cycles

The sun comes down

My wife is in bed

Sping is not here 

What more to say

She

She is light she is love she dreams of horses and of goats she is strong and she is kind she is my friend and my wife she laughs and she plays she is my baby boy's mom. 

I love you Bebé.

 

any given afternoon

The ice is soft

The air springs in your face

The crow, indifferent 

Late Storm

End of April yet snow
Storm came through with a heavy heart
Spring was hard in the days of old

The Kite (by my dad)

Over Colorado's sky
Steered by his Pilot's handy hand
The orange kite



AEI

Sticks

Beating the sticks
The bandit rehearses his moves
On the soft cushion

The Bard

He, my little artsy son,
His wings in full display

A Prince in a large stage

Future

This little boy 

Making Plans, work, hobbies, family

He does not seem mine

Seasons

I love winter for its whiteness

I love spring for its greenness and light

I love the seasons of my boy

Roughing it down

I skied all day today
Not used to crash rocks and stumps
Yet rare that I do not hurt.

Clock Is Ticking

My time is accelerating

Or so I think or so I feel or so it seems

Yet I am stuck in a past swirl

A Week

A week to remember
A sudden passing, a school scare
A week of fragility

nobodies fault

Anything else?
No that was it I've got it
I'm kind of busy

an uneasy feeling

It came to my mind
in the latest times
that watching old movies
and new
and videos of recent years
all flicks of artists passed
that we watch
that we perpetuate
repeated movements
repeated words
repeated gestures
now mechanically performed
void of human life
a cheap Morel invention
accessible urbi et orbi
not just in a retired island
at the tips of our fingers
and it leaves sad
and happy to see my heroes
and triste to understand
that they will not create no more
a single note
a single verse
a single smile.
I am afraid
that I can know understand
my parents nostalgia
for their childhood saints.
I have lived in the now
hand in hand with my world
maybe now it is a moment
to reset in my mind
the true speed of time.

Sábados

Este pequeño café Etíope
Es lo que más me acerca al Nilo
Torrente furioso inalcanzable

aguas (escrito por mi padre)

Cataratas es un lugar cautivante 

En el cual aparece la magia Guaraní 

En forma de lluvia ascendente.

Besos húmedos de fragancia rubí 

Ceibo en flor y canto de aves.


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Dos Narices

Cuatro patas cada cual
Largas orejas y ojos ansiosos
Sus narices húmedas

Americanizado

Conversaba con mi hijo
Sobre filosofías lejanas
Y recordando una foto de Miranda
Le comenté que de volver
De si ese eterno gardeliano
Volver ocurriera
Definitiviamente me verían
Como la vieron a ella
Con su sombrero de Frutas
Distinto, cambiado, influido,
Pero a la vez igual.
Así me siento yo,
Así me sentía de más jóven
En algo han influído estos años
En estas tierras turbulentas
Que me han dado paz y familia
Pero aún me escatiman
Me esconden, me confunden
Mi propósito.
Mi vision.

back pain

It has been there

silent, persistent, all winter

Am I growing old?

happiness is a kite

His eyes too large for his face

His hands too small to catch it all

His smile welcomes each soaring kite