Musings and Rhymes

I Give Thanks

2011-11-30T14:43:00.000-08:00

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

That Gaudy Red Hat

2011-09-17T12:41:00.000-07:00

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

Evening Rhymes

2011-08-25T21:02:00.000-07:00

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

Coming to Terms / Aceptando la Realidad

2010-10-08T03:35:00.000-07:00

Coming to Terms

The road was steep and narrow –
not an easy one to challenge,
to jump over slippery stones
and run, always run, don’t walk!
And though the stream was shallow
I tired… but didn’t let go – I quickened the pace,
and it was the running,
the constant zigzagging motion
that outfoxed them all
turning me into a crafty and agile deceiver.

Ah… but I tired. One day I tired,
and I paused to rest, to breathe,
to sleep awhile and then,
I couldn’t run any more.
It hurt too much to pretend.

Some have dreamed a different ending.
They said my vision was narrow,
I could have tried, really tried.
“Look at her. She can sleep and yet pine
for her whimsical claims to glory.”

Poets! What dreamers you are!
Whimsical fantasies? Narrow vision?
What a laugh!

What is it your muse has whispered to you
about blazing summers in the city,
or shuffling through freezing snow and ice?

I know that walk. I’ve walked it alone.
I know the self-deception.
No sense in invoking poetic insights.

This narrow road came to an end.
No more running, no more hurts,
No more tears to shed.
My day is done!

And I watch the twilight as it dies
and I see my lazy, lazy dreams,
slipping by me like driftwood in a stream.

@Carmen Ruggero2011

Aceptando la Realidad

El camino fue angosto y empinado –
realmente no fue fácil desafiarlo,
saltando sobre piedras resbalosas
y corriendo, siempre corriendo – nunca caminando.
Y aunque el riachuelo no era profundo
yo me cansaba pero nunca desistí – aceleré el paso.
Y eso fue. La carrera eterna,
el continuo movimiento serpentino y astuto
que me convirtió en un ágil impostor.

Ah... pero un día se acabó.
Agotada, me paré a descansar, al fin respirar,
quizás, dormir un rato
porque ya no podía más.
Ya me dolía pretender.

Otros soñaron un fin muy diferente para mi.
Comentaron que me faltó la visión necesaria,
que podría haber empujado un poco más.
¨¡Mirenla! Aún en sus sueños sufre
porque su triunfo no fue más que un capricho.¨

¡Poetas! ¿De qué sueñan a costillas mías?
¿Caprichos, fantasías, visiones nubladas?
No me hagan reír.

¿Qué musa les suspira tal simplicidad
acerca de veranos violentos que queman los barrios
o arrastrar un pié tras otro – abriendo camino
y acabando enterrados en nieve y hielo?

Yo conozco ese camino. Lo he caminado sola.
Yo conozco lo que es decepcionarse a si mismo
No hay necesidad de invocar astucia poética.

El camino fue angosto y duro y se acabó.
No corro más, no sufro más, no lloro más.
No lucho más.

El crepúsculo toma un color nocturno
despacito, mis sueños se alejan
y me pasan de largo como astillitas en el riachuelo.

©Carmen Ruggero 2011

Mary’s Lullaby

2009-07-12T13:50:00.000-07:00

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

Ceibo

2009-07-12T13:46:00.000-07:00

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

The Wooden Spoon

2009-07-12T13:37:00.000-07:00

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

Así Nomás

2009-05-08T13:09:00.000-07:00

Así nomás...

…como el viento arrasa con las hojas muertas
deliberadamente y con fuerza, y así nomás…
ellas se dejan llevar sin resistencia alguna.
Así… como las olas arrastran granos de arena
a la profundidad del mar y desaparecen
sin haber sido conocidas
menos que menos, reconocidas.
Así nomás… se van, y al irse
arrasan con las huellas
de aquellos que existen perdidos
como almas sin destino,
sin pensar, ni reconocer siquiera,
la imaginación, o el propósito.
Aquellos que miran, pero no ven,
aquellos que tocan, pero no sienten;
que oyen, pero no escuchan,
que hablan sin decir nada.
porque respiran el vacío
y exhalan sonidos huecos.
Aquellos… que pretendiendo ser poetas
recitando canciones burdas, sin ritmo ni rima,
y así nomás, un día mueren sin dejar huellas,
barridos por el viento como hojas muertas.

Carmen Ruggero ©2006 & 2009

And Just Like That…

… as dead leaves succumb to the wind’s
deliberate and forceful thrust and vanish,
without even pretending to mind,
just like that…
one by one, the surf will draw
grains of sand into the ocean’s depth;
like easy prey they’ll follow and with them,
take the footprints of those misguided souls
lost and void of imagination and purpose.
Those who look, but do not see,
who touch, but cannot feel,
who hear, but do not listen.
Those who breathe-in emptiness
and exhale hollow words,
and who pretending to be poets,
sing their satirical verses, void of rhyme and form.
And just like that… one day they vanish;
easy… like dry leaves thrust about by the wind.

Carmen Ruggero ©2006&2009

Rusty Nails

2008-10-20T14:47:00.000-07:00

Peter Ruggiero 12/24/1914 – 02/08/09

Rusty Nails

Rusty nails in a cardboard box.
What did you see worth keeping?
I’d like to know.

I remember your hands – they shook
when holding old things as if mesmerized,
and I wonder

what treasures your mind created
out of rusty nails and old strings?
What poetic notion

let you dream beyond the dust?
What golden vision took you there?
I need to know…

Rusty nails in a cardboard box
a poetic legacy, words to a song…
oh, had I asked you then… I so need to know.

Carmen Ruggero ©2009

The Scent of you

2008-10-20T14:33:00.000-07:00

Summer time, fire orange, red geraniums,
hot sun burning on the sidewalks;
ice-cream, sprinklers, children cooling,
cooling down… and the scent of jasmine
fills the evening and I remember you
weaving the colors of summer
into the autumn landscape,
turning yellow to tawny to cardinal red,
and there you were,
bagging leaves and burying bulbs,
brewing coffee, baking biscuits
and weaving the fabric of life;
merging the hues of each season
one into the next: red to yellow,
to evergreens laden with snow.
Weaving our days right into spring
when new life glints in waves of wonder
and the pretty flowers bloom;
when the tiger lilies and yellow roses loom,
and the scent of you is in the air
and the robin sings his love song,
and oh… yes, I remember you.

Carmen Ruggero © 2008

The Sound of Time

2008-07-30T10:15:00.000-07:00

I heard a sweet little sound –
soft and light as a feather on the breeze,
break the silence of night.
Like a velvety tune, it caresses my senses.
I’m curious, so I sit and listen:
It whooshes like a gentle wind
scurrying through supple leaves and petals
heavy with the scent of summer.
A flash of sound, a hummingbird in flight,
and I wonder, as I watch it scurry through the air:
Where does it land when it leaves my sight?

And the silence whispers tonight,
a song I seem to remember, now.
It resonates inside my throat,
and my lips want to echo a reprise
to this sound that dribbles through space
like bouncing droplets of rain.
I feel it close to me; its breath brushes my skin
then it ebbs as swells do
when they break and foam around my feet.
I watch them rush back to the sea
and I wonder, as I see them disappear:
Whom will they touch, after they’ve touched me?

And the silence whistles tonight,
a tune it needs me to hear, no doubt.
It has traveled the worldly planes,
it has flown celestial realms
like a mischievous cherub playing
amongst the softness of snow,
and pine trees heavy with the scent of hope
and then a traveler heard its sound
and he listened: It whistles, cheerful and bright...
He felt it like the swells that rushed and foamed
around his feet, and wondered
as he stood in the midst of silence, again:
who will hear it, when I set it free?

Carmen Ruggero © 2008

The Olympiad

2008-06-16T21:50:00.000-07:00

On your mark… get set… the gun goes off,
the race is on.
Eyes fixed on the finish line;
hearts intent on the gold.
Preparation was a slow and painful process:
one foot in front of the other,
stretch that muscle, bend that knee.
Free the mind; take the hurdles one by one.
Dare to dream of wild beginnings;
flaming sunsets, purple forests,
think beyond the copper track.
One foot in front of the other,
limbering, stretching, growing,
The transition from fantasy to reality
nothing but hard, grueling work;
and there are no quitters on the field,
not them; not those who seek the gold.
They will rest and pause to see the sunset,
they will breathe the fresh new day;
they will color their lives with boldness
until the flag swings downward;

Divertissment (Dance Without a Plot)

2008-06-16T11:26:00.000-07:00

Soft the spotlight spills; she leaps to her toes
toes some times fitted in pink satin bows,
bows and arrows, Eros craftily aims
aims for his heart, hers is in flames,
flames leaping – pas de deux she is dreaming…
dreaming him, wishing him, silently screaming,
screaming! His name… a fleeting spark in time
time… and verses lost to similar rhyme.

Carmen Ruggero©2007&2008

The Hour Glass

2008-06-15T17:52:00.001-07:00

“Will I see the rainbow after tomorrow?”
The poet plays with the notion
while jumping over the iridescent arc.
Sand sifts smoothly through the hourglass
half full, half empty at the birth of twilight
and an eerie notion stills his heart.

“What if, what if, the rainbow breaks in half?”
Sand has drifted in errant ways.
His path has steepened; he labors to climb.
Wind’s shifted north, he’s facing south
and pushing forth one inch at a time.

“Will I see the rainbow beyond tomorrow…?”
The poet knows it’s a wretched wish.
“I can’t see one grain of sand
past the one on which I stand.”
Doubts push and pull with equal force,
one step forward two steps back
until silence roars and the poet dreams no more.
Sand sifts quickly through the hourglass
half empty, half full at the birth of twilight
and a black moon darkens the sky.

Carmen Ruggero ©2008

Introduction and Smiles

2008-06-15T17:50:00.000-07:00

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

Maybe it is 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.

Surviving is a trip. And like when we were kids and something good happened, I can't wait to go tell.

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?

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.

Carmen :-)