Three Poems: The Rocks; Coffee; and The Harvest Dance (and Commentary)

The Rocks
(Rapturous poetry)

Friend, please tell me what is wrong with me?
Or is it perhaps the world?
For I told myself, it could be either way!

I gave up drinking, smoking and gambling,
and I never swore, but then I started to.

So I prayed on that, and went after women
instead, and became compulsively attracted.

I went and got married to give up women
and just have one, and I started up swearing again.

I worked hard at trying to figure myself out,
pushing aside pride, greed, lust, envy and gout!

And every time I take my inventory, I find one
more issue, that had been hidden under a rock!

“Listen up Friend, there’s only been one
who has ever been able to kick over those rocks
and find nothing of value to talk about…!”


No: 1955 8-29-2007 In this poem I try to put what I call eccentric energy into its rebellious branches; a tinge of spirituality; the ego and the body play a role here, and how a man may try to prepare himself for death, trying to subdue his impulsive nature, be it sexual, or excessive energy in other so called, taboo areas: acted out and un-acted out desires. The rocks, or rock, are ones invitation to look under it, for there is where you will find your problem, the situation is always on top, and thus the problem has to be under the rock. This is an old Hindu style form of poetry.




Death by the Numbers
(A short Commentary)

Death comes and goes as quick as the shifting of gears in a car for this world’s population (s). If one makes it to 60-years old, it has been said, he or she is lucky. Not because of health reasons per se, but because we live in a dangerous world, for the most part. One can die a thousand ways, just leaving the house for eight hours. Compile that to 60-years x 365-days, equals: 21,900 days to have been killed in, and thus, that same number, is how many times you have avoided death. The odds are not in ones favor; if one believes 1000-times a day he could have been killed (by transportation accidents, killers, tripping and falling, getting cancer, a chicken bone, etc), this equals: let’s add three more zeros to that, and it comes out to be: 21,900,000 chances to have been killed in the past sixty-years. Most people never do seem to catch sight of this. We become too carefree. But death is not no scarecrow, it lingers all about, like white on rice. Perhaps we have a guardian angel, it sure would seem so in my way of thinking.












Harvest Dance
(Carnaval de Guiliudraca)

The little Wanka girls bounce on their feet
like rubber balls!
Dressed in green and red…
like cucumbers, and tomatoes.
The boys hop up and down;
almost all in black (blue striped shirts)
they are going to pluck the roots from the ground
it’s harvest time.



Dedicated to Reina Giron Director of ‘Rosa de America School’ in Huancayo, Peru; poem written while watching the children dance, and attending the activities; the author danced the dance of the ‘Santiago’ at the Saint Rosa festivities at the school (8-30-2007). And there was dances of Cuzco with their colorful red and black hats.





Coffee, Coffee, Coffee
(Coqui –Bakery Coffee)


Dark — coffee beans and cream
the pure, engaging, straight-splitting
(with a snap)
sunburned latté, thick like the glass
stirred-lightly—like smooth stones,
down to the cellar of my stomach
it’s poured; a living river! …
riding flatcars in the summer!



Inspired by Elizabeth, dedicated to Carmon and Koki; No. 1957, 8-30-2007, in Huancayo Peru. If I enjoy anything in life, it is a good cup of coffee, and it it can be a latte, all the better. The best Coffee in Huancayo, is at Coqui’s.