April 9

One pidgeon in the plaza
Walks with a wounded wing.
Weakened by the weight
It wobbles from knee to knee.
It's feathers are dirty,
They dont plume like the others.
So boastful and beautiful and fit.
This one flitters from place to place
Feeding on the pity of people
Throwing seeds to the ground.
It can't fight the flock that flys
From hand to hand at the sound
Of the seeds falling down.
So the broken-winged one
Can often be found, dejectedly waiting
For the next observant and soft-hearted
Hand to single it out.

April 8

The look in your eye
speaks of fire and light
the unending burning
of a day without night
the careful steps
of a man without sight
the resourceful methods
of a bird without flight

That look in your eye
leaves me empty and dry
like the last belayed breath
of a full bellied sigh
and it has me pinned in
so i cant help but feeling so ragged and thin
I fear I'll not know
passion that will never die
for when I said that I did
you knew it a lie

April 7

I dont know where I'm headed
But I do know where I've been
And I know that I'm a being
That can't be what he was, again

For the things I've seen have changed me
And the places I know as well
Have been like drifting the ocean
At the whim of wind and swell

The horizon ahead is familiar
And I hear a familiar call
But the place I once knew as home
Really is not home at all

The road is home, and where I lay my head
Whether on a stone or a feather bed
I could stay in this place and stand alone
Or find company walking my feet to the bone

April 6

The bells of the Parroquia De Yanahuara do not sound any longer
but ring out over loudspeaker at the proper atomic times, everyday.
Growing in the white stone courtyard, the ancient ashen tree looks healthy and oddly comfortable blowing in the wind
next and over-top the solid angular building erected in 1780
in the name of God and of the people of Yanahuara.
Once smooth, now pockmarked walls, sharp corners and proudly
simple bell tower blend into an ornate entryway,
sculpted, protruding from the face of the structure.
Great black open doors hanging wide amidst stone gilded pillars
decoratively supporting saints and angels and Jesus himself,
ushering you through the gates of Heaven.
Today, the added wing, built año 1783 to house the loyal parishioners,
now holds the local artisans. Paintings and postcards, icons and key chains
can all be bought with Visa or MasterCard.

April 5

I was reading by the window
relaxing in comfort when i heard the squeal
and i looked down on two men
tying a hog to the back of a three-wheeled moto-taxi
hulking and speckled, the beast was large
black and pink with overly large ears
droping resignedly towards the street
full fleshed head hanging off the
back of the small trailerbed
in front of small brick house
with a small bricked in yard behind a wall
where this pig grew to its immense size.
The first squeal was all that drifted up to me
but from four stories the animals eyes
were as loud and destructive as bombs.
He did not struggle, and his ears bounced listlessly
as the moto-taxi drove down the street.

April 4

The stones in the river do not move for ages
but water never stops flowing over them like time
though never the same water, always the same river
the same turbulent eddies in a life ever flowing

are those boulders, that truly design the flow,
the problems in the river of my life?
Or am I the boulder and time the waters?

Is the boulder truth and the water that hides it
disguising lies masking it in churning filth and dirt
so that we call the water River
even though its lies are so ephemeral

April 3

This flame has burned
for a long long time.
The shades and colours
of old candles are many
which have fixed this candlestick in its place,
but now, it is time
to blow this old flame out
and scrape the many-coloured wax
from my heart.

April 2

The tourist
sees nothing but a collection of pictures
on a coffee table at home in the city
an experience removed from reality and culture
but shared alike with thousands of friends and cohorts
but to travel is more
than a collection of memories and stories,
it is an experience of difference
in reality and culture and shared alike
with those who listen

April 1

I am an old woman
broken down but patient
i've seen every sunrise
that this world has to show

I sit here waiting
watching the clouds pass
I've said my goodbyes, anyways
I'm the only one left

My fingers are knarled
my feet are twisted
my knees shake when i'm standing
I can't walk up the stairs

For a while I was happy
For a while I as sorry
Now I sit here watching
since impatience has passed

This world is indifferent
beautiful but blind
the last thing I´ll see
are my slow closing eyes