This is the night of the distant circles.
Tonight the gulls are in meditation.
Senora, tonight, I find your tracks
disappearing on the shores,
though the tide is afar.
I saw you, draped in a garment of colours, and
adorned of the golden dot on your forehead
vanish at the horizon.
In the morning when you
emerged fresh from the shower of mists
with your clouden hair still wet,
I was the wheezing breeze flying West.
I was the bumblebees returning to roost.
Now I am conversing with the echoes.
I want to decipher the language of the waves
whispering to the stars.

A raga of another time, from another day,
plays in the head:
grime of the day, stuck on my hands.

You shot an arrow across the eastern skies.
Senora, a hundred cries you carry
in your womb, yet I never
found you in the peasant woman
in whose arms I fell asleep, when
at noon you disappear at the horizon.

Maiden of the moons, at dusk I lost you
to the trail of lotuses blooming westward.

It is raining in gusts but this storm
cannot wash it away:
Guilt, like turmeric, stains the soul.

Long in the night, when darkness is deepest
I find you, faint in the clearing among the trees
playing with the silver hues of new-moon light.
When fog fills the air moist with rains, you
hurry into the pond on a trail of stalks bringing
lotuses to bloom and spreading in ripples.
Every lonely morning, you pour crimson ink
to awaken the drooping leaves and sing in the
tiny voices of a hundred swallows welcoming
the slow winds of dawn: you, Senora, fill all
transitions; Early nights, I see, your smiles light
the room in the faint shadows of the dim lamps

A new calendar is a map of time
Showing you spaces in which you might live
And setting off the seasons and solemnities
The penances and feasts in order just

Beneath pictures of cafes’ in Water Street
Arctic-wind hiking trails in Ikkarumiklua
A pint of Quidi Vidi in The Gut
And Peter Pan’s statue in Bowring Park

Or maybe

Our Lady of Walsingham
Nuestra Senora de Guadalupe
Notre Dame de La Salette

Or some puppies and kittens

               And may you find your heart’s desires this year

She shuffled into the dull green room
Perched on the edge of the chair
Dressed black on black
Lace mantilla over a dark scarf
Black dress so worn that
the white threads were showing through

Face the color of the adobe
In the shadows
She did not walk in the sun

She clutched a rosary in her hand
It trembled as if from prayer with no sound
She called me mister
Never raised her gaze
Still focused on the rosary
I didn't want to
but I had to ask,
"What brings you here?
You seem so sad---"

Like a striking snake
She looked me in the eyes
Pupils hard black shiny
Thin tracks of tears run down wrinkled cheeks
"Mister, they said I must tell you everything
I must confess it all so you can help me"

Mumbling appropriate therapy stuff
I began to listen

"Miquello--quello--ah ah"
She spoke very fast
A story repeated many times
Still filled with pain and longing
"He was so beautiful, my boy
Only he would talk to me
Every day, he would tell me his stories
His time at school, what he learned
My hijo, he was so smart
He would hug me, kiss me
I can still feel his arms
Oh Madre de Dios!"

She bought him a new bike for his paper route
Every day she would walk out to see him come home
To see his face, to feel his happiness to see her

He was coming home just at sunset
She called out, "Miquello"
She saw him smile and wave
Pedalling home to her, excited
He never saw the truck that ran the light
Crushing his body and the new bike

She stood there as the sun set
Watching the ambulance, the police
The little crowd gathered
The officer came to the house
And saw her frozen there
Senora, Senora!!

She keeps his room as a shrine
Everything clean, candles burning
His picture on the dresser
His mangled bike next to the bed
She will not let anybody touch a thing

After the funeral mass
She went to the confessional
The priest told her God forgives
She said that she could not

Black eyes burning
She told me, "If I hadn't called out
If he hadn't seen me, he would be alive,
With children!"  Her thin chest shudders
"Besides, I loved him too much, Mister
God took him from me as punishment
I loved him wrong--malo, malo"

Black lace shuddering in silent sobs
"To **** myself is a greater sin
I'll wait to die--then I'll see him again"

In the quiet room all my empty words
Fall like dust in the emptiness
Silence stretching out to more silence
Her guilt to be resolved only by
Her own slow death.

The American Legion meets in the parish hall
Third Tuesday every month (missed you last time)
Old men in funny hats saluting the flag
And then again re-living AIT

Their perimeter shrinks as children rehearse
Their songs and dances for tomorrow night
In honor of Nuestra Senora -
With Juan Diego’s tilma She blesses the Americas

In a classroom across the way the AA
Are fighting their dragons as manfully
As good Saint George, and so in very truth
They are fighting dragons for all of us

This is Our Lady’s cocina, open to all:
Everybody meets in the parish hall

A Massey Fergie tractor
An old VW beetle
A worn out pair of boots
Manuela the 3 legged dog, and Senora
In their humble tumble home

The small concession to modern life
Just a mobile phone

Nothing special here
No status or wealth is evident
I love you Senor Mujica!
You do not change your way of life
Just because you're President

Such children, our playwrights;
They labor under the sad misconception
That, having written their labored little prose,
They shall be presented wholly unfiltered by the performers.
From God’s lips to their ears, they say, ostensibly joking
While their features and inflection bear full witness
To how deeply serious they are in truth.
The poor souls have no idea
(Really, no more than infants, every last one of them)
Just how little their tottering little farces have to say
Concerning the profundity of suffering, the fever of desire,
(How could they know, locked away in their rooms with nothing
But their parchment and quills—truly, from whence will come
The Moreto or de Molina for our age, artists yet men as well?)
And yet the trained performer is able
With no more than the odd inflection,
The certain insouciance  in the crook of an elbow,
The telltale arch of an eyebrow
As another actor declaims his lines,
Provide blood and marrow to the sad scratchings of the purported author, Create meanings never conceived of by the dramatist.  
How many nights have I shot glances
At these poor men of letters, wringing their hands anxiously,
Huddled in the wings on the opening night of their turgid set pieces.
What performances (however involuntary and unconscious)
They would give, faces contorting with surprise and fury,
Fists clenching with rage or grabbing at their tresses
In frustration and stupefaction at what had been made
From their foolish idioms, their labored clichés.
And, after a surfeit of bows had been taken,
They would come before me,
Bowing slowly, stiffly, mechanically in an effort to keep their anger
From virtually surging from their bodies,
Meekly saying Truly, Senora, I did not know
What effect your legerdemain could have
Upon the audience and my humble words,
But, for all their politeness, their hatred is palpable,
For I have thrown their cherished natural order on its head,
As I have usurped them as the creator.

Still, one should not be so harsh with these hijos;
The error is a common one:
So many viceroys and kings, so many priests and archbishops
Have tried to fix the yoke of man’s poor misapprehension
Upon the forces of the universe,
Forces which would brush them into the abyss
With no more forethought than they would rend the web
Of the poor, innocent spider.  
I have, on several occasions,
Accompanied many a man of means to the gaming table,
Have seen them win handsome sums
And seen others lose those every bit as spectacular.  
I have found the victors to be men
Who do not try to ascertain the hidden mysteries of the deck,
Nor bemoan the fact that they are denied the deal,
But rather treat the cards as simple things
(No more than mere bits of paper, drabs of colored ink),
Minute stages provided to display one’s craft and wisdom
In the pursuit of pleasure and profit.

After the day's work, the canopy of stars
sheltering our heads, tell me a story
as you sit down to do your washing;
The night has now fallen silent, now
tell me Senora, stories, of bygone times,
of heroes and kings, of sagas of valour
and of the denizens of the forests,
wolves and lions, and of ancient wells.
I wonder in awe, when  you lift the stone
pestle down. Here's mine a heroine own.
It is cold, and the fires warm our souls,
woolen caps too, and the flickering lamps.
Now put me to sleep by your side, on
the charpoy:  I hear the wind sleepwalk,
jingling her silver anklets in the thin air,
when I wake up in the dead, as crickets
rustle, and shadows talk, to count my
blessings that you are still by my side.

I sit holding a torch to the ingress
where your presence seeps into my soul:

is there more I can offer you, Senora,
Sovereign of all phenomena?

You shot in here, a quiver of birds, this
morning as the fires are burning down.

Shearing open the skies for crimson hues
of peace that now flood the quarters, after

the rains when roses have withered, I find
you stealing past the fragrant path westward.

I am become a lighted lamp, bowing
to you in every smile that greets the day.

It was cool
inside
the Burgos Cathedral

the people pious
and otherwise
was in rows

either side
the priest
was up front

muttering in Spanish
the people
muttering back

and you stood
trying to find your place
in the book of mass

tucked in the seat
in front
what are they saying?

Mamie said
why is that old guy
giving me the eye

she was sitting
beside you in one
of the pews

her short skirt
showing plenty
of leg

her tight bust
pushing
to be free

is it Latin?
she asked
no Spanish

you said
she dragged
her finger

down the page
muttering words
you watched the priest

hands raised
his hands open
to the heavens

some old senora
was giving you
the evil eye

her dark eyes
like prunes
in a basin

of dull cream
searched you out
that old guy

is still licking me
with his oily eyes
Mamie said

you smelt the incense
the stink
of bodies unwashed

her perfume
her bust close
to your arm

pressing nearer
her hair wild
and bushy

was held in place
by a red Alice band
the old guy looked away

he’d had his fill
his eyes watery
aged

****** elsewhere
like aged slugs
Mamie closed

the mass book
put it back in place
and folded her hands

in mock prayer
like pose
her eyes drinking in

the scene
the priest
the altar

the windows
the statues
her voice soft

in your ear said
when can we
get out of here?

I need to ***
the priest held aloft
the host

the Christ
the Lamb of God
she pushed her hands

between her thighs
squeezed her knees
in anxious pose

ok you
said moving
from the pew

better go
before you wee
I suppose.

Aliens Foreign and Domestic

A little Ford bearing on its bumper
A made-in-China South Vietnamese flag
Tailgated by a menacing larger Ford
Which passes, bearing on its bumper
A made-in-China Confederate flag
And then another Ford with an image of
Nuestra Senora de Guadalupe
On U.S. 96 near the Wal-Mart -
There must be something in all that
    But what?

now the day is done:
gone all the song-masters
and dream-makers;
and now, I am alone
by your side.

Sometimes, you escape me
and then this giant stride
straight into my heart;

Ceaseless in waves.

Love scattered across your forehead
like stars flickering over
the eastern sky:

Is it your hair that flits
across your smile in the breeze?

Senora, the swallows have been
shot like a bow and they
go screeching over the horizon
echoing in the distance;

Let me hold your hand and
site by your side like this:
scarce these quiet hours
that mull like the blue moon
in the hours before dawn.

Untangled from dilemma-maze
Merry welcome of heavenly haze
Chillers of sorrows when break
Senora heads towards love-take.
-Osh

Rain snaps at the distance
one more wet dawn, I sit
longing by the porch,
as the leaves rustle

Of realms ethereal,
Senora, how would I
honour you in my
coarse, this peasant home?

Do not but assume this
frail form, that caprice can
find shelter, human
in you: I can't bear,

I will wait an aeon,
if only to grow eyes.

And then draped in your cloak
shimmering like the dark night
hair streaking past your eyes
them leaves across the wet moon
when you turn looking back at me
I can believe in a hundred rebirths
and die breathing like the sun at dusk
drowning in the distant sea
bleeding across the horizon
mourned by the gulls
Senora, I don't know you
and yet I do, friend across the ages,
here we meet again

Where do you walk to, Senora, across

mist-wet beaches moments before dawn?

Shy waves are savouring their lone time.

The sun, a truant kid behind the clouds.

Fisher-boats quivering in their dreams.


Where do you walk to, in your free

glowing tunic, garlanded of fresh flowers,

silken moist hair caressing the winds?


Now the leaves are awakening to stretch

in the breeze, now gold is abundant.

The trees have shot bird arrows of love

slow darting into the horizon blue. Not

enough answer, the Smiling tiara turn gaze

I'm
A modern
Day
Senora
And a former
Day sora.

A lado de la Misión San Cristòbal
Est una casa lujosa y grande
dónde vive reservado y distinto
La Doña Carmen Garcia-Cabrall.

Trabajo en su estancia - ensilar su caballo,
monto detras encargado quando ella visite
sus amigos aqui  y alli. Dicho y hecho.
La Doña Carmen Garcia-Cabrall.

Ella dice: “Arnese mi caballo - Miguel!
Trae mis botas - Miguel!
Muchas Gracias - Miguel!”
La Doña Carmen Garcia-Cabrall.

Ella amanto Don Josè Francisco Delgado
est  a menudo frecuente.  El dice: “Adios!
Miguel esta seguro La Doña
Maria Carmen Garcia-Cabrall!”

A  lado de la Misión San Cristòbal
espero en el patio de la casa grande
dónde vive resevardo y distinto
La Doña Carmen Garcia-Cabrall.

Ella dice: “Estable la caballo - Miguel!
Entonces ven arriba - Miguel!
Ahora rapido - Miguel!
Cerra mis botas - Miguel!
Muy bien! -  Miguel!”
Digo “Es todos Senora?”
“Haz lo quieras Miguel!
Miguel!  Cierra la puerta
El cerrojo en el interior"
La Doña Carmen Garcia-Cabrall.

TOBIAS

Then I must long for you, mourning
like the lark long after light -
fires shivering in the distant night,
shriveling bush in winter,
for her warm wings of green
aflame in a sacred time;
There go the buds that never bloomed
dug in the earth with the coffins
waiting for redemption;
Senora, breathe into my neck
like you are nowhere:
let me swim with you in those
phantasms that your eyelids conjure
past the whorls and eddies and currents
up the hills where in blood
are painted tales of the past,
daggers dug up the heart
treasured, it is mulled, mutual
the sour pressed red;
And then with wings gliding
past the valleys long after light
unuttered the hymns of the heart
that sing of you, flooding
and swallowing the embers
lingering on in the shadows of
the withered rose, long gone;
Then I must long for you, mourning
like the lark long after light.

Are you of the aeons before time,
how do we ken, us forlorn
of this speck of a world?
Blank we saw the canopy of our world
where stars blink in the dark night
and wept for a love caring and kind;
Lost, fatherless, orphaned
out of our childhood dreams
and we went searching hither
Gilgamesh to the horizon and back;
And you smiled, peasant woman,
hair streaking across the clouds
over the hills, across the vales;
In the still depths, an assurance;
Senora, or is time of the aeon before?
So long before that era then
to us forlorn of this speck of a world,
it matters not, it matters not

Taking it slow
my breathing,

Im grateful for the ones who broke me.
It made me stronger for the players and disbelieving.
Men and man can be decieving..
Though ive locked myself into a bubble.
You cant pop it
i have self defense in the liquid walls
of the suds and halls of
my mind im your biggest trouble.
Quick to speak.
A beautiful senora with a heart that is weak~
dont even try to shatter me
im the living dead.
Come close
off with your head.

For the Faithful Departed

Do we all holy rites.
Let there be sung Non nobis and Te Deum

-Henry V, 4.viii.115-116

Workmen approved indeed1, from far away
Like Abraham, exiled from the fields of home
But leaving here in their adopted land
Their blessings always, through family and faith

And so we ask Our Lady in several voices -
     Nuestra Senora de Guadalupe
     Notre-Dame de LaSalette
     Our Lady of the Americas -

To welcome Luis and Oscar to God’s Home,
That promised Place of refreshment, light, and peace2


1 2 Timothy 2:15
2 from several Catholic prayers for the departed






Of your kindness pray for the repose
of the souls of Luis Castro and Oscar Rivera

the post, the fight, the widening rift
    the solitude, the depression lifts
                     The Gift

Lawrence Hall
[email protected]  
https://hellopoetry.com/lawrence-hall/
poeticdrivel.blogspot.com

                  Decorating for Christmas – “What Can I Do?”

A little girl tugged at my arm and asked
“But what can I do?”
I sent her to Senora Anil because I didn’t know

She came to me again and sadly asked
“But what can I do?”
I sent her to Miz Bev because I didn’t know

She came to me once again and sadly asked
“But what can I do?”
I sent her to Senor Nicho because I didn’t know

Some sturdy young teens brought in the Creche
And there the little girl knelt and placed the straw
And then each figure in turn; she talked to them
And cautioned them all to keep Baby Jesus warm

And that’s what a little girl can do

Last night she dreamt of San Pedro
Madonna at my teenage dances

Crazy for you it's true
And now the Argentine kind Pope Francis

Italians do it better
Jackie Graziano

Vinnie Testaverde
Her secrets. My te amo.

           Todd. Me llamo.

What I learned from Senora Lynch
And her Haliwa-Saponi gift

The spiritual is symmetrical
A geometrical animal lift

I too walk the Path
Dream of Turtle Island

Remember 137
And funny Richard Feynman

Indigenous comes first
And maybe also at the end

Turtles all the way down
William James, my friend

It always pains me
To see birds eat worms

I wish that God
Could find other terms

Her hair is straight
But then she perms

Her ******* so soft!
Her *** so firm!

                 Yes.