuanca (sanctuary)
Where one cry from the dying, contained a thousand more.
Part Three
House of Sorrows
Tamborhuanca—Colca
In time all things end, become shadows, hence, the
“House of the Falcon” became the “House of Sorrows”
The door that leads to Tamborhuanca, near Colca
Built eight-hundred years, now in the past—the sanctuary
Of the Chanka, now lies silent, with deadly gases…
A house roofed with stone and earth, caves and graves.
It’s too late to move now; their bones (blunt like dull pencil lead)
Can be found in the dark crevasses of this fortress like
Mound—this monstrous sanctuary, with cave-eyes everywhere!
Part one of the poems written on 22nd of September, 2011. No: 3091; parts two and three (3092 and 3093,) written on 23rd of September).
El Tambo Spider (s)
(Inspired by living in El Tambo for eons)
When it’s cold in El Tambo
the spiders know—
they crawl on my walls
along my window sills
Along the ridges and
under my bed—: creeping
little crawlers, making cobwebs…!
While I’m asleep, they swing
and pivot, fall and crawl,
on wires and strings, even
on my brow: bite me here
and there, especially on rainy
nights…
You’d be surprised how
much they know—
about my apartment, and its
five rooms…
Half blind, they prance about,
as if they owned the house—
bodies reddish brown, black and gray…
I think they are here to stay!
No: 1845 ((5-26-2007)(reedited, 10-3-2011))
(Dedicated to the dwellings in El Tambo)
Corn Picking in San Jeronimo
(Peru, in the Andes, the Mantaro Valley)
It is late June; I walk through the cornfield.
Light on the tops of the surrounding mountains,
Light, over my head, eaten by pigs’ teeth
I am learning; I walk through the cornfield
(the grove) with a bag: picking, ripping corn
off the tall stalks.
On the way home, coolness in the afternoon’s
sun, lowers its hands!
Pigs are out alongside of the thick adobe wall?
The mother has gone looking for her little ones.
What they drink and eat, people would not dare
to take in,
But nonetheless, sooner than later, we’ll put that
beast on our dinner table…!
No: 3107 (10-4-2011)
12:08 A.M., 2011
(… in Huancayo)
1.
At exactly 12:06 A.M.
I empty my bladder,
feeling the joy it brings.
Dogs barking outside,
a cool dampness sweeps around the curtain
(I can feel its sway…).
2
My bedroom is small
The lamplight is on, on the side of my dresser
(my side of the bed).
I turn it off, roll into bed
I can’t tell where—
My wife’s awake, turns to my side…;
outside, on a wet street, rain falling.
3
Bits of darkness surround me.
Car lights appear through the curtains
as streaks of light—
“What time is it?” asks my wife.
“12:08, I reply (wondering why?)
“Happy 64th Birthday,” she says with a kiss.
How different (I think) old age Birthdays
are becoming—seemingly secretive.
No 3118 (10-7-2011)
Summer Charms
(… in Huancayo)
I slept a few minutes ago.
I love the warm covers of the bed,
the heat from the small space heater next to me.
Had lunch with Adelmo Huamaní—this afternoon
spaghetti!
I’m growing old.
There is a spirit in a tree—it moves when it
thinks water or sun, or upon a soft touch;
that’s one of the great things in this world.
Years ago
I wouldn’t have said that, but God, like a
Strange Sea Creature, keeps teaching,
and I keep learning—
It is like the mountains surrounding Huancayo
keep drawing back into itself,
to make room for others.
Under the floor of my apartment I feel the
season changing beneath me—
without making a sound, the rain is coming.
No: 3114 (10-6-2011)
The Restaurant Owner
(… in Huancayo)
She kills her own livelihood
her precious secret,
her face holds one tone—
She shuts out those
nearest her (or those be in
opposition to…)!
Dying of arrogance and pride,
unaware she’s alive…;
in her own desert!
It’s no use, she won’t
listen,
she’s too far gone.
No: 3108 (10-5-2011)
Female Tramp
(in the Plaza de Arms ,Huancayo)
A female tramp stands in front of me
(in the Plaza de Arms)
Puckers her lips,
and tries to whisper something
(a woman of alms, a bigger).
Her mind haunted; my wife
givers her silver coin.
She has no front teeth.
As I lean back, on the wooden
bench, the sun floats
down, as she walks away;
turning around twice, to catch a
glimpse—she’s remembering
she’s a woman.
No: 3109 (10-5-2011)
Red Ants in Satipo
(Central Jungle of Peru)
I push; rise slightly, between the thick jungle foliage—
I do not want to alarm the large red ants
who are walking single file back and forth on the plant’s branch (in the Satipo Jungle)—carrying small to large loads
of petals.
I want to pick a piece of fruit off the branch—I try and a few
leap onto me—racing up my fingers, and beyond…they have
sharp teeth—
Then Rosa (my wife)—standing nearby—pulls me back, nearly cries, watching the red ants thrive … “Let it go!”
I let the fruit branch go, step back—she’s relieved—so am I.
No: 3111 (10-5-2011)
† Special Note on Poetic Imagery: The poet must find the voice inside the images, correlating to his emotions (feelings). Then he can produce the pure substance (the essence) of poetry (i.e., what makes a haven a haven? In the case of the small village of ‘the 9th of July’ in Peru, it is its images, but what are their images? One over powering image are the eucalyptus trees, you can’t escape them…)
A Worthwhile Poem
Let’s do this sort and sweet, so read this closely, a worthwhile poem: if the poem you are reading or about to read or have read (let’s say three times over—you got to give it a chance to absorb—be it poetic prose or metered, each can put you into a trance, if it: relaxes your diaphragm, your breathing, if it prepares you to journey (to connect dreams to reality and march toward them, or wish that you had), if it opens up the brain, affects you, brings to you some missing elements, fragments, long lost by the soul: then it is a worthwhile poem for you—: let yourself be the judge, all poems are not structured, or worded for ever mine, they are like, counselors, not ever counselor is made for ever client.
†
A Song to Creativeness
It is a joy to live in these great times,
with life at last grown to its utmost consciousness—
remolding the world to its fulfillment.
Happy be one of those who feel the thrill
and movement of this flow, whose
mind and hands are busy
with great works
of this day
with creative pageantry…
No: 3118 (10-8-2011)
Like a bird with long wings,
the Lord God, came flying through the dust—
He had flown over the darkening waves.
He had flown around the planet,
a grip onto the hand of Abraham; now
they were back to where they had started.
There is a long pause.
It is complicated for Abraham to understand
why God didn’t slay or punish the many sinners
they had passed, and witnessed doing violence.
Abraham had voiced his opinion on the matter,
to give them harsh death,
leaving a tinge of a rattle in his throat,
each time his righteous anger came out.
God tells Abraham: “What has not yet come
to the surface, years that are still far-off—
you do not see, you are detached from the
good they might bring.”
No: 3119 (9-9-2011)
Old Fires
All those days we have lived
The world on Edge
You and I, all of us—
Loneliness to ashes;
It will all be forgotten.
We are all old fires,
Roots—we can’t
Even rub sunlight into.
NO: 3117 (10-6-2011)
Below the Planet’s
Waters
Reflections of hills; mountains
of mist below
What are they? The reds, browns,
that float?
Landmarks—perchance, long
forgotten…
Perhaps valiant stories!
Perhaps someone’s death—!
Blind, cloudy creatures, with
their spines turned up to us—
Crouched, smiling up at shadows
and the landscape below
. . .
How different their world is
from ours!
As I cling onto steel railings
above—as
they below (swim carefree about)
bored, waiting for a storm.
Notes: Written after reviewing the Art Sections of the magazine ‘Exploring Tosca’ ((summer issue, 2011, page 37) (Gail Weber, Editor)), thus, inspired by the work of Marcia Soderman, the painting named: “Contemplating Deep Waters” No: 2986/7-26-2011
The Syrian Bunker
(Triple Haiku)
Like a hawk in his
Nest—so resides a Syrian
Soldier, in
His bunker, in the
Golan Heights, readying for battle
Above the heads,
Of, men of war—; the
Bulls of Bashan, wait, and howl:
“What is sorrow for?”
Notes: On a visit to Israel, July of 2010, the author wet into the Bashan Valley (Golan Heights), once Syria, and explored the historic and notorious site, “Rephaim Circle” some five-thousand years old; in addition, he found himself beyond the valley, unexpectedly, by Syrian bunkers and minefield, those used during the war of 1967, between Syria and Israel. The Bulls of Bashan are the armies mentioned in the Bible that will encircle Israel in the latter days (as they did in 1967 and 1972, wars, to try and conquers Israel and will perhaps try again, such as: Egypt, Syria, Jordon, and perhaps Iran and Lebanon, and one of the new bulls, Russia).
The Winter Dark
As winter comes the trees darken
(unnoticed by human eyes, for a long time).
For eons this has happened—had taken place.
This brought on a kind of loneliness, despair—
(this new awareness)
for mankind.
Man said: “What’s the use…?”
Uneasily, building fires inside of winter caves—
(no longer living under winter stars).
Thus, he learned to live like the trees—I guess,
by dark, in the winter.
NO: 3116 (10-6-2011)
The Beaver (and the soul)
The Beaver lives deep inside its dam—
So, deep that it’s difficult for light to seep in
To pass from twig to branch to the tip
of his tail, to his eyes…
So many timbers packed on top of
One another, muffles the sound
of his voice…
That the language of the beaver is
Often misunderstood, and perhaps for
a moment, lost!
This is the hull of his wooden ship…
Liken to the hull of a man’s soul, when
it is
lost…!
No: 3106 (10-4-2011)
Legend of:
The Ancient Huacrapuquio Tiger
I wonder
If he was afraid of dying—found
Deep in a stone crevice (bones complete)
In what one day would become the
Village of Huacrapuquio—
But now,
All day long I’ve been walking among
Their dirt and stone streets,
Trying to keep still, silently
Listening,
To old residue—echoes that linger in
The shifting dust and sand—patiently I am
Gathering, the slow, the empty
Echoes of the past…
And of the secret shelter where this
Ancient tiger fell to his death
10,000 BC…
Fell to his earthly grave, until the day
The city dug up the road, to
Put in plumbing.
His frame tells me his short, but
Lively, life’s story—
He was young, strong, lean, but careless—
He’d leap at his pray, with those
Strong short hind legs; and with his
Long front arms—limbs that had
Paws like small boulders—and
Talons, sharp as giant thorns—
He’d mall his prey, then with his
Sabre-teeth, he’d put them to sleep!
No: 3105 (10-1-2011) While visiting the village of Huacrapuquio in 2007, eleven thousand feet up in the Andes, the Mayor of the village showed me the bones, and location where the ancient tiger was found, considered the only complete set of bones in the world, of such a tiger, and thus, the structure of the tiger, was amazingly different than expected by experts on this subject, and thereafter I drew a picture of the tiger from its remains. (See front Cover.)
The Rainy Season
(Summer in the Mantaro Valley)
Old men dream and rest more than they sleep—(that’s a fact)
especially during the rainy season in the valley…
It’s as if the sun gets drunk in summer—here, high up
in the Andes,
and all one gets, is cold light.
Ah! I want to turn it off!
My neighbour’s yard used to be cut and trimmed—
But now it’s just all weeds—, it’s as if, each rainy season,
he has a long hangover.
Everything’s bright and colourful, growing from the ground
up, here in the valley!
An old man is wobbling down the street, half drunk, kicking
stones, I can see him from the pantry window.
A young boy is scaling a railroad track, a trains whistle can be
heard, but he doesn’t look back, he kind of looks like me.
A bum is just waking up under some cardboard, along the
Mantaro Rio, and there’s a bird’s nest in a tree above
my grave
I’m still half asleep, but what a dream.
No: 3100 (9-29-2011)
House of the Falcon
((The Chanka in the Valley of Canipaco) (Colca, Peru))
Part One
The Ancient Chanka Warriors
House of the Falcon
Even the finest of the Chanka warriors, contained darkness
All their language, woven from fifteen hundred years packed
Together—as they grew larger in the Valley of Canipaco
The Hanan Chankas soaked up the stain of their enemy’s blood
Drank it from their skull caps, hanging them upside down
These old thinkers, of the House of the Falcon, remind us
Battle and death to those throats open to invasion.
They built stone fortresses in the District of Colca—buried
Their kind, in caves, rock crevasses, mausoleums.
Part Two
Uscovilca and Ancovilca
Canipaco Valley
The twin gods of the Chanka race, the founders, Uscovilca
And Ancovilca—: one inherited the teeth
Of the great lion, the other, the great thumbs of Goliath
And thereafter, the Chanka race never had had a whole
Day of peace, and thus built, Tamborhuanca (sanctuary)
Where one cry from the dying, contained a thousand more.
Part Three
House of Sorrows
Tamborhuanca—Colca
In time all things end, become shadows, hence, the
“House of the Falcon” became the “House of Sorrows”
The door that leads to Tamborhuanca, near Colca
Built eight-hundred years, now in the past—the sanctuary
Of the Chanka, now lies silent, with deadly gases…
A house roofed with stone and earth, caves and graves.
It’s too late to move now; their bones (blunt like dull pencil lead)
Can be found in the dark crevasses of this fortress like
Mound—this monstrous sanctuary, with cave-eyes everywhere!
Part one of the poems written on 22nd of September, 2011. No: 3091; parts two and three (3092 and 3093,) written on 23rd of September).
El Tambo Spider (s)
(Inspired by living in El Tambo for eons)
When it’s cold in El Tambo
the spiders know—
they crawl on my walls
along my window sills
Along the ridges and
under my bed—: creeping
little crawlers, making cobwebs…!
While I’m asleep, they swing
and pivot, fall and crawl,
on wires and strings, even
on my brow: bite me here
and there, especially on rainy
nights…
You’d be surprised how
much they know—
about my apartment, and its
five rooms…
Half blind, they prance about,
as if they owned the house—
bodies reddish brown, black and gray…
I think they are here to stay!
No: 1845 ((5-26-2007)(reedited, 10-3-2011))
(Dedicated to the dwellings in El Tambo)
Corn Picking in San Jeronimo
(Peru, in the Andes, the Mantaro Valley)
It is late June; I walk through the cornfield.
Light on the tops of the surrounding mountains,
Light, over my head, eaten by pigs’ teeth
I am learning; I walk through the cornfield
(the grove) with a bag: picking, ripping corn
off the tall stalks.
On the way home, coolness in the afternoon’s
sun, lowers its hands!
Pigs are out alongside of the thick adobe wall?
The mother has gone looking for her little ones.
What they drink and eat, people would not dare
to take in,
But nonetheless, sooner than later, we’ll put that
beast on our dinner table…!
No: 3107 (10-4-2011)
12:08 A.M., 2011
(… in Huancayo)
1.
At exactly 12:06 A.M.
I empty my bladder,
feeling the joy it brings.
Dogs barking outside,
a cool dampness sweeps around the curtain
(I can feel its sway…).
2
My bedroom is small
The lamplight is on, on the side of my dresser
(my side of the bed).
I turn it off, roll into bed
I can’t tell where—
My wife’s awake, turns to my side…;
outside, on a wet street, rain falling.
3
Bits of darkness surround me.
Car lights appear through the curtains
as streaks of light—
“What time is it?” asks my wife.
“12:08, I reply (wondering why?)
“Happy 64th Birthday,” she says with a kiss.
How different (I think) old age Birthdays
are becoming—seemingly secretive.
No 3118 (10-7-2011)
Summer Charms
(… in Huancayo)
I slept a few minutes ago.
I love the warm covers of the bed,
the heat from the small space heater next to me.
Had lunch with Adelmo Huamaní—this afternoon
spaghetti!
I’m growing old.
There is a spirit in a tree—it moves when it
thinks water or sun, or upon a soft touch;
that’s one of the great things in this world.
Years ago
I wouldn’t have said that, but God, like a
Strange Sea Creature, keeps teaching,
and I keep learning—
It is like the mountains surrounding Huancayo
keep drawing back into itself,
to make room for others.
Under the floor of my apartment I feel the
season changing beneath me—
without making a sound, the rain is coming.
No: 3114 (10-6-2011)
The Restaurant Owner
(… in Huancayo)
She kills her own livelihood
her precious secret,
her face holds one tone—
She shuts out those
nearest her (or those be in
opposition to…)!
Dying of arrogance and pride,
unaware she’s alive…;
in her own desert!
It’s no use, she won’t
listen,
she’s too far gone.
No: 3108 (10-5-2011)
Female Tramp
(in the Plaza de Arms ,Huancayo)
A female tramp stands in front of me
(in the Plaza de Arms)
Puckers her lips,
and tries to whisper something
(a woman of alms, a bigger).
Her mind haunted; my wife
givers her silver coin.
She has no front teeth.
As I lean back, on the wooden
bench, the sun floats
down, as she walks away;
turning around twice, to catch a
glimpse—she’s remembering
she’s a woman.
No: 3109 (10-5-2011)
Red Ants in Satipo
(Central Jungle of Peru)
I push; rise slightly, between the thick jungle foliage—
I do not want to alarm the large red ants
who are walking single file back and forth on the plant’s branch (in the Satipo Jungle)—carrying small to large loads
of petals.
I want to pick a piece of fruit off the branch—I try and a few
leap onto me—racing up my fingers, and beyond…they have
sharp teeth—
Then Rosa (my wife)—standing nearby—pulls me back, nearly cries, watching the red ants thrive … “Let it go!”
I let the fruit branch go, step back—she’s relieved—so am I.
No: 3111 (10-5-2011)
† Special Note on Poetic Imagery: The poet must find the voice inside the images, correlating to his emotions (feelings). Then he can produce the pure substance (the essence) of poetry (i.e., what makes a haven a haven? In the case of the small village of ‘the 9th of July’ in Peru, it is its images, but what are their images? One over powering image are the eucalyptus trees, you can’t escape them…)
A Worthwhile Poem
Let’s do this sort and sweet, so read this closely, a worthwhile poem: if the poem you are reading or about to read or have read (let’s say three times over—you got to give it a chance to absorb—be it poetic prose or metered, each can put you into a trance, if it: relaxes your diaphragm, your breathing, if it prepares you to journey (to connect dreams to reality and march toward them, or wish that you had), if it opens up the brain, affects you, brings to you some missing elements, fragments, long lost by the soul: then it is a worthwhile poem for you—: let yourself be the judge, all poems are not structured, or worded for ever mine, they are like, counselors, not ever counselor is made for ever client.
†
A Song to Creativeness
It is a joy to live in these great times,
with life at last grown to its utmost consciousness—
remolding the world to its fulfillment.
Happy be one of those who feel the thrill
and movement of this flow, whose
mind and hands are busy
with great works
of this day
with creative pageantry…
No: 3118 (10-8-2011)
Labels: Ancovilca, Cental Jungle of Peru, Dr. Dennis L. Siluk, El Tambo, Huancayo, Los Chancas, Poeta Laureado De San Jerónimo de Tunan, Satipo, Uscovilca, Valle del Canipaco
posted by Dennis and Rosa Siluk at 12:39 PM
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