By Carmen Ruggero
Sleep, little child of mine, sleep
with a pat and a rock and a pat,
sleep sweet babe, on my lap;
let dreams come your way.
Golden Heavenly dust, yes they are,
and you smile as you bounce.
Close your eyes now, good night,
with a pat and a rock and pat.
Feel the breeze on your face;
it whispers an early language
as it sweeps from the desert
sweet essence of olive and bay,
as cherubs troll in joyful strain.
Hear them sing the sounds of peace...
and… sleep, little one, dream…
momma holds you safe…
with a pat and a rock and a pat
while you sleep… little one…
good night my angel; Shalom.
Carmen Ruggero©2007&2009
Sunday, July 12, 2009
Ceibo
By Carmen Ruggero
They were peaceful. They were called the Guaraní.
The Paraná Delta of Argentina – their native home.
It was theirs, theirs to rule, and theirs alone.
They were peaceful – the natives called Guaraní.
Amongst them lived a princess – her name was Anahí.
Strong bronzed limbs, piercing eyes, shiny as twilight,
courageous young woman, who in name only survived,
on a night when the river was silent – not a sound, not a one
as the Spanish fleet lurked in phantom ships
with bows pointed to evil ends, and
in their sinister mission, the burglars crept
to shore that night without moon, or stars
and in the name of Spain and its lesser god
they would rape the women – make men their slaves.
Without warning, their savage blast fell
upon the peaceful and unsuspecting, Guaraní
when from the black they appeared flaring
torches, raising crosses and swards.
They bellowed orders to surrender; the Guaraní fought.
Anahí leaped to her tribe’s defense – strong,
determined, she fought as well as any man would.
From the shadows deep in the brush, she kept vigil
and waited – eyes on the predators, nostrils flaring
muscles tensing and she jumped!
Legs straddled his waist, taught arm – garrote,
and buried her knife in the Spaniard’s throat.
Torches flaring, weapons drawn, crosses waving,
they pursued, she fled, they called, she leaped
into shadows, lay low in the brush – hushhh….
Not a breath was heard, not a sound.
Sinister eyes abound and searching,
hers darting – alert, panting, sweating… she moved
and they found her!
She fought. She was strong – they were many.
She was captured and condemned to die –
Die Indian die by burning – die!
She endured in silence – no tears – no moans,
as she was set aflame – on a night such as that,
one without moon or stars – she burned and
as heroes and legends do, she bled upon
a page of history some have forgotten, somehow.
Carmen Ruggero©2007&2009
They were peaceful. They were called the Guaraní.
The Paraná Delta of Argentina – their native home.
It was theirs, theirs to rule, and theirs alone.
They were peaceful – the natives called Guaraní.
Amongst them lived a princess – her name was Anahí.
Strong bronzed limbs, piercing eyes, shiny as twilight,
courageous young woman, who in name only survived,
on a night when the river was silent – not a sound, not a one
as the Spanish fleet lurked in phantom ships
with bows pointed to evil ends, and
in their sinister mission, the burglars crept
to shore that night without moon, or stars
and in the name of Spain and its lesser god
they would rape the women – make men their slaves.
Without warning, their savage blast fell
upon the peaceful and unsuspecting, Guaraní
when from the black they appeared flaring
torches, raising crosses and swards.
They bellowed orders to surrender; the Guaraní fought.
Anahí leaped to her tribe’s defense – strong,
determined, she fought as well as any man would.
From the shadows deep in the brush, she kept vigil
and waited – eyes on the predators, nostrils flaring
muscles tensing and she jumped!
Legs straddled his waist, taught arm – garrote,
and buried her knife in the Spaniard’s throat.
Torches flaring, weapons drawn, crosses waving,
they pursued, she fled, they called, she leaped
into shadows, lay low in the brush – hushhh….
Not a breath was heard, not a sound.
Sinister eyes abound and searching,
hers darting – alert, panting, sweating… she moved
and they found her!
She fought. She was strong – they were many.
She was captured and condemned to die –
Die Indian die by burning – die!
She endured in silence – no tears – no moans,
as she was set aflame – on a night such as that,
one without moon or stars – she burned and
as heroes and legends do, she bled upon
a page of history some have forgotten, somehow.
Carmen Ruggero©2007&2009
The Wooden Spoon
by Carmen Ruggero
Dark and silky smooth, honed by years of use,
the wooden spoon rests in the palm of my hand.
Do you remember that spaghetti marinara?
You were teasing – I recall. I’d just waved the spoon
as I turned toward you, and I’ll never forget your face:
I’d left tomato sauce splashed on your shirt.
We laughed so hard, we cried and cried.
I kept the shirt in my box of memorabilia
right along with the picture of you pointing fingers
at that famous birthday cake; you know the one.
It collapsed with the weight of one candle.
I embarrassed myself to death, but you…
you smiled a crooked little smile,
and whispered quickly: “I love you.”
And that you did: you love me.
So I couldn’t bake worth a darn – so what?
You were the one holding my hand,
walking beside me on summer nights,
just window shopping… money was tight
but gosh, I loved the little gifts under my pillow,
nickel and dime stuff – treasures to keep,
always a lift at times when I needed one
and well… now I’m getting sentimental –
and would you believe I’m crying?
Because… well… the darn spoon just broke.
I look at the pieces lumped as one in my hand
and I could swear it glitters… how could it?
It does though… it glitters… it’s not silver,
it’s just an old worn out wooden spoon
but it sure shines with memories and
priceless moments nickels and dimes could buy.
Carmen Ruggero ©2006&2009
Dark and silky smooth, honed by years of use,
the wooden spoon rests in the palm of my hand.
Do you remember that spaghetti marinara?
You were teasing – I recall. I’d just waved the spoon
as I turned toward you, and I’ll never forget your face:
I’d left tomato sauce splashed on your shirt.
We laughed so hard, we cried and cried.
I kept the shirt in my box of memorabilia
right along with the picture of you pointing fingers
at that famous birthday cake; you know the one.
It collapsed with the weight of one candle.
I embarrassed myself to death, but you…
you smiled a crooked little smile,
and whispered quickly: “I love you.”
And that you did: you love me.
So I couldn’t bake worth a darn – so what?
You were the one holding my hand,
walking beside me on summer nights,
just window shopping… money was tight
but gosh, I loved the little gifts under my pillow,
nickel and dime stuff – treasures to keep,
always a lift at times when I needed one
and well… now I’m getting sentimental –
and would you believe I’m crying?
Because… well… the darn spoon just broke.
I look at the pieces lumped as one in my hand
and I could swear it glitters… how could it?
It does though… it glitters… it’s not silver,
it’s just an old worn out wooden spoon
but it sure shines with memories and
priceless moments nickels and dimes could buy.
Carmen Ruggero ©2006&2009
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