Piñales

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En caballo cabalgabamos, padre, madre
Y hermanos. El camino claro, azul y radiante
El verde en la vereda con briza en contra
de mi cara de infante apuntando hacia mi nostalgia
Y aventura, el piñal.
Guapango y Caruzo nuestras amadas mascotas
Acompañándonos con lealtad y agilidad.
El destino era uno, montaña amarilla con rancho de paja en la cumbre.
La lección esperaba hacer descubierta y puesta en práctica.
Como niño hambriento, una porción de piña lamentos proporcionó.
El pedazo jugoso, dulce y sabroso me cegó de codicia.
Mi padre con sombrero puesto, pistola en cintura y machete en mano
Me advirtió, “no seas burro mi zipote precioso, te vas a llenar.”
En gritos exclame y demande más del dulce manjlar.
En coro, mi madre y padre, advertencia explicaron.
Yo, necio y caprichoso, no los escuche y aun más les pedí.
Piñas se me dieron hasta casi reventar.
Tan goloso fui, que mi estómago declinó
Y en llanto yo terminé.
Al llorar por ayuda, la respuesta fue única.
Advertencia no es de juegos!
Piñas, advertencia que el pasado me entrego.

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Mozote

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Walking down to the river, hat on, quiet and foggy morning.

Empty streets, fear is in the air.

Gun powder smell invades senses.

Huey helicopters roam the area.

People staying put, trapped in homes.

Children having breakfast, eggs, fried bananas, black beans and french bread, School canceled.

River trip reverts, rushing  back home, family is goal.

Whispers “come in”, “here”, ” get off the street”, love ones in mind.

Machine gun sounds echo everywhere.

Well geared soldiers, trained at School of Americas, nearby.

An appearance of North American is clear, brown faces, but the look is Yankee.

A flock of northern ducks flies over. The north is upon us.

Death in town is near, cold war at its best.

At the door, eyes on faces lost in anguish.

No where to run, town under siege.

Life, young or old, cut short.

No mercy, No respect, massacre awaiting.

Invading Atlacatl beasts savoring blood of brotherhood.

One more shot, one more rape, one more child.

No turn back, destruction, annihilation, American made.

Run or hide, Torogoz perched on an electric wire above a roof.

No where to go, adults’ lives, children’s lives, life diminishes.

Hawk Mozote in beak takes fly, assassins take over.

Brutal death, 1,000 humans in El Mozote!

Close up Sangre

#Guanaco

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Cerca de la cascajera choteábamos.
De repente, los cachimbazos zumbaban. La guardia perseguía a unos tamales.
En guinda salimos y nos alivianamos detrás de un copinol.
El chele sacó su cuchumbo con agua de la chula. Mi tecomate estaba vacío
Tragamos agua cómo chuchos en una vereda empolvada.
Las hualcachillas chillaban cómo bichitos sin nana.
Le pusimos hasta la quebrada de Aragua.
Agotados y hechos M nos sentamos alrededor de un caragüe.
El negro con oídos de tísico escuchó hurracas.
La bulla se calmó cuando vimos un garrobo tirarse a una posa.
El loquín agarró el corvo y se escondió detrás de una parra de lorocos
La hondilla en la otra mano.
De sorpresa, un garrobo salió del agua y se tendió en un tronco de conacaste.
Cómo locos empezamos el deschongue por darle mataque.
El hijo de la gran semita se fue por la quebrada.
El jodido de garrobo se chiflió de un chispazo.
Ya tranquilos, sin garrobo y cómo sipotes pasmados regresamos al potrero.
Sin pensar, sin ganas, lentamente nos acercamos a unos cuilios.
Los hijos de la gran parlaban con unas bichas lavando trapos sobre las piedras.
Ni cuenta se dieron de la mara, qué caminaba de regreso con chulas llenas de zapotes, moras, chuctes, chipilines y un cusuco pero no reptil.
Por fin, llegamos a la plazuela enfrente de un palo de pepeto.
Bajo un amate estaban unos cheros jugando chucho.
Por el gran olor a chuco con aiguaste nos acercamos al juego de naipe. Un ruco tomaba chicha y hablaba babosadas de la chamba y su caporal que lo ponía a riata
Tomamos el camino barroso, los bichos jugaban chibola y comían alborotos con charamuscas.
Los chuchos aguacateros y cutos seguían lagartijas o pelotas de morro y se perdían en los matorrales. Al llegar a la cuesta hacia el campo, un minutero bajo un tamarindo comiendo verdolaga nos saludó, “bichos majes”. El vacile fue largo y yuca.
Todos nos dijimos salu y cada uno se fue con su ruca y su ruco.
Al llegar a mi chanti, mamita me sirvió huevos con flor de izote, frijoles sancochados y café pisqué. Terminé mi bajón y me fui a leer Luz Negra, una obra de Alvaro Menéndez.
El vacilón del día fue vergon.                                                                                                                     Colorín colorado el cuento sin la ciguanaba o cipitillo se terminó.

Marcos de una Villa

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There your were with a premature heart in an aventure of lust and pain.
Time passed, communication between seas transpired at the speed of light.
History and memories evolved and brought back fantasies of a perfect life, perfect dreams.
On one side of the oceans, stood your passion, your love, your youth.
On the other side, life became new, became a challenge, became family, became discovery.

Crossing back the vast Atlantic at high altitude, it seemed a dream, and you cried, thinking of heaven behind you.
In an effort to capture, and to take advantage of the opportunity, your lips, your heart and soul lost their tangent. Without thinking, feeling or respecting life, or love, or trust, betrayal overshadowed your being. Your want to be amore was mutilated with nonsense.

Time stopped, time robbed, time become history to be discovered.
There must be more discoveries you need to share if your love conquest is to be accomplished.
Love is clear, love is transparent and love is mutual. Mind, body, and soul uniting for a common dream, a common fantacy, and a common life for two purified, unselfish beings.

Ultimately, you remain to be discovered while others cry for you to finish your overseas voyage back where you are belong. Oceans will be in between. They can be crossed with no hesitation. It is your choice, it is your life, but at the end, love ones will bleed, will agonize in pain of whys, of eagerness to understand why life is unfair.

Love comes once; lust is momentary. In our journey to happiness, everyone is making a difference in your, life must count those meanings. Mature life is to find our harmony and purpose to each other.

My Land

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May 26, 2012 It is hot, humid and a smell of the past anchors my senses. I can’t wait to get rolling into the city labyrinth. The service for renting the machine to embark on my trip is humble and people’s humility confirms my identity. The inspection of the Japanese-made transporter is carefully and mystically done as if I will be navigating the sky. The sweat on the dark native faces alerts me of the weather conditions awaiting. The nostalgic reality hits;  I’m back where I’m belong.

My companion helps accommodating our belongings. I take charge and my pilot skills are about to be experimented or better yet tested. Signals and road conditions are not as those of Minneapolis, Los Angeles or even Tijuana. I do feel comfortable and at ease. After all, I belong here, I’m with people who look like me, I’m blending in easily and it comes naturally.

I know Northwest is my destiny to the city of Leon. It is 1:00 P.M., and I see where the sun will set. My co-pilot map on hand reminds me, ” take it easy”. Two road alternatives are my choices, the signage is no where to be seen. I’m on the right direction, but the best road. I instantly knew I had taken the barrios side of the two roads. My direction is the same, northwest.

Shanty houses dictate the landscape to my right and to my left. People remind me of 1960’s, 1970’s, 1980’s and 1990’s. Nothing has changed. Conditions, and the struggles for survival are the same as they ever were. The only difference is in 2012, the FSLN is in power and people seem happy for that. At our first stop light, happiness is transformed in spectacles of ball juggling, dancing clowns, fruit sellers, and window cleaners. My memories re-track and my spirit remolds into my childhood, into my past, and into my fighting self being.

Passing this proletarian landscape seems endless and yet every spot, every person and every scene is vivid, and real. It is a confirmation of people’s struggles everywhere.

Struggle differences in our world are acute but no worse than in this part of our planet, our earth. Children playing baseball reminded me of  my accommodating home, of my super power home, of the luxury home where to have baseballs, bats and gloves is no worry, is no problem. In this land, baseballs are rocks, bats are broom sticks and gloves are hands. The game has a different feeling at every corner and empty lots as our northwest direction seem more clear and our landscape fades behind me.

The road to my destination opens up into this beautiful majestic puristic green flush, pasture fields, and volcanic landscapes unlike the struggling scenes and dirty streets left behind. I crack the windows open and fresh clean air hits my nostrils. Instantly it enriches and satisfies my humanity with pureness nature and clear blue sky.

For a moment, it feels as a dream, as heaven on earth, but I know where am at, and I know the natural views does not reflect the conditions of its people. A few do have the beauty of luxury and the richness status that the land brings about. The road is well maintained, one way lane highway is easy to maneuver and driving becomes relaxing as our eyes hardly wink.

I pull over to reconfirm my destination at a group of students waiting for the bus. They immediately come to assist, They all have clean dark blue and light blue uniforms. I let my companion do the talking. With an astonishing look in one of the student’s face, he ask my co-pilot, “Italian”, after hearing Spanish with an Italian accent spin. I think to myself, please tell them know you are from Minnesota, USA, and as if my thoughts were directing her, she starts explaining. I pull back to the road and a couple of hundreds yards, we find our detour towards our city. A few minutes after making our turn, we climb a steep hill. I parked on the side of the road into a Mirador. Parking space is enough to accommodate ten vehicles. There was a couple having late lunch, they were enjoying a bowl of rice and beans. We exchange salutes, ” Hola, buenas tardes”, and their reply was in choir, ” Buenas Tardes “.

We proceed to a retaining wall made of black volcanic rock. With smart phone and camera on hand, Momotombo volcano is front of us, it feels like I can almost reach it with my hands, the Managua lake  and blue sky reflection in the water makes it a post card picture. My phone camera and her camera are at work, one, two, three… one more! Our pictures are recorded in the memories for us to share, but the in-prints in our brains are for ever, it will never be deleted.

I get back into our driving machine’s seats, and our reactions are “WAO! The view is fantastic “. We both agree. My next thought, I want to climb Momotombo volcano. Our plans are to climb volcanoes, but seeing it front of us, the challenge and eagerness to do so becomes goal, becomes a must. My adrenaline levels start ascending at a pace I need to control or my heart will remind me that managing is necessary if I want to keep enjoying this voyage!

The high way to our destination is of good infrastructure standard considered we are in one of poorest county in the Americas. After all when you have a revolution with Marxist and Leninist ideals, the USA government will not side with you even when is taking place on our American back yard.
We are eager to get to Leon, the land of one my favorite poets, Ruben Dario. Back 1867 when Dario was born, this land was of intellects, a land for writers, a land for poets, a land for filibusters like Mr. Willian Walker. it was land reach of culture, rich of resources, rich of exploitation. Rio San Juan and the Atlantic ocean connecting the great lakes of Nicaragua with Pacific coast was an alternate route one one could resist. Pirates, British naval, and the USA were well aware of this strategic geographical location.
We arrived to Leon, driving around takes a while. In Nicaragua, there isn’t addresses. Our Hotel directions are, Una Cuadra Norte de la calle pricipal antes de llegar a la farmacia de Ocampo”. We get to our hotel owned by a couple of Nicaraguans who spent time in Florida in their younger years, very cool people. We get settled, bags positioned, changed clothes, drink water, it’s hot and humid. I take a Nicaraguan beer, Toña, and down it, it goes down like water.
Karen is very mystic about places she wants to see in Leon. Her first stop, the local market, we looked and studied our map on hand, we think we got it, but we did not we ended up at a art gallery. We spent time at the gallery, made some purchasing and we stepped out to the hot and humid side walk. Map on hand but it’s 3:00 P.M. and the Sun is not my GPS. We spotted a man on a bike who has stop to get a drink of his water bottle. We took our chance and asked for directions to the local farmers market. The man on the bicycle, with sun inflicted darkness on his skin, and hard working hands, was pleasant and gave us simple directions, at least they seemed that way, We decided on taking our items from the art gallery back to the hotel before continuing our walk to the market.

We started our walk in the market, fresh tortilla smell over takes our senses, Karen wants fresh tortillas, my instincts of tortillero drive me to avocados stand. I asked for two huge ripe one, price is ten cents american dollars, grabbed two, walked to a lady with a great smile, she knew we were Americans, Karen immediately falls in love with lady, comal and tortillas. We bought half a dozen for a dime. Karen, again, could not believe it.

We walked around the farmers market eating tortillas, avocado and salt. At our exit of the mercado, Karen said, ‘this is the best lunch I ever had’. I reckon to it. As we walked out of the mercado, our destiny is a city walk. We were impressed at the colonial architecture and the people. The city was busy with commercial activities, and people of all types, natives, tourist, and the diversity.

Perros

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Cuando estaba aun muy chavo, me encantaba y aún me encanta el grupo musical de protesta Guaraguao. Me podía toda las canciones de memoria y las cantaba a gritos. Una de las canciones es ” Que Viva El Estudiante”. Cuando cantaba esta canción y en especial la siguiente frase, lo hacía con enojo, y me molestaba tanto que lloraba de colera, de tristesa y de júbilo revolucionario, ” Y usted no la va  a creer, pero hay escuelas de perros y les dan educación”.

Hoy, están irónico, que mi perro Paco está en su segunda clase de obediencia. Me pongo a pensar, analizar, y a comparar lo que era yo, como pensaba yo, y como me sentía yo acerca de lo injusto, de lo increíble, de lo insólito, pero hoy la injusticia aún existe, sin importar que lo que se hace con perros, sin importar donde me encuentro, y que es lo que hago.

Lo que está muy claro es que nunca hay que olvidar de donde vengo y porque soy lo que soy! Si, y usted no la va a creer pero a mi perro lo quiero mucho y me da amor incondicional que nadie, pero nadie me lo daría, y es por eso que lo hago con amor y no con el lujo que antes pensé era educar a un cane.

Coatepeque 1978

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5:00 P.M., Chafa, Pato, Wasu, Cache are looking for Bruji.

Bruji is at the base of la cruz on top of the hill overlooking the central plaza, enjoying a puro and the pueblo view under a bright red, orange sunset.

Victor, Wacha, Solin and Santon are checking out an old, fading, torn, June, 1976 edition of Play Boy magazine. After the smoke, Bruji walked down the unpaved street towards the park in front of la alcaldia and the old kindergarden Bruji attended in 1967. Bruji approached Don Chamba’s coner store for a two-cent cigarrete and a five-cent charamusca. He did not smoke, but after a toque to puff the cigarrete he was ok and felt good.

As Bruji lit his cigarrete and sat on his favor corner park bech, Tabo, Perico, were walking home.  Tabo’s house was located by El Rastro Municipal. He said, ” Hey Bruji, La mara te anda buscando.”  Bruji answered, “Where are they?” “They are walking to Chafa’s house,” Tabo said. Bruji got up and started walking to el Punto. Back them a new highway had just been finished away from Coate, and the traffic at El Punto was no longer the same, and El Pueblo was no longer crossed by the Panamerican Highway, CA1, any more. Instead of walking on sidewalks, young people would walk right in the center of the highway.

As Bruji got to La niña Inezita’s corner store, he could see la mara sitting at el muro right next to Chafa’s house. Chafa’s house was a block away from El Niño De Attocha church, a couple of houses from La Cruz Roja and Antel.

Bruji got there and asked “hey que onda?” And as in coro, they all said, “Vamos a San Salvador.” Bruji’s first reaction was “San Salvador? A que putas?” Chafay answered, “El ultimo Bus esta por pasar at 7:00 P.M. Vas o no vas?” Bruji said,Y que honda?” in response. “Tenemos el pisto para el Bus,” Chafay told him. “What? What?” Bruji said.  “Go home grab a shirt and some pezetas si podes y te esperamos right here,” Chafay said, “We will explain later. Apurate serote, culero si no vas!!”

Work in progress…