Archive for the 'Poetry' Category


August Walk 7:12 PM

There is a certain time of day when one is glad to entertain beautiful thoughts.

“This sunset is here.”

“Orange is something that happens in the sky when you look at it and it glows.”

Or life gains a meaning:

“There is a river I was born into, and I swim in it still, though I know not its name nor where the ocean it opens to lies. I wait for it, still, swimming, on and on and maybe smiling, a tear or a grin, but smiling still.”

You walk, yes you, you walk and the eyes of the sun hurl at you from the depths of the scape, from the roof of the world, or this one. Also I must marvel at the fact that the orange glare of the sun at 7:12 PM is something received from universes away, though eyesight is made possible by mandates from our brain.

August Walk thoughts are like that for me: how are they for you, though?

I would like to know about your August Walk, is it at 7:12 PM?

It doesn’t matter, because beautiful thoughts can be late too, sometimes.
Sometimes they’re very early like dew. Or late like owls.

But thoughts don’t have to be beautiful, they can be just thoughts, and that’s good too. Like this:

“Why, my oh my, dah-boom.”
It still has a rhythm. Look:

Say it and knock on wood.

You can have them at 9:17 PM, too, like me.


for a Future Cousin

Nine months from now
(the now I hold so dear)
a life will be born
and she’ll flail her legs
and nothing will be torn

Nine months from now
For now will be forever
She will open to light
And she’ll cry when she comes
In your arms she’ll cry

Nine months from now
And now is only a cloud
She’ll be the rain 
For harvest
Her skin like a leaf
And her eyes, my tempest
Nine months from now
(and then and now again)
I’ll be born and she,
Life, will smile and fall
Silent and all the while
I’ll see her walk down the hall

Nine months from now
Or nine days, it’s the same,
Her father will be born
Her mother will be born
Her uncle will be born
A cradle will rock forth and forth

And she’ll be a dotted line 
Among dotted lines
And she’ll walk among the cities
Among the other lines
Nine months from now

Nine months from now
She’ll eat her own boogers
She’ll run before she walks 
She’ll prefer milk to low fat
She’ll hold a paper in her hand
She’ll say car, mommy, daddy, wall,

She’ll wear a square hat on her head
And throw it up for her, for her,
She’ll star in her own stage play,
And I’ll applaud for her, for her,
She’ll hit a home run all day,
And I’ll applaud for her, for her,
She’ll eat a hot dog with me,
And I’ll pay it, for her, for her,
She’ll go away too, but not now,
Please, not now.

She’ll wear a smile and a white dress,
For her, for her she will,
And then she’ll wear a tear and a black dress,
For me, just for me.

And she’ll have her nine months, too, then.
She’ll have them, too.

© 2008 – Rolando A. López


12 AM I love You

i was told you
were my friend
you said
and we stood backwards to the sky

who told you said i
and you pointed at my eye
pointing out wit glee, it’s a mirror
okay, i said
we travelled starscapes
dreamscapes and escapes
i was told you 
were my friend
you said
loving every minute
like fury or beauty

we told each other
how much we loved
meanwhile we resented when others
called for it from above
or something like that

we look for it
in the wrong places
you said
and of course
i knew what you were talking about
and of course
i was looking at you
or for you

so and now then.

what is it like to be one
you asked
maybe juliet knows
i said
or any of those fictions
from those plays and romance shows

the stars lay facedown to us
and you didn’t say much then
maybe i will kiss you now
and i didn’t say much then
not much to say anyway

© 2008 – Rolando A. López


To Whom It May Be Of Interest (The Calamus, BIC, and Aletheia)

“Cálamo, deja aquí correr tu negra fuente…”
– Rubén Darío, “En una primera página” 

Translated, or as I would have it so, the above verse by Nicaraguan Rubén Darío reads: “Pen, let your black fountain here flow…” Yet this translation quite kills the poetry of Rubén Darío, for he talks of the cálamo, that now-obsolete instrument which scribes used centuries ago, that little bird feather that one dipped into a bottle of ink. If we think of a cálamo through which a streak of black ink flows like a fountain or a river of thought and imagination, we are indeed seized by a more ferocious and majestic image than that of a mere BIC pen writing on a 8 by 10 office paper.

Oh, Calamus! We can only dream of you now, remembering you as an artifact of a lost time, a time that we were not borne into, and therefore, a time we will never experience. That is, we, mere twenty-first-centuryans, will never be able to see you, dearest calamus, the same way that scribe oh-so-long ago saw you… we will see you through the eyes of  a tourist, taking a vacation from his world of blogs, twitter and e-mails — in other words, this our twenty-first century, to another world, no less fictional than that of a novel —  but no less strong and alive than that of a novel, either! We will give you a significance that the scribe could never have given you, because for him you were merely a tool — but for us, you open up a world, you bring about the unconcealment, the aletheia, as a dear philosopher-friend would say, of a world that created you, forged you with its laboring, paining hands. You bring out the truth of that world, dear calamus put into verse, and for that, you are quite worthy.

And it seems now, with blogs such as this one, with the tweets that float on the airscape of data, with e-mails and e-vites and e-love, in other words: with all the fury of words, ideas, stories, emotions, news, and pornography that floats through the airscapes of the world wide web, that pretty soon even handwriting will become an artifact. And so, I sing to the pen and the paper, to the letter that takes three days to deliver! Time happens to us all, and happen it shall. But let us hope that it does not happen too bad.

With this blog, I’ll try to do some good by trying to write things that strive to be beautiful, or remember the beautiful things that others before me wrote.


I don’t know if I’ll do that. But maybe I can contribute. Or:

Here I present you a piece of my soul, 
do with it what you wish. 


“Bendición al que entiende, bendición al que admira
De ensueño, plata o nieve, esta es la blanca puerta.
Entrad los que pensáis o soñáis. Ya está abierta.”
-Rubén Darío, “En una primera página” 

(Be he blessed who understands, be he blessed who admires,
Of dreams, silver or snow, this is the white door.
Enter, you who think or dream. It is already open.)

© 2009 – Rolando A. López.


Welcome to my blog. Feel free to read, feel free to comment, and feel free, period.

Someone once said…

"Every questioning is a seeking. Every seeking takes its direction beforehand from what is sought." -Martin Heidegger
December 2018
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