Assignment 18: Find old Poems

These are poems I wrote on my 2007 trip to Guatemala.  At one point I put pictures with them.

Templo

From the top of a templo

I see
the rainforest, la selva
llena de arboles
covering the ground below
like soft, swaying, moss.

I see
The lake, glimmering beneath a hazy soft sunset
And filled to the shore with crocodiles
Stretches on and on.

I see
piles of billowy clouds meandering in el cielo and
the purple-grey of a far off rainstorm threatening
To join us.

Yaxha, Tikal, La Blanca.
The stones beneath my feet
are thousands of years old.
Their fathers no longer with us
A legacy built brick by brick
now lifts me into the sky.

From the top of a templo

my eyes reach distances
hundreds of miles
and thousands of years
from here.

Ruinas

In the U.S. when something is
old
and ruined
we fix it like
new
or we tear it down
Here
they plant flowers and fruit trees around its existence
leaving
holes,
cracks,
and wounds
centuries deep to heal in the sun
How kind to appreciate something
for what it has been through
as well as what it once was.

Agua

Out the window, over the rooftops
Always watching
stands Volcan Agua
with its swath of clouds
covering its top like a veil
except on clear days
Madre gallina to little chickens
My constant companion
making sure I am never lost.

Out the window, over the rooftops
Always watching
stands Volcan Agua
proof that the earth moves and breathes
beneath us, despite ourselves.

Provecho!

In America, I am running late for work
In Guate, I am always late to eat.
Desayuno, Almuerzo, y Cena
Almuerzo, lunch, the most important one.
Bowls of pepian, tacos chapines, and moles
squish onto my plate with platanos, tomates, pepino,
yucca, patate, arroz, y frijoles.
All waiting to be wrapped
 in fresh hand pressed tortillas made just that hour
as the sound of women slapping maize dough in their hands
echoes down the street
Ana Beatriz, my senora, shops at the market
walking down dusty rows where our Mayan neighbors,
come down from the pueblos, sit and sell
the brightest carrots, the juiciest jalenpenos,
and the brightest tomatoes I have ever seen.
Giant bags of spices all shades of red, brown, and yellow
beckon: smell, touch, buy.
She cooks all day, asking “Como durmiste?” How did you sleep?
How are classes?  How are your friends?
We talk politics, religion, culture, news, and recipes
around this deliciously aromatic table
where family and food become synonymous
I say “muchas gracias”
“Buen provecho” calls the table
“Good appetite” they wish me.
May I join their table again.