Listen

by Becky

Thank you for always being there, To listen and understand me. I appreciate all you did for me, And all you still do. Thank you for making me feel whole again, For putting my pieces back together. I appreciate you putting my life back together, You saved my life. You may not understand, Why I do what I do. But you never criticized, You just helped my through. I knew I could come to you when I was down, 'cause I knew you'd always be there to pick me back up and say everything will be ok.

"WE BORN TO DIE, BUT WE DON'T DIE FOR NOTHING."

De todo lo que pasa en el mundo

sólo me importa lo que te pasa a ti;

tú eres para mí, más importante

que el destino de la tierra,

más importante que el porvenir del hombre.

Ninguna causa, ninguna idea,

ninguna utopía me haría renunciar a ti.

En el fondo, poco me importa

si el agujero de ozono se agranda

o si la humanidad desaparece dentro de cien años;

de nada sirvieron las palabras de los sabios

ni los milagros de los santos;

no se pudo evitar una sola guerra,

un sólo sufrimiento,

una sola injusticia en este mundo

desde que el mundo es mundo,

y yo que apenas soy un hombre que te ama,

¿qué puedo hacer...?

me dirás que soy egoísta, tal vez,

que me preocupa sólo mi dicha.

Es cierto. Pero mi dicha,

lo sabes ¡Eres tú!

Y todo lo que te pasa me preocupa,

todo el resto no cuenta, no sirve,

no vale una sola sonrisa tuya;

si no te tengo, si algo llegara a sucederte,

si por algún motivo dejaras de amarme,

para mí sería el fin del mundo,

de un mundo que sólo tú  justificas,

que sólo tu le das sentido.

Ningún esfuerzo valdría la pena,

ningún Dios me devolvería tu alma,

ninguna mujer me daría tu amor, el mismo amor,

ninguna razón sería suficiente

para seguir vivo, si de pronto,

si por algún motivo, me faltaras tú, amor mío

 A veces hay tantas cosas para decir

pero hay otras tantas en que las palabras no salen....

  A veces la mente no logra descifrar

lo que el corazón quiere decir...

A veces el corazón dice

lo que la mente nunca llegará a entender...

  A veces somos tanto

y a la vez no somos nada .

 

 

 

 

 

 

                                                    Casi nunca somos nada...  

 

"The car won't start," aid a wife to her husband. "I think there's water in the carburettor."

"How do you know?" said the husband scornfully. "You don't even know what the carburettor is."

"I'm telling you," repeated the wife, "I'm sure there's water in the carburettor."

"We'll see," mocked the husband. "Let me check it out. Where's the car?"

"In the swimming pool."

I'm far too shy to tell you that I love you.
You're a star far from my plain earth.
I gaze and see no woman who's above you:
To me you are the cynosure of worth.
Yet with all your beauty you're a person
Like me in need of sympathy and love.
Your thoughts of me would not, I dare hope, worsen
If I in some way tried your heart to move.
There's pleasure, surely, drawn from the reflection
That someone, somewhere, worships your sweet face,
Thinks you are the summit of perfection,
Wants nothing more of life than your embrace.
The danger is you'll think it couldn't be;
So I suggest you see yourself through me.

Until we met I didn't know
How light a heart could be;
How, chained to one by bonds of love,
I still could feel so free.

I didn't realize that my dreams
Could ever be so real;
Or when I had all I could want,
Exactly how I'd feel.

This year of love has brought me through
A long-awaited door:
Were angels parked along our skies,
I could not love you more.

Love is never easy, but
It turns life into song.
There is no bit of circumstance
That love cannot transform.

There is no weary moment
Of anger or despair
That love cannot convert to grace
And render whole and fair.

How passionate the paradise
That comes from knowing well
That someone in your happiness
Finds pleasure for himself.

How sweet the gift of giving to
Someone who gives to you,
A selflessness that gives to self
More self than self is due.

With all the searing madness of
The world from day to day,
And all the dreary sadness that
No joy can take away,

There is one truth more beautiful
Than anyone can bear:
That two can trust that when they turn
They'll find the other there.

North by coast road we drove
through stands of redwood tagged
for the lumberman's axe,
past alpine villages and herds
of humped cattle in a kind of gorse,

to stop by the postcard bridge
arched over silted wetlands,
the sand creating nests
beasts might crawl to fill.

So little left unmarred
where we rode in the failing light.
We should have fled to the water,
initials carved on our backs
like scrimshaw on the jawbones of whales.

E. G. Burrows
RATTLE
Winter 2006

I don't have to call them,
I never know when they'll buzz,
the pests, then they can't
stop talking, like taxi static
on the phone behind
whatever living voice
I'm trying to hear.
And now they're back.
A headset twitters
near the famed Korean
who rides our bus repeating
"Remember me, remember
me to everybody"
that streams into wingbeats
when blackbirds slap trees
then pretend to leave. I never know
where they'll be, my skittish
talky dead, in dozens sung
by girls skipping rope,
Mama told Papa don't be so bad,
or deer bounding down court,
Get back, pick him up!
They talk their talk
and claim me: my father
who hardly spoke at all;
a brain-fevered friend
cussing Jesus in tall cotton;
another who lived to quarrel
and still can't shut up,
like fanatical mosquitoes,
ladybugs clogging the screen,
or gossipy mob of moths
stuck to the underside
of our incomplete existence,
batting their opaque wings
at our brief blackbird world,
so much noise and so it goes
when this big-nosed redhead,
before getting on,
sucks and dumps his smoke,
jet-trailing through the door—
he hacks and he hawks
and he sets them loose again
to crowd me, saying the same
senseless things they say.

On the platform, sick with myself
for reasons I hardly recall,
—in the tunnel's whippy trash
the oncoming locomotive lights
looked intimate and frothed—
I thought (of course) I'd jump,
to see what I could see.

But my angle reversed itself,
and I remembered instead
driving the Schuylkill Freeway
past 30th Street Station, looking in
at shed, silvered rail yards,
mousy lights, switching tracks
like tracer lights arcing forth
all directions to some other where,
when I considered the thousands,
the loved and the estranged I never knew,
emerging from the underworld,
unhappy, unfree, but on the move.

On that dark, low-ceilinged platform,
I knew, or convinced myself I knew,
that if I fell into those cataract lights
and stopped, the way we fall
in dreams until we stop,
I might see God's face because
I'd see all things at once.

What held me back
was your image, earlier that night,
pointing to a full moon briared
in a beech's circled branches.
There it would be, once a month,
unconscious and available,
alive, as we're alive and here,
in stark, lovely, godless repetitions
good or bad, sustaining us, as is:
circle, light, branch, recurrence
to hold us in our place in time.

W. S. Di Piero
Chinese Apples: New and Selected Poems
Alfred A. Knopf, Publisher

Full Of Haters

Every where you go you are going to find heater

They could even be near you

Without you notice it.

But what can we do about it.

"Llevo tu recuerdo como sangre viva que me cura la herida sin que te lo pida y adonde voy miro tu rostro pues a de ser que tu estas  en  mis pensamientos y en mi sangre."