During another bleak war
Tired of this mongrel
thunders light the sea
by turning us asunder.
Oh?, nature seams to react.
April 30th, 2006
The dam of Creekwood
Bristly water caress two sources
while an azure crane echoes
its wings to a shelter's roof where
another addict sacrifices her mind.
Deep, as an infinite mirror
reflects skies of solar sounds,
golden walls, blankets and white
curtains of scented French room.
Score of aquatic murmurs
its brilliant waterfall of stars
shelters toads, agile rabbits,
funny geese or foolish deer.
Each year a willow's about to bathe
with tears a thousand camelots
and hundreds thrush trim dry
or long branches dead herbs
until they eclipse bright stars.
Growing moons draw cosmic
or oval hollow, upon lighting
turkeys of white plumage,
swaying of fish, wild ducks
or reindeer's strong horns.
Clouds stain of gray or orange
their skin of delighted sheet
in canons and sequences
of brilliant reflections.
Crystalline fabric of unrepeatable beauty,
kaleidoscope of light, sonorous purity,
you erase bad memories or war’s horrors
with circulating peace of eternal light.
Guillermo Silveira, January 2008.
A cross, a crane, a pillar
After a long day of labor repairing houses of humble people,
exhausted, thinking of a mustard seed for faith, or for rebirth,
a bearded composer knocked a sack like a rock and slumbered .
Dreams of building an ark on water floods
left him in the coast of a new mystical city
watching some Bayou Teche's alligators.
Near a river house, still under sea level,
a white crane on a pillar moved its head.
The bird was glowing, vertically pointed,
toward this brightened star shaped as a cross.
The dreamer, within his dream,
pondered on the mystical cross,
and admired the slender crane
on its so-solid wooden pillar.
But suddenly the cross-shaped star
stretched each arm transforming
into an iron cross, and placed itself
under the fragile house to lift it.
The crane became a crane machine,
its feathers turned into iron chains.
The cross doubled itself like a number sign
going under the nicely painted house
still at flooding risk and under sea level.
The alligators became handsome workers
and adjusted each one of the many chains
to perfectly place the big iron double cross
under the home of another innocent victim
of hurricanes, politics, greed, and oblivion.
As expected, celestial music underlined it,
the house started to move up, elevating
the simple wood house a mile over sea.
The wooden pillar the bird stood on
multiplied, enlarging like huge nails
that flew under the house, inserting
nearly three quarters into the ground,
recreating very solid house pillars.
The musical crane moved down,
alligators danced all around it,
adjusting the house on many pillars,
landing it fifteen feet over sea level.
Awaking with a nice memory,
of a cross, a crane and a pillar,
does not solve a big problem,
but it may generate new jobs.
Ah! if all houses in New Iberia could be lifted...
they have workers, pillars and the cross,
they need the crane.
Biggs Museum Room [a Museum of American History]
Timeless woods grew to be creatures' home,
becoming furniture to hold home's objects,
things like clocks to fragment old eternity,
silverware, dishes, ornaments, flowers,
papers and boxes to store information,
they ended up in this hyperreal place.
Bringing today certain calm from the past
to our speedy and "ungraspable" present tense,
this Biggs Museum treasure turns into a gift
of everlasting beauty and natural textures.
Who may not see that it's "awesome" to collect
some memorable art pieces, may find stupid
to preserve simple unusual collective items
that point the ephemeral of life as noble art does.
I find this peculiar little time trip
something "way more" poetic
than an honorable pastime.
Smiling at this eloquent chamber
of our labyrinth of time, I sigh,
here they go again...
Victims of memory
Cluttered by brilliant imaginary angels,
best moments in life and the worst ones,
that infinite chain of cultural rites,
those unforgettable encounters,
great people that we’ll never see again,
infinite sensations, music and art,
we contemplate how oblivion may do away with all of it.
Guilty or judgmental, our memory may slave us,
but artificial memory helps to archive our actions,
to let go and move on. Its detachment helps to see
the past tense out side of us from an eternal present,
now, do we need to collect these crumbling times?
We are building to be forgotten.