Wednesday, November 30, 2011

I Give Thanks

I give thanks when times are hard;
simply because they made me strong.
I’m grateful for the lean times
that taught me to be a giver,
loneliness helped me be a better friend.

And I don’t fall or break when in pain,
No! I give thanks for the joy I feel now and then.
I am grateful for the nourishing rain,
for the bitter winter that leads into spring,
and when the storm is over,
I thank Him twice for gifting me with a clear understanding
of things that come my way from time to time.

Carmen Ruggero@ 2011

Saturday, September 17, 2011

That Gaudy Red Hat


By Carmen Ruggero

I see you standing by the door.
The scene replays itself, mauling my mind
with permeable impressions of
no enduring value, except to me.
I hold on to the acrid bite of anger,
that pinch of rancor
that keeps me from feeling numb.
I see you parting your lips, tossing
mutant words inside your mouth,
excuses I don’t want to hear.
Feeble arguments … she’s your soul mate,
and so you need a fresh start.
But what do I do
when my life hangs on the balance
of an unfinished story, blank pages,
and ethereal dreams.
I get angry -- it feeds me.
It wakes me up, and puts me to sleep.
I see you standing by the door,
and I slam it in your face.
Words still trying to escape your mouth,
bounce and jump and seep between your teeth,
but I can’t hear them. I slam the door again,
and again, because I’m angry,
and big, and six foot tall!
I head for the bath --
got to wash your scent off my skin.
Take the scissors to my hair
just cause you liked it so,
and watch it fall around my feet,
a discarded memory of your touch
I can still feel, sometimes.
I drop my towel -- I’m really five-foot three,
and a hundred and ten soaking wet.
I think about black silk, and start to get gloomy,
so I lean on my anger
and reach for my holy flannels, instead.
I look in the mirror; my hair is a bloody mess …
I hide it under that gaudy red hat
you once gave me,
sit on the edge of my bed, light a cigarette,
watch my thoughts meander through the smoke,
peter out, and fade into the walls.
I feel a prayer coming on … maybe not,
I’m angry, ugly, hairy, and unwanted,
but feel a lot better about the whole damned thing.


@Carmen Ruggero2011

Thursday, August 25, 2011

Evening Rhymes

Rima XX(20)

”¿Que es poesía? dices mientras clavas
en mi pupila tu pupila azul.
¡Que es poesía! Y tu me lo preguntas?
Poesía… eres tú.” – Gustavo Adolfo Bécquer

What is poetry? you say, as you fix
your gaze on mine.
What is poetry! And you need ask?
Poetry… is you. – Translation by Carmen Ruggero

With thanks to Gustavo Adolfo Bécquer


Evening Rhymes

by Carmen Ruggero

What is it you’ll remember? you asked.
Will it be the ginger sky at sundown?
Or the scent of rosemary we basked
as twilight flew in purple wings, and drowned

the world surrounding you and I? You smiled:
The way I gaze into your gentle eyes,
and question: am I by your charm beguiled?
So much, my passion, I could never guise?

We’ll remember this ginger sky, I said,
when winter calls. We’ll hear the whispered rhymes,
on evening walks, our verse, a moonlit kiss;
this moment -- we’ll recall it all through time.

Our poesy, our truth divine and bright,
a sepia vision of a moony night.

Carmen Ruggero @2004 & 2005 &2011