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
Wednesday, November 30, 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
”¿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
Friday, October 8, 2010
Coming to Terms / Aceptando la Realidad
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
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
Sunday, July 12, 2009
Mary’s Lullaby
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
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
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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