Chicano Poet

Saturday, January 20, 2007

Once Were Poets

Once were warriors, these poets, once
were champions; fit, young and tanned
in their battle dress, truth’s exemplars.

Once were worthy, these bravos, once
were steel to stand staunch to ideals,
unassailable in their righteous belief.

Once were harbingers, heralds of new
eras, angels of illusory imaginings where
truth holds a moral constituency.

Once wrote with meaning, once wrote
in fear-trembling hands words wielded
as swords in hand-to-hand combat.

Once died on the field. Once bled sweet
blood in wasted words and blighted breath
with no hope of temporal recompense.

Once were poets who clamoured keen
when hordes invaded, conceded their
scared land, wielded white handkerchiefs.

Once were poets
– who now entertain.

© I.D. Carswell 2007

Poem #15 of 365

America showed up onstage
the audience applauded
and the women wept

We want America to win
to persevere, to grow
and be proud of herself

It has been a long time
coming for America;
she hasn't always
been so supported.

America, she won
the Golden Globe
for best actress
in a tv comedy series.

copyright 2007 tammy melody gomez


I wrote identity and the poets picked up stones.
The scholars wanted me to sing a pre-written song.
The night fell and I couldn’t speak the things I dreamed.
I wanted to sing of light and a border’s nights.
I wanted to share the white stones with you,
to tell you how the letters in Spanish shine
in white stones on Juarez’s blue banks. The words
set in lines of stones, the arroyo below weedy dry.
I wanted to share the red sunset bleeding over the desert,
to find an “I” that belonged to a million girls.
I wanted to find a “we” therein that he could not sing.
He stole away the border in a byrd, stole away the river
in empty words. Truncated as we’d been for decades,
he stole away even with that silence. He said,
there is to be no talk of silence. And he laughed?
He demanded a new sentence as I caught my first breath.
He told me quietude was silliness as he talked and talked.
He said words were real, but it was I who bled all night.
He said words were absorbed and not absorbed.
The blood was wet.
The blood was dark.

copyright 2007 by Sheryl Luna


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