Daniel’ “Photo of a stapled bird”

HATE, SKIN OF BITTER BEANS

I praise the poetic effort and career

Of the poets “Ambassadors of Peace”:

Juanita, Annpol, Tatiana, Juan and Nelson

Alain, Eugenio, Beatriz, Michael

Libia, Zidiad and so many others

Who yearn in the beautiful pages

Of the San Francisco Solano Cultural Center

From Argentina

May it arrive, once and for all

The longed-for Peace that does not raise its eyes

From the ground of destruction and death

For the wars that do not end

Thanks to the countries of the moment

Traffickers of human beings and Arms.

Some say that the Lord of Heaven

Not even the thunder of bombs wakes him

Abandoning us to our good or bad luck.

Others sing, from their countries at peace

“La lara la la la larala la

We are at ease with the warlords

And the serial killers who defend us

Like, in the old days, the warriors of the Crusades

Giving us health and grace

While we watch the Eurovision Song Contest on TV

To the participants singing and dancing

Over the corpses of children, men and women

In Palestine, Lebanon, Syria, Yemen and other nations

Taking away the pains of congenital Hatred

Which tastes like the skin of bitter beans.”

-My son, Wars will never end

Because men are very bad

My maternal grandmother said

Fleeing from Huesca, in Aragon

Towards Argelès-sur-Mer, in the south of France

Located in the Eastern Pyrenees

From the region of Occitania, Roussillon

When the fratricidal war of Spain.

Pain is a cloud cut by a blade

My throat is learning to choke again

No one will be able to love you the same way before

No one can die like you did

I give you castles in the air

I give you sand castles

I’m drowning in the rising tide

I’m drowning in time and death

Pain is a cloud shot in/from minutes

The sand covers the past and 

I am drowning in the depths of the sands

***

Mom taught the soldier to read

Mom taught the soldier how to dress

The soldier did not teach his mother to cry

The soldier did not teach his mother to wait

You can’t be born mothers

You can die mothers

Corpses dig trenches for themselves

Corpses are dug out from trenches

***

The tree is dead

Nobody organized a funeral

No one came to say goodbye to the deceased

No one has made a coffin out of human skin

The tree was killed in an unequal battle with a chainsaw

The tree was killed by depriving the executioner of excess oxygen

Trees are so humble that they will endure anything

Trees are so proud that they even die in silence

***

Crystal air

Crystal man

Crystal leaves under crystal feet

Mines

***

1

snowflake cures snowflake

time does not stand still 

and the snow molds jugs of touches

2

the bird drinks the morning silence

spring grass is washed with morning dew

the cemetery in the morning is unchanged

3

Inevitable night plays snowballs

another moment and the eyelids will drop

forever

***

аliens are looking 

for the last flower 

in the history of planet 

***

the grass falls asleep

autumn rain drinks 

the growing silence

***

the leaves under my feet 

taught my bones to crunch 

again

***

birds seek sound 

and proud friendship 

in feathered dandelions

***

nobody knows 

who’s hiding under 

the killing snow

***

Feet are washed with water and eyes are dried

The desert of the gaze envelops with heat

Look at me and tell me that no one will die

The glass fades and the mosaic breaks into pieces

Bread crumbs gradually become smaller

Birds quietly peck bread or eyes

The world stands still waiting for the future

A storm of inaction envelops the tree

The tree does not resist but dies

How many crosses can a tree give birth to?

How many crosses can a cleaver make?

The grains of time keep their own count

***

You are silent

I drink the silence

You are a bird

I am a torn feather

You give me joy

I’m not happy about anyone or anything

You kiss me with your lips of sunny pearls

I’m still dying slowly

***

Someone is counting the number of stars in the sky

Nobody knows how many suns died in a sore chest

We all smoke the air of freedom and we all die

But what will the homeless angels think of us?

***

the sky under my feet turned into puddles

a little boy with a strange name comes to me every night

he asks to copy an icon from him

and I can draw little things in my dreams

the painted sky under my feet dissolves with the sound of the alarm clock

***

the garage stinks of gasoline

the radio in the kitchen is annoying during dinner

and the younger brother shudders at the sight of the leather belt as before

even after our father’s death

***

ran away from math class

autumn started a lesson with origami

but 

sorry I’m too lazy

sorry I’m too sad

for this lesson

silence flows through the veins of the air

the cuts on my hands are almost healed

the rope loop on the chandelier still hangs in my room

I still doubt that everything will go according to plan

I’ll probably skip English lesson tomorrow

I have important things to do in my room

***

lips crack without waiting for a kiss

the snow sculpting the touching 

at the bus stop

***
bones entwined
with flowers
wash the coffin
with their
whiteness
like its a dirty box
with a surprise

***
a black cat falls from the roof
into the night mouth of silence

***
sort through cards with the names of the dead
do not sort through cards with the names of the dead
the death assistant has a lot of busyness

***
white people with a clear (empty?) conscience enter my house
black birds on the windowsill knock on the iron night of death
white people beat
fear out of their heads
black birds sew up their eyes
with despair

***
the rubber hunger of poverty
blood flows like a spring
glossy eye drinks
sugar stream does not quench your thirst

***
Syncopation caught the top of the mountains, so air screamed and drowned in the river.
Surprisingly, the fiery heart descended from the sky and also sank in the water. We have
been living without the sun for a month.
What else does the river water carry away in memory and wash away on the eve of the end
of the world?

FLIM-FLAM MAN

Trump sells his brand: his face, his name, his myth.

While running for President, look what he touts on TV—

Silver coins stamped with a younger Trump face.

Digital Trading Cards showing his weathered old head

spliced to slim, muscular trunks in macho costumes.

Bit coin and crypto.

Bibles and sneakers.

T-shirts, of course, but also a genuine relic:

squares of the suit that he wore in that fateful debate

where he trashed Haitian immigrants, claiming:

“In Springfield, they’re eating the dogs.”

Racism’s part of his brand, and his brand’s not cheap.

For $100,000, you can buy a Trump watch—

200 grams of gold, 100 real diamonds;

a timepiece for oldsters who need to feel elite.

Yes, Trump will sell anything. Lies turn a tidy profit.

He’s bought the Republican Party, and many in Congress.

Bailed out by bankruptcies, facing jail-time for convictions,

Trump never pays for his capers, never repents.

He’s running for President, scamming his way back to power.

Should we give a flim-flam man a nation to sell?

Final Sunsets

Here’s the poem I couldn’t write before,

but before I can deceive the world,

I must first find a way to write it.

I’m thinking again about that first

morning flight, traveling to Palestine,

Lebanon, Syria, Yemen, and all across Africa.

But then again, how can I travel again?

How can we rise before the sunrise,

when our people have bid farewell to their final sunsets,

locking themselves away in coffins of silence?

Our enemies are thrilled, overjoyed—

their wars are the reason I feel bound to UN’s wheelchair.

Dear letters A to Z, why do our stories lack a plot?

Why are our souls turning to stone in the eyes of strangers?

The sky opens and pours itself into our hearts,

while we open our hands to peace, only to fall bleeding,

betrayed by the silence of an enemy who said nothing.

If we were God’s favorite saints,

we’d be the bloodstained mirror in an abandoned church.

If we were civilian homes,

we’d be the feathers of lovebirds, caged in a dreamless cemetery.

If we love,

we fall broken.

If we own,

we are lost forever.

Late Summer Pastoral

(Forest, Stable, Field, Red Brick Home, Barn, and Forest Once More)

There was only the road, and on the sides gravel, 3/4 inch crushing as they called it. Nice, though the eye and mind and spirit does scan the atmosphere for something. A hawk glides overhead. Blue air, and white wispy clouds. Then a stable. It’s always there, of course, if you go that way. 

‘I forget about that place. It does hide though. You think it’s here but you have passed it. Or…you think you have passed it but it is here.’ There is a horse and a donkey and a goat. They stand and are in the sun and there is some kind of table and it’s quiet looking by and by and peaceful seeming. Beyond is woodlands. When it rains they must go inside. When it’s cold they must go inside, no? And at night also. They have a design upon the wall outside, like a star, but not an esoteric or symbolic star of any sort, that’s just its aura, just a simple happy star because the sign is symmetrical, handsome, and it fits. Suddenly there is a field. Some tall reeds at the sides. And its spaciousness is good for the eye. ‘Those are hay barrels,’ she says. 

‘Aren’t they called bales? I thought ‘bales,’ but people might call them barrels also. I don’t know.’

They are yellow and rolled up, left nicely spaced and foiled against things. I’d say there was a bird on one but there was not. After, in a second, a small looking red brick house. 

‘It’s quite in from the road,’ I mention, ‘just somehow better, more private, spaced out, and if there was ever a cat or dog it’s much safer being away from roads further in on property.’ 

I imagine times before, when people went into town only sometimes for supplies, and called it ‘Going into town,’ or even after, when there was no Sunday shopping, only family and church. I don’t know if that’s good or bad though, I just imagine the times. Back further and onward, but part of it all, sits a humongous barn, set on a concrete form and stones, showing several windows and the sides are yellow, but a pale yellow almost white. What’s in there? I realize I don’t know well enough anyone like a farmer or ranch owner. I can’t roam those areas and get photography or stories or poems. What a shame, as each of the places is a world and there are surely worlds within worlds and worlds within them. What of the rain barrels or feral cats, or the vines that have grown somewhere or groups of unexpected wildflowers? Surely one or some have a stream hidden somewhere far in back, and what of the flora and fauna and atmosphere around there and the washed stones or the moss or anything at all? I guess there are red rocks and ones and yellow also, like in that stream I used to see by the far forest trail. Then it ends in the sense that the forest begins again, begins for real at once. I see tall trees and imagine for seconds the deer, coyotes, foxes, even wild rabbits or little birds, birds alighting briefly in trees to look around at the shaded worlds.

Motivation is a reason or force that urges a person to start, continue or stop an action or process. This force influences human behavior, motivates him to do or learn something. It is true that this term is gaining popularity today, especially among young people. They look for motivation to start learning or doing something. Therefore, this topic is very common among today’s youth and has caused a lot of interest. 

Is motivation really that important? If it is important, why is it important?

The reason for this is simple. Motivation, often fueled by curiosity, drives us forward in life. Motivation is what motivates us to learn, improve, and set and achieve goals. As a result, motivated youth feel happier, more energized, and more confident in whatever they do. A lack of motivation can lead to unhappiness and risky behaviors such as substance abuse. A world without motivation and interests would be a world without progress, development or hopelessness. So today, motivation is really important for young people. It helps us to set goals and guide our actions and achieve our goals. We young people get this motivation from older people, teachers, scientists who have achieved various achievements and try to be like them.