Wednesday, November 24, 2010

Honduras, November 2010 - Part I - Four Poems

Honduras is Green

Honduras is green

In the same way that

Blood is red,

Snow is white,

The night is dark.

Essentially green.

Without the green

It wouldn’t be Honduras.

Honduras is poor

In the same way that

Babies cry,

Drunks stagger,

Dogs gnaw bones.

Essentially poor.

Without the poverty

It wouldn’t be Honduras.

Honduras is joyful

En lo mismo manera que

Kids kick futbols above the tree tops,

Lovers dance close,

A gray haired woman swims in the sea.

Essentially joyful.

Without the joy it wouldn’t be Honduras.

I visit Honduras

In the same way that

Los sacerdotes oran el rosario,

Los gallos gritar a la madrugada

Palabras cruzar los labios y forman frases.

My visits are essential.

I make these trips to know who I am.

Waiting and Hoping

In Spanish, esperar

Means to wait.

Espereme, mi amor.

Wait for me, my love.

In Spanish, esperar

Means to hope.

Espero que regreses

A mi, mi amor.

I hope you will come back

To me, my love.

Si estas esperando,

Hay esperanza.

If you are waiting,

There is hope.

Si su esperanza

Esta terminado,

If your wait is over,

You know,


There is nothing more

To wait for.

Nothing more

To hope for.

Por eso espanol es

Una lingua mejor

Por amores

Que ingles.

Spanish can break your heart

El espanol puede romper su corazon.

Gringo Time, Honduran Time

El tiempo del gringo

Es bien organizado.

It has a beginning, a middle and an end.

Honduran time flows and loops.

Si Dios quiere.

Gringo time falls on the beat.

At best it waltzes.

1-2-3, 1-2-3.

El tiempo HondureƱo baile la bachata.

The feet execute a sexy little two-step

While the hips elaborate.

But Honduran time is a

Bromista cruel.

Its jokes are merciless.

The hours glow.

The days rhyme.

The weeks nap in their hammocks.

The months pass in ciclos de sol y lluvia.

But the years kill you.

You are old at forty.

At fifty you look seventy.

Before long,

There is a tent in the street

In front of your house.

Your family weeps in rented folding chairs.

A black bow droops on your door.

Gingo time is a negotiator.

(Even time knows that gringos are powerful.)

In the end it is all the same.

Time has nothing to loose

By relenting a little

Here and there.

Five years if you go to the gym

Three times a week.

Ten years if you take your

Lisinopril daily.

Gringo time is patient.

It’s all the same in the end.


In Spanish cielo means

Both heaven and sky.

It’s a smoke ring word.

Say it with a Cubano

Between your teeth.

A ring of cloud

Floats toward the sky,

Toward the heavens above.

Guillermo died in Honduras.

I helped carry his coffin.

His brother unscrewed the face plate.

We said good bye through

A plastic window.

Reflections of clouds and sky

Floated over his face.

Cielo y cielo. Cielo y cielo.

In the dirt school yard,

Boys climb the flagpole.

Thirty feet up,

They become

Skinny silhouettes

Against el cielo.

As close to el cielo

As a hungry ten year old

Can get.

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