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
Friday, May 8, 2009
Así Nomás
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
…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
Monday, October 20, 2008
Rusty Nails
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
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
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
Wednesday, July 30, 2008
The Sound of Time
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
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
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