Writer & Poet | Escritor y Poeta
¡dare! invade my body
as you wager… ¡go ahead!
¡celebrate! ¡believe your folly!
that you can win if i’m left dead.
what you don’t know
is what i know from experience:
after your sickening blow
you’ll weaken in futile resistance.
but even if you win
your joy will be ephemeral
and life much like the wind.
in sum, my body is your coffin
and with my funeral
yours begins.
virus is featured in Réquiem, by Luis S. González-Acevedo
–september 23, 2020–
May the universe grant you
the so-called freedom you seek.
My goal is not to change your foolish views,
nor rustic thoughts birthed by your feet.
May the grant be yours, and only yours.
And if George Washington prefers,
let him readily confer
such freedom and its idiocy,
as you bask in your delinquency
and stupidity of life without a mask.
For George, it’s an easy task.
Do you realize that we speak
of your suicide?
Your arrogance and trumpery1 at its peak…
Even more than simple homicide,
it’s the battery & murder of those you might infect.
God speaks to you, his-her-its message don’t reject:
let others live happily
with their masks under “oppression.”
But should you want to live satanically…
Well, as for you and your fetishized transgression,
may the angels see you as you are: a murderer,
an aggressor,
an ass, and the epitome of retrogression.
1Merriam-Webster’s Dictionary: worthless nonsense, trivial or useless articles –First Known Use: 15th century, Middle English (Scots) trompery deceit, from Middle French, from tromper to deceive.
1Oxford Dictionary: attractive articles of little value or use, practices or beliefs that are superficially or visually appealing but have little real value or worth, showy but worthless, delusive or shallow –Origin: late Middle English (denoting trickery): from Old French tromperie, from tromper ‘deceive’.
Your Covid–19 Death Wish is featured in Réquiem, by Luis S. González-Acevedo
Sereno
Tus afectos hijos son de la noche
cuyo padre fallece en ocaso;
errantes sin haber quién reproche
su conducta en serenal espacio.
Cubre la faz de su alcance nocturno
como perro sabueso cazando el terreno;
esperando una flor que caiga en el trance sereno,
producto vital del nocturno veneno.
Por el día las aguas el sol evapora,
permitiéndole entrada al ambiente celeste;
es el manto nocturno quien las reincorpora
en rocío tardío, en sereno naciente.
Las tinieblas albergan la acuosa sustancia
que en el alba envuelve en porción al planeta;
para huertos, sembrados y flora ganancia;
de la noche señal de su muerte funesta.
El morir de la noche es el nacer del día,
siendo el alba partícipe del astral encuentro;
espera el ocaso con gran rebeldía
deseando tornar el rocío en sereno.
Deleitoso sereno que aguardas
con tu manto deseando amparar
a una fémina que esté abandonada,
que te ame y se deje amar.
El sol se hunde en las aguas,
la luna brota del mar,
y el sereno se abre las puertas
de alcobas de rosas que quieran amar.
Dew (loose translation)
Your affections are children of the night
whose father dies at sunset;
errant, with no one to reproach
their conduct in realms wet with dew.
Dew covers the face of its nocturnal reach
like a bloodhound covers terrain;
waiting for a flower to fall in a serene trance,
vital symptom of its nocturnal venom.
During daylight, the sun evaporates the waters,
letting them enter the celestial environment.
The nocturnal protector reincorporates them
into late sprinklings, nascent dew.
Darkness shelters the liquid substance
that at dawn covers a portion of the planet:
profit for gardens, fields and floras;
but for the night, a sign of its terrible death.
Night’s death is day’s birth.
Dawn participates in the astral encounter.
Sunset awaits rebelliously,
intending to once again unleash its dew.
Delightful Dew:
with your lustful frock just dying to shelter
an abandoned female
who will love you and let herself be loved by you.
The sun submerges in waters,
the moon springs up from the sea,
and Dew opens the doors
to bedrooms of roses lusting for love.
Sereno se publicó en el poemario Poemas Caribeños, por Luis S. González-Acevedo
The loose translation –Dew– is featured in Caribbean Poet, by Luis S. González-Acevedo
I dedicate this poem to those who have been denied a home because of race or ethnicity.
May we have a home?
The immigrants stood at their prospective landlord’s door in latent panic,
their only way to beg for an apartment
and secure their children’s smooth adjustment;
but they weren’t Anglo nor Germanic.
The couple was persistent. Caribbean Hispanics
battered by their circumstances and haggard
–yet intent on flying skyward.
But in the end, their mobile souls bled
when the soulless landlord said:
“I’m sorry, but you’re not the right Hispanic. –You know, European… Spaniards.”
May we have a home? is featured in Réquiem, by Luis S. González-Acevedo
The poem is also featured in Caribbean Poet, by Luis S. González-Acevedo
I dedicate this poem to those who without knowing a language have had to speak it...
“Don’t spic English, I”
Father told me, “Tell them…”
“I don’t speak English,”
because I understood the world in Spanish.
On a school day and acutely shy –ahem, ahem…
Reinventing grammar, I told them:
“Don’t speak English, I.”
The sentence was only close to right.
I could have died!
But like an outsider who would NOT be defeated,
my courageous little mouth and lips repeated:
“Jes! Don’t spic English, I.”
| “Don’t spic English, I” is featured in Réquiem, by Luis S. González-Acevedo The poem is also featured in Caribbean Poet, by Luis S. González-Acevedo |
