tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-25011812639381389942024-02-07T12:50:08.394-08:00Musings and RhymesA place to search for, and find life in our words, in the words of those who inspire us to write, or otherwise express ourselves artistically.Carmen Ruggerohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03663018407843402118noreply@blogger.comBlogger18125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2501181263938138994.post-88931871028668315062012-12-22T08:38:00.001-08:002012-12-22T08:38:26.524-08:00
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 12pt;">A Tall Tale
And The Flying Wheat Tail <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 12pt;"><br />
<br />
It was long, long ago when I sat on my father’s lap <br />
to hear a bedtime story; one I’d heard night after night after night. <br />
Father knew tales of a valiant lad who fought for his land’s glory, <br />
or the mischievous doe, or the girl so fair—so <o:p></o:p></span><br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 12pt;">long was
her hair, she used it to sweep the story. <br />
But the sweetest to my ear was the one about a little horse. <br />
And though I’d heard it many times before, <br />
the ending was different each time it was told. <br />
<br />
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“And once upon the time …” my father
said, <br />
with a rock and a pat, my head close to his heart, <br />
“there was a little white horse with …” <br />
“No Dad, the horse was yellow.” . <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 12pt;">“So it was
yellow and had a long … long … tail <br />
and his name was … Yellow Horse.” <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 12pt;">And as my
father spoke, Yellow Horse, as real as <br />
a story horse could be, came to me gently <br />
gliding through the sky on a filmy cloud of smoke. <br />
He was a tiny little horse with long feathery lashes and<br />
eyes black as the night, blazing silver as the stars. <br />
But his mane was not yellow at all. <br />
It was the color of wheat: creamy and pale. <br />
And so I gave him a new name: *Trigal! <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 12pt;">I called
him aloud. He turned to look at me, <br />
and shook his mane as if having understood, <br />
in as close to a horsy wave as he could. <br />
He stood on his vaporous cloud<br />
and his eyes beckoned me to come for a closer look. <br />
He lowered his front legs inviting me to climb. <br />
I held my legs fast around his body, bent forward, <br />
and clung tightly to his neck—my face next to his mane. <br />
“You smell like thyme,” I said politely. <br />
Trigal stepped off the little cloud and began to gallop <br />
with me on his back, holding fast—my eyes closed, laughing aloud! <br />
He ran faster, faster, as I held on tighter and tighter—filling the silence
with laughter. <br />
“Don’t be afraid,” he said, though I didn’t hear his voice. <br />
“Did you speak, Trigal?” He didn’t respond. <br />
My storybook horse sped across the meadow<br />
splashing as he raced through the brook. <br />
His mane tangled with petals—purple, red and yellow. <br />
He was faster than lightening and soon, his long, long, tail <br />
spread like feathery wings of wheat, and he began to fly. <br />
We were way above the clouds, gliding gently through the sky. <br />
“Do you like this?” He asked. <br />
Again, I knew what he said, but never heard a sound. <br />
“How do you speak, horsy? Why can’t I hear your voice?” <br />
He slowly turned to face me, and when he looked into my eyes, <br />
I saw my face reflected in his black, shiny gaze and knew <br />
his thoughts—my thoughts to be one and the same. <br />
“Where are we going, Trigal?” <br />
“Somewhere left of the moon, and south of the morning star.” <br />
“Is that very far?” <br />
“No! We’re here in fact.” <br />
And a riveting sight, it was! Castles made of chocolate, <br />
trees laden with sugar puffs, bathtubs filled with cream, <br />
hair ribbons made of fluff; children dancing in the street, <br />
mothers singing soothing rhymes, lulling little ones to sleep. <br />
It was the land of imagination, my horsy said. <br />
“What do you fancy—how do you see yourself, lass?” <br />
“I like to dance!” And no sooner said …<u> j</u>ust like magic,<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 12pt;">I was
dancing, twirling, pirouetting through the sky! <br />
“Look at me. I can dance!” <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 12pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-US;">But
I stopped when I saw Trigal turning back. <br />
He smiled at me and with his lashes, fanned a goodbye. <br />
“Don’t leave me horsy, don’t … I want to go home!” <br />
“You are home, silly girl, imagining your life.” <br />
</span><span lang="ES-AR" style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 12pt; mso-ansi-language: ES-AR; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-US;">“No! </span><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 12pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-US;">I’m left of the moon, south
of the morning star.” <br />
“Well, that’s just where I found you: asleep on your father’s lap.” <br />
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><br />
<br />
* Trigal = Spanish for field of wheat. <br />
<br />
Carmen Ruggero © 2010 – 2011 – 2012 </span>Carmen Ruggerohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03663018407843402118noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2501181263938138994.post-33972461296450214632012-11-25T16:05:00.000-08:002012-11-25T16:07:31.557-08:00My Balcony Garden<span style="font-size: 12pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial;"><o:p></o:p></span></span><br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial;">I'm out on my balcony</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial;">killing time, counting stars.</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial;">Jasmine's in the air when
suddenly</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial;">the sweet scent of vanilla
brings back</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial;">a different time, a different
garden, a different moon.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial;">You were there,</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial;">and vanilla-scented whiffs of
smoke</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial;">still rattle my mind.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial;">It was so very peaceful,</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial;">but then winter came </span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial;">and rendered the garden
barren.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial;">And you were gone.</span></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial;">Perhaps my fault,</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial;">perhaps yours.</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial;">Who knows, who even cares
anymore?<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial;">And here goes yet another
summer.</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial;">My balcony garden is nice,</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial;">not the same, just fine.</span></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial;">And I dream about how things
used to be,</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial;">though dreams have faded and
you along with them.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial;">I've almost forgotten your
face,</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial;">yet the scent of jasmine
still haunts me,</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial;">along with memories of sultry
summer nights</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial;">and vanilla-scented whiffs of
smoke.</span></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial;">Memories fade into pictures
of memories.</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial;">And yet they live again on a
soft summer breeze. </span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial;"></span></span> </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial;">Carmen Ruggero@2012</span></span></div>
Carmen Ruggerohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03663018407843402118noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2501181263938138994.post-24226327969181774512012-10-25T08:00:00.000-07:002012-10-25T08:00:03.504-07:00Dancing in The Rain
<br />
<br />
I’ve seen blue skies turn charcoal gray,
<br />
heard thunder blast<br />
for miles and miles on end,
<br />
and frail leaves…
<br />
I’ve seen them spin to the rising wind.
<br />
<br />
Rain… oh rain… oh rain…
<br />
nothing but liquid music, I say.
<br />
Hear it ripple, see wee droplets
dance on the cobblestones.
<br />
<br />
A mist as dense as the walls of hell
<br />
steals away the warm shades of autumn
<br />
with a sharp metallic hue<br />
and I close my eyes.
<br />
<br />
When thunder roars, turning day to night,<br />
I dance, I dance, and dance in the rain
<br />
like an old fool, mad little poet
<br />
still searching for the other side of doom.
<br />
<br />
Carmen Ruggero ©2012
Carmen Ruggerohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03663018407843402118noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2501181263938138994.post-72802756643932629372011-11-30T14:43:00.000-08:002011-11-30T14:43:22.750-08:00I Give ThanksI give thanks when times are hard;<br />
simply because they made me strong.<br />
I’m grateful for the lean times<br />
that taught me to be a giver,<br />
loneliness helped me be a better friend.<br />
<br />
And I don’t fall or break when in pain,<br />
No! I give thanks for the joy I feel now and then.<br />
I am grateful for the nourishing rain,<br />
for the bitter winter that leads into spring,<br />
and when the storm is over,<br />
I thank Him twice for gifting me with a clear understanding<br />
of things that come my way from time to time.<br />
<br />
Carmen Ruggero@ 2011Carmen Ruggerohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03663018407843402118noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2501181263938138994.post-87239785790315454842011-09-17T12:41:00.000-07:002011-09-17T13:38:28.533-07:00That Gaudy Red Hat<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgKggiFYho2Xgsv7Ry5NEM4CzkKm0Jtc0uF_3R8GZsf-xRVMAwlqXa_UpsEAX8gnsuF4RMXzoQmKsDgE9V8-D464sONxw3SVND5YcT15EEHgTg1hn2QgB0V43604RVO5JzlZVlhQHJeKlc/s1600/Gaudy+Red+Hat.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear:right; float:right; margin-left:1em; margin-bottom:1em"><img border="0" height="188" width="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgKggiFYho2Xgsv7Ry5NEM4CzkKm0Jtc0uF_3R8GZsf-xRVMAwlqXa_UpsEAX8gnsuF4RMXzoQmKsDgE9V8-D464sONxw3SVND5YcT15EEHgTg1hn2QgB0V43604RVO5JzlZVlhQHJeKlc/s200/Gaudy+Red+Hat.jpg" /></a></div><br />
By Carmen Ruggero<br />
<br />
I see you standing by the door.<br />
The scene replays itself, mauling my mind<br />
with permeable impressions of <br />
no enduring value, except to me.<br />
I hold on to the acrid bite of anger,<br />
that pinch of rancor<br />
that keeps me from feeling numb.<br />
I see you parting your lips, tossing<br />
mutant words inside your mouth,<br />
excuses I don’t want to hear.<br />
Feeble arguments … she’s your soul mate,<br />
and so you need a fresh start. <br />
But what do I do <br />
when my life hangs on the balance<br />
of an unfinished story, blank pages,<br />
and ethereal dreams.<br />
I get angry -- it feeds me.<br />
It wakes me up, and puts me to sleep.<br />
I see you standing by the door,<br />
and I slam it in your face.<br />
Words still trying to escape your mouth,<br />
bounce and jump and seep between your teeth,<br />
but I can’t hear them. I slam the door again,<br />
and again, because I’m angry,<br />
and big, and six foot tall!<br />
I head for the bath -- <br />
got to wash your scent off my skin.<br />
Take the scissors to my hair<br />
just cause you liked it so,<br />
and watch it fall around my feet,<br />
a discarded memory of your touch<br />
I can still feel, sometimes.<br />
I drop my towel -- I’m really five-foot three, <br />
and a hundred and ten soaking wet.<br />
I think about black silk, and start to get gloomy,<br />
so I lean on my anger<br />
and reach for my holy flannels, instead.<br />
I look in the mirror; my hair is a bloody mess …<br />
I hide it under that gaudy red hat<br />
you once gave me,<br />
sit on the edge of my bed, light a cigarette,<br />
watch my thoughts meander through the smoke,<br />
peter out, and fade into the walls.<br />
I feel a prayer coming on … maybe not,<br />
I’m angry, ugly, hairy, and unwanted,<br />
but feel a lot better about the whole damned thing.<br />
<br />
<br />
@Carmen Ruggero2011Carmen Ruggerohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03663018407843402118noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2501181263938138994.post-37490017912615787152011-08-25T21:02:00.000-07:002011-08-25T21:06:36.099-07:00Evening RhymesRima XX(20) <br />
<br />
”¿Que es poesía? dices mientras clavas <br />
en mi pupila tu pupila azul. <br />
¡Que es poesía! Y tu me lo preguntas? <br />
Poesía… eres tú.” – Gustavo Adolfo Bécquer <br />
<br />
What is poetry? you say, as you fix <br />
your gaze on mine. <br />
What is poetry! And you need ask? <br />
Poetry… is you. – Translation by Carmen Ruggero<br />
<br />
With thanks to Gustavo Adolfo Bécquer <br />
<br />
<br />
Evening Rhymes <br />
<br />
by Carmen Ruggero <br />
<br />
What is it you’ll remember? you asked.<br />
Will it be the ginger sky at sundown? <br />
Or the scent of rosemary we basked<br />
as twilight flew in purple wings, and drowned <br />
<br />
the world surrounding you and I? You smiled: <br />
The way I gaze into your gentle eyes, <br />
and question: am I by your charm beguiled? <br />
So much, my passion, I could never guise? <br />
<br />
We’ll remember this ginger sky, I said, <br />
when winter calls. We’ll hear the whispered rhymes, <br />
on evening walks, our verse, a moonlit kiss; <br />
this moment -- we’ll recall it all through time. <br />
<br />
Our poesy, our truth divine and bright, <br />
a sepia vision of a moony night. <br />
<br />
Carmen Ruggero @2004 & 2005 &2011<br />
<br />
<br />
Carmen Ruggerohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03663018407843402118noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2501181263938138994.post-30773385354655799442010-10-08T03:35:00.000-07:002011-01-17T12:10:11.111-08:00Coming to Terms / Aceptando la Realidad<strong>Coming to Terms</strong><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhNjdMQ21C-C1Y_a4O8rhcKhFwxUadr9SZ1qBaXVRPCBdil3zxO1J8RrCC198D71JIlUxnBbsIloJjnkp-hoV8HJCSU1sxFo8KsQ9NWAvpXZpp4oiBjFmk3mVfcEYTJTDQvkBjSrtkFPfA/s1600/marineraward.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left:1em; margin-right:1em"><img border="0" height="183" width="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhNjdMQ21C-C1Y_a4O8rhcKhFwxUadr9SZ1qBaXVRPCBdil3zxO1J8RrCC198D71JIlUxnBbsIloJjnkp-hoV8HJCSU1sxFo8KsQ9NWAvpXZpp4oiBjFmk3mVfcEYTJTDQvkBjSrtkFPfA/s200/marineraward.jpg" /></a></div><br />
The road was steep and narrow – <br />
not an easy one to challenge,<br />
to jump over slippery stones<br />
and run, always run, don’t walk!<br />
And though the stream was shallow<br />
I tired… but didn’t let go – I quickened the pace,<br />
and it was the running,<br />
the constant zigzagging motion<br />
that outfoxed them all<br />
turning me into a crafty and agile deceiver.<br />
<br />
Ah… but I tired. One day I tired,<br />
and I paused to rest, to breathe, <br />
to sleep awhile and then,<br />
I couldn’t run any more.<br />
It hurt too much to pretend. <br />
<br />
Some have dreamed a different ending.<br />
They said my vision was narrow,<br />
I could have tried, really tried.<br />
“Look at her. She can sleep and yet pine <br />
for her whimsical claims to glory.”<br />
<br />
Poets! What dreamers you are!<br />
Whimsical fantasies? Narrow vision?<br />
What a laugh!<br />
<br />
What is it your muse has whispered to you <br />
about blazing summers in the city,<br />
or shuffling through freezing snow and ice?<br />
<br />
I know that walk. I’ve walked it alone.<br />
I know the self-deception.<br />
No sense in invoking poetic insights.<br />
<br />
This narrow road came to an end.<br />
No more running, no more hurts,<br />
No more tears to shed. <br />
My day is done!<br />
<br />
And I watch the twilight as it dies<br />
and I see my lazy, lazy dreams, <br />
slipping by me like driftwood in a stream. <br />
<br />
@Carmen Ruggero2011<br />
<br />
<strong>Aceptando la Realidad</strong><br />
<br />
El camino fue angosto y empinado –<br />
realmente no fue fácil desafiarlo,<br />
saltando sobre piedras resbalosas<br />
y corriendo, siempre corriendo – nunca caminando.<br />
Y aunque el riachuelo no era profundo<br />
yo me cansaba pero nunca desistí – aceleré el paso.<br />
Y eso fue. La carrera eterna,<br />
el continuo movimiento serpentino y astuto<br />
que me convirtió en un ágil impostor.<br />
<br />
Ah... pero un día se acabó. <br />
Agotada, me paré a descansar, al fin respirar, <br />
quizás, dormir un rato<br />
porque ya no podía más. <br />
Ya me dolía pretender.<br />
<br />
Otros soñaron un fin muy diferente para mi.<br />
Comentaron que me faltó la visión necesaria,<br />
que podría haber empujado un poco más.<br />
¨¡Mirenla! Aún en sus sueños sufre<br />
porque su triunfo no fue más que un capricho.¨<br />
<br />
¡Poetas! ¿De qué sueñan a costillas mías?<br />
¿Caprichos, fantasías, visiones nubladas?<br />
No me hagan reír.<br />
<br />
¿Qué musa les suspira tal simplicidad<br />
acerca de veranos violentos que queman los barrios<br />
o arrastrar un pié tras otro – abriendo camino <br />
y acabando enterrados en nieve y hielo?<br />
<br />
Yo conozco ese camino. Lo he caminado sola.<br />
Yo conozco lo que es decepcionarse a si mismo<br />
No hay necesidad de invocar astucia poética.<br />
<br />
El camino fue angosto y duro y se acabó.<br />
No corro más, no sufro más, no lloro más. <br />
No lucho más.<br />
<br />
<br />
El crepúsculo toma un color nocturno<br />
despacito, mis sueños se alejan <br />
y me pasan de largo como astillitas en el riachuelo.<br />
<br />
©Carmen Ruggero 2011Carmen Ruggerohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03663018407843402118noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2501181263938138994.post-68393235397335246152009-07-12T13:50:00.000-07:002009-07-12T13:53:53.488-07:00Mary’s LullabyBy Carmen Ruggero<br /><br />Sleep, little child of mine, sleep<br />with a pat and a rock and a pat, <br />sleep sweet babe, on my lap;<br />let dreams come your way.<br />Golden Heavenly dust, yes they are,<br />and you smile as you bounce.<br />Close your eyes now, good night,<br />with a pat and a rock and pat.<br /><br />Feel the breeze on your face;<br />it whispers an early language<br />as it sweeps from the desert<br />sweet essence of olive and bay,<br />as cherubs troll in joyful strain.<br />Hear them sing the sounds of peace...<br />and… sleep, little one, dream…<br />momma holds you safe…<br />with a pat and a rock and a pat<br />while you sleep… little one…<br />good night my angel; Shalom.<br /><br />Carmen Ruggero©2007&2009Carmen Ruggerohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03663018407843402118noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2501181263938138994.post-46154386257658869702009-07-12T13:46:00.000-07:002009-07-12T13:49:15.145-07:00CeiboBy Carmen Ruggero<br /><br />They were peaceful. They were called the Guaraní.<br />The Paraná Delta of Argentina – their native home.<br />It was theirs, theirs to rule, and theirs alone.<br />They were peaceful – the natives called Guaraní.<br />Amongst them lived a princess – her name was Anahí.<br />Strong bronzed limbs, piercing eyes, shiny as twilight,<br />courageous young woman, who in name only survived,<br />on a night when the river was silent – not a sound, not a one<br />as the Spanish fleet lurked in phantom ships<br />with bows pointed to evil ends, and<br />in their sinister mission, the burglars crept<br />to shore that night without moon, or stars<br />and in the name of Spain and its lesser god<br />they would rape the women – make men their slaves.<br />Without warning, their savage blast fell<br />upon the peaceful and unsuspecting, Guaraní<br />when from the black they appeared flaring<br />torches, raising crosses and swards.<br />They bellowed orders to surrender; the Guaraní fought.<br />Anahí leaped to her tribe’s defense – strong,<br />determined, she fought as well as any man would.<br />From the shadows deep in the brush, she kept vigil<br />and waited – eyes on the predators, nostrils flaring<br />muscles tensing and she jumped!<br />Legs straddled his waist, taught arm – garrote,<br />and buried her knife in the Spaniard’s throat.<br />Torches flaring, weapons drawn, crosses waving,<br />they pursued, she fled, they called, she leaped<br />into shadows, lay low in the brush – hushhh….<br />Not a breath was heard, not a sound.<br />Sinister eyes abound and searching,<br />hers darting – alert, panting, sweating… she moved<br />and they found her!<br />She fought. She was strong – they were many.<br />She was captured and condemned to die –<br />Die Indian die by burning – die!<br />She endured in silence – no tears – no moans,<br />as she was set aflame – on a night such as that,<br />one without moon or stars – she burned and<br />as heroes and legends do, she bled upon<br />a page of history some have forgotten, somehow.<br /><br />Carmen Ruggero©2007&2009Carmen Ruggerohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03663018407843402118noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2501181263938138994.post-16430621013300790222009-07-12T13:37:00.000-07:002009-07-12T13:43:02.232-07:00The Wooden Spoonby Carmen Ruggero<br /><br />Dark and silky smooth, honed by years of use,<br />the wooden spoon rests in the palm of my hand.<br />Do you remember that spaghetti marinara?<br />You were teasing – I recall. I’d just waved the spoon<br />as I turned toward you, and I’ll never forget your face:<br />I’d left tomato sauce splashed on your shirt.<br />We laughed so hard, we cried and cried.<br />I kept the shirt in my box of memorabilia<br />right along with the picture of you pointing fingers<br />at that famous birthday cake; you know the one.<br />It collapsed with the weight of one candle.<br />I embarrassed myself to death, but you…<br />you smiled a crooked little smile,<br />and whispered quickly: “I love you.”<br />And that you did: you love me.<br />So I couldn’t bake worth a darn – so what?<br />You were the one holding my hand,<br />walking beside me on summer nights,<br />just window shopping… money was tight<br />but gosh, I loved the little gifts under my pillow,<br />nickel and dime stuff – treasures to keep,<br />always a lift at times when I needed one<br />and well… now I’m getting sentimental –<br />and would you believe I’m crying?<br />Because… well… the darn spoon just broke.<br />I look at the pieces lumped as one in my hand<br />and I could swear it glitters… how could it?<br />It does though… it glitters… it’s not silver,<br />it’s just an old worn out wooden spoon<br />but it sure shines with memories and<br />priceless moments nickels and dimes could buy.<br /><br />Carmen Ruggero ©2006&2009Carmen Ruggerohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03663018407843402118noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2501181263938138994.post-16907799990152335422009-05-08T13:09:00.000-07:002009-05-08T13:17:57.486-07:00Así NomásAsí nomás...<br /><br />…como el viento arrasa con las hojas muertas<br />deliberadamente y con fuerza, y así nomás…<br />ellas se dejan llevar sin resistencia alguna.<br />Así… como las olas arrastran granos de arena<br />a la profundidad del mar y desaparecen<br />sin haber sido conocidas<br />menos que menos, reconocidas.<br />Así nomás… se van, y al irse<br />arrasan con las huellas<br />de aquellos que existen perdidos<br />como almas sin destino,<br />sin pensar, ni reconocer siquiera,<br />la imaginación, o el propósito.<br />Aquellos que miran, pero no ven,<br />aquellos que tocan, pero no sienten;<br />que oyen, pero no escuchan,<br />que hablan sin decir nada.<br />porque respiran el vacío<br />y exhalan sonidos huecos.<br />Aquellos… que pretendiendo ser poetas<br />recitando canciones burdas, sin ritmo ni rima,<br />y así nomás, un día mueren sin dejar huellas,<br />barridos por el viento como hojas muertas.<br /><br />Carmen Ruggero ©2006 & 2009<br /><br />And Just Like That…<br /><br />… as dead leaves succumb to the wind’s<br />deliberate and forceful thrust and vanish,<br />without even pretending to mind,<br />just like that…<br />one by one, the surf will draw<br />grains of sand into the ocean’s depth;<br />like easy prey they’ll follow and with them,<br />take the footprints of those misguided souls<br />lost and void of imagination and purpose.<br />Those who look, but do not see,<br />who touch, but cannot feel,<br />who hear, but do not listen.<br />Those who breathe-in emptiness <br />and exhale hollow words,<br />and who pretending to be poets,<br />sing their satirical verses, void of rhyme and form.<br />And just like that… one day they vanish;<br />easy… like dry leaves thrust about by the wind.<br /><br />Carmen Ruggero ©2006&2009Carmen Ruggerohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03663018407843402118noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2501181263938138994.post-71188512183648277602008-10-20T14:47:00.000-07:002009-02-13T15:40:45.509-08:00Rusty Nails<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhiPICbtk6-9iiadQ2hWf7BXIoZigZNdmhs97u4ZJypxRa-4x5dpRWNpKZ1F4piJfm8YVGRaGhwN3uCJDlqIdL9J1cndvNiviVC2kvY6UspEcR6uvYbEBrtc26q2YCH4TSm-aSF72No65U/s1600-h/man&dog.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5302431013266634594" style="FLOAT: right; MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; WIDTH: 200px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 188px" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhiPICbtk6-9iiadQ2hWf7BXIoZigZNdmhs97u4ZJypxRa-4x5dpRWNpKZ1F4piJfm8YVGRaGhwN3uCJDlqIdL9J1cndvNiviVC2kvY6UspEcR6uvYbEBrtc26q2YCH4TSm-aSF72No65U/s200/man&dog.JPG" border="0" /></a><br /><div align="left">Peter Ruggiero 12/24/1914 – 02/08/09<br /><br /><br />Rusty Nails<br /><br />Rusty nails in a cardboard box.<br />What did you see worth keeping?<br />I’d like to know.<br /><br />I remember your hands – they shook<br />when holding old things as if mesmerized,<br />and I wonder<br /><br />what treasures your mind created<br />out of rusty nails and old strings?<br />What poetic notion<br /><br />let you dream beyond the dust?<br />What golden vision took you there?<br />I need to know…<br /><br />Rusty nails in a cardboard box<br />a poetic legacy, words to a song…<br />oh, had I asked you then… I so need to know.<br /><br /><br />Carmen Ruggero ©2009 </div>Carmen Ruggerohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03663018407843402118noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2501181263938138994.post-16653977844159789972008-10-20T14:33:00.000-07:002008-10-20T14:39:26.560-07:00The Scent of you<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhcW917CY_Ewx7OMKfz02-byXJRT3tbepmp2lipyI9vaKCdkPUa_0fjHwmiNQkA-IrSvRM8FARfF1q_hywkNsLmJlernM83fCFMRWSBWnA4ClsKrIpShXYbk-26-sUfUTmdR_HKP8z8uak/s1600-h/white+jacaranda+sky.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5259353662237830402" style="FLOAT: right; MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhcW917CY_Ewx7OMKfz02-byXJRT3tbepmp2lipyI9vaKCdkPUa_0fjHwmiNQkA-IrSvRM8FARfF1q_hywkNsLmJlernM83fCFMRWSBWnA4ClsKrIpShXYbk-26-sUfUTmdR_HKP8z8uak/s200/white+jacaranda+sky.jpg" border="0" /></a> Summer time, fire orange, red geraniums,<br />hot sun burning on the sidewalks;<br />ice-cream, sprinklers, children cooling,<br />cooling down… and the scent of jasmine<br />fills the evening and I remember you<br />weaving the colors of summer<br />into the autumn landscape,<br />turning yellow to tawny to cardinal red,<br />and there you were,<br />bagging leaves and burying bulbs,<br />brewing coffee, baking biscuits<br />and weaving the fabric of life;<br />merging the hues of each season<br />one into the next: red to yellow,<br />to evergreens laden with snow.<br />Weaving our days right into spring<br />when new life glints in waves of wonder<br />and the pretty flowers bloom;<br />when the tiger lilies and yellow roses loom,<br />and the scent of you is in the air<br />and the robin sings his love song,<br />and oh… yes, I remember you.<br /><br />Carmen Ruggero © 2008Carmen Ruggerohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03663018407843402118noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2501181263938138994.post-31775289858950651832008-07-30T10:15:00.000-07:002008-07-30T10:16:19.437-07:00The Sound of TimeI heard a sweet little sound –<br />soft and light as a feather on the breeze,<br />break the silence of night.<br />Like a velvety tune, it caresses my senses.<br />I’m curious, so I sit and listen:<br />It whooshes like a gentle wind<br />scurrying through supple leaves and petals<br />heavy with the scent of summer.<br />A flash of sound, a hummingbird in flight,<br />and I wonder, as I watch it scurry through the air:<br />Where does it land when it leaves my sight?<br /><br />And the silence whispers tonight,<br />a song I seem to remember, now.<br />It resonates inside my throat,<br />and my lips want to echo a reprise<br />to this sound that dribbles through space<br />like bouncing droplets of rain.<br />I feel it close to me; its breath brushes my skin<br />then it ebbs as swells do<br />when they break and foam around my feet.<br />I watch them rush back to the sea<br />and I wonder, as I see them disappear:<br />Whom will they touch, after they’ve touched me?<br /><br />And the silence whistles tonight,<br />a tune it needs me to hear, no doubt.<br />It has traveled the worldly planes,<br />it has flown celestial realms<br />like a mischievous cherub playing<br />amongst the softness of snow,<br />and pine trees heavy with the scent of hope<br />and then a traveler heard its sound<br />and he listened: It whistles, cheerful and bright...<br />He felt it like the swells that rushed and foamed<br />around his feet, and wondered<br />as he stood in the midst of silence, again:<br />who will hear it, when I set it free?<br /><br />Carmen Ruggero © 2008Carmen Ruggerohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03663018407843402118noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2501181263938138994.post-70221501994451773252008-06-16T21:50:00.000-07:002008-06-17T11:54:15.166-07:00The Olympiad<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjqCbnN_nyIvPOHtfJD2JWGlJB9QirbhInEEr9PTEswApo4m53ZIs7mJgQf2cajnO2zhne6MiVCsSri7yc8AA2dmcxsO4LW0svlOjap0mdcxtyTvAFCJea0An_rjzvkZV-AeEXu1_BG0dY/s1600-h/hurdlescrop.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5212708703644859058" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjqCbnN_nyIvPOHtfJD2JWGlJB9QirbhInEEr9PTEswApo4m53ZIs7mJgQf2cajnO2zhne6MiVCsSri7yc8AA2dmcxsO4LW0svlOjap0mdcxtyTvAFCJea0An_rjzvkZV-AeEXu1_BG0dY/s200/hurdlescrop.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><div>On your mark… get set… the gun goes off,<br />the race is on.<br />Eyes fixed on the finish line;<br />hearts intent on the gold.<br />Preparation was a slow and painful process:<br />one foot in front of the other,<br />stretch that muscle, bend that knee.<br />Free the mind; take the hurdles one by one.<br />Dare to dream of wild beginnings;<br />flaming sunsets, purple forests,<br />think beyond the copper track.<br />One foot in front of the other,<br />limbering, stretching, growing,<br />The transition from fantasy to reality<br />nothing but hard, grueling work;<br />and there are no quitters on the field,<br />not them; not those who seek the gold.<br />They will rest and pause to see the sunset,<br />they will breathe the fresh new day;<br />they will color their lives with boldness<br />until the flag swings downward;</div><div>they live until the end.<br /><br />©Carmen Ruggero 2007 & 2008</div>Carmen Ruggerohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03663018407843402118noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2501181263938138994.post-18820771014548299162008-06-16T11:26:00.000-07:002008-06-17T12:00:51.716-07:00Divertissment (Dance Without a Plot)<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg-YCbNuWiWB4bcoScambCWqgR0WRpRn7Er7lggZR8HnRiADmPlMIHVw2Gmv8kZyGdqP2PiWosV11wsA-g9waTtTpQtj3D38bJ37oTWCB-8GcrpIuf8QdFUNjLFfVipfYh-jRoloNTYX4c/s1600-h/danceshoes.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5212550398174745874" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg-YCbNuWiWB4bcoScambCWqgR0WRpRn7Er7lggZR8HnRiADmPlMIHVw2Gmv8kZyGdqP2PiWosV11wsA-g9waTtTpQtj3D38bJ37oTWCB-8GcrpIuf8QdFUNjLFfVipfYh-jRoloNTYX4c/s200/danceshoes.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><div align="left">Soft the spotlight spills; she leaps to her toes<br />toes some times fitted in pink satin bows,<br />bows and arrows, Eros craftily aims<br />aims for his heart, hers is in flames,<br />flames leaping – pas de deux she is dreaming…<br />dreaming him, wishing him, silently screaming,<br />screaming! His name… a fleeting spark in time<br />time… and verses lost to similar rhyme.<br /><br />Carmen Ruggero©2007&2008</div>Carmen Ruggerohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03663018407843402118noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2501181263938138994.post-23338032794458008482008-06-15T17:52:00.001-07:002008-06-16T14:08:23.476-07:00The Hour Glass<div><div><div><div>“Will I see the rainbow after tomorrow?”<br />The poet plays with the notion<br />while jumping over the iridescent arc.<br />Sand sifts smoothly through the hourglass<br />half full, half empty at the birth of twilight<br />and an eerie notion stills his heart.<br /><br />“What if, what if, the rainbow breaks in half?”<br />Sand has drifted in errant ways.<br />His path has steepened; he labors to climb.<br />Wind’s shifted north, he’s facing south<br />and pushing forth one inch at a time.<br /><br />“Will I see the rainbow beyond tomorrow…?”<br />The poet knows it’s a wretched wish.<br />“I can’t see one grain of sand<br />past the one on which I stand.”<br />Doubts push and pull with equal force,<br />one step forward two steps back<br />until silence roars and the poet dreams no more.<br />Sand sifts quickly through the hourglass<br />half empty, half full at the birth of twilight<br />and a black moon darkens the sky.<br /><br /><br />Carmen Ruggero ©2008</div></div></div></div>Carmen Ruggerohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03663018407843402118noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2501181263938138994.post-44349909644466463232008-06-15T17:50:00.000-07:002008-06-16T21:55:56.045-07:00Introduction and Smiles<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh11lOo9yY1g3NlHYE8gywBVFVg8NbA3nSQPJr23U9R0E-oaBIPJDioDsABJlj2A_KmYnxXtPrP_IGHwokPweZ2bX5w4a20WeOG6C9yjzvUxQee0crrmLItJhBLYu7rkcd-ssYTrV0fwFc/s1600-h/whiterose.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5212597569549102642" style="FLOAT: right; MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh11lOo9yY1g3NlHYE8gywBVFVg8NbA3nSQPJr23U9R0E-oaBIPJDioDsABJlj2A_KmYnxXtPrP_IGHwokPweZ2bX5w4a20WeOG6C9yjzvUxQee0crrmLItJhBLYu7rkcd-ssYTrV0fwFc/s200/whiterose.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><div>For the last few years, life has hit hard and at will. But I learned the hard way: I don't have to let it win. </div><div></div><div>I am a lung cancer survivor. It has been a challenge I can hardly describe in words. In fact, I don't think such words exist.<br /><br />When the treatment is over, and the oncologyst sends you home and tells you to go live your life, it's not really over. Now your mind starts playing other tricks: "What if it comes back...? How will I know?" It took me almost a year after surgery and treatment, to let go and let life. </div><div></div><div></div><div></div><div> </div><div>There are no lung cancer survivor groups in my hometown. I have some very good professionals and counselors to talk to, but no survivor groups. There's no one who can relate to me on a one to one basis, from a survivor’s point of view. Professionals relate from a different perspective. Everyone else, tells you not to think about it. However, those of us who are going through it, know that forgetting, is not an option. </div><div></div><div></div><div> </div><div>We know we're lucky to be alive. I know I have developed a different appreciation for every new sunrise I get to witness. I'm sure other will say the same. But we're also aware of how brief the interlude between birth and death can be. Yet, there's something to be said about that. In a roundabout way, we've rediscoverd childhood and suddenly remember playing outside until dark -- what a thrill. I eat icecream as often as I can get it -- no one here to tell me, I can't. I walk barefooted outside, if I want to, and if people look at me funny, I just smile go on. </div><div></div><div></div><div></div><div> </div><div>Maybe it <em>is </em>getting dark, but I'm not through playing yet. There's always one more rose to smell, one more wild plant to rescue, one more walk with the dog, one more chat with my child. We know it has to finish some day, but not today.<br /><br />Surviving is a trip. And like when we were kids and something good happened, I can't wait to go tell.<br /><br />So, how can I reach others and share my thoughts. I haven't succeeded in putting a group together. Then I though: maybe not here, in my hometown, but why not a blog? Why not reach as far as I can?</div><br /><div>I've never been a blogger, but then, why no? And why not share in a different way. Like exploring life through poetry. Why not share that? And other things, like growing a balcony garden -- rose bushes and all, or walking a mile a day. And the fact that I'm 65 and counting -- one year and a moth cancer free, and I walk around with a smile on my face.<br /><br />Carmen :-)</div>Carmen Ruggerohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03663018407843402118noreply@blogger.com1