My Mum and I took a trip to Costa Rica, and so much of what we saw was enormously inspiring. In fact, I've been looking forwawrd to the poems from this trip since I first started the project. So, without any more of this bland introduction, here are the ones that I'm ready to share.
All over the place, right in the middle of cities, are these elaborate, beautiful cemetaries and I found myself struck by the fact that they don't hide death the way we do, with our cemetaries incognito on the outskirts of the suburbs.
-Silent Sunday-
Two marble angels guard the gate.
Soldiers serving God,
they carry lambs to freedom.
Worn white paint
scraped by souls
gripping tight during flight
never looking down,
or looking back,
only up, at eternity.
Fiercely posed, sharply armed
defending Dios' domain.
Any black from sin
must remain outside
and stare through the bars
of the gate,
practicing burning
on the angel's flaming spears.
A forest of stone crosses
and tiled tombs.
Bright colours, not hiding.
Mingle with the departed.
If we want to remember their lives,
we must not ignore their deaths.
-I Stand and Breathe Fresh Sun-
The vine embraces wire,
avoids the barbs with care.
The wire welcomes warmth
a stranglehold with life.
The fernleaf scrapes tough wall
rishing in warm wind.
The wall lets silent groans
it aches, would die for life.
The billboard sprouts from grass
which reaches skyskrape tall.
The grass bows low at wind's
ovation: praise of life.
I stand and breathe fresh sun
my universe is green.
The ground surrounds my toes:
deep home for end of life.
-The Butterfly Man Spoke No English-
The butterfly man spoke no English.
I understood his laughter nonetheless.
So many made temporary homes of hands and arms.
Then wings skittered to life and lifted off.
Serene blues, natural greens, toxic reds.
"Come here baby," the only words that I knew.
A small new girl with a crumpled wing.
He pinched her legs and plucked at the wing.
She fell.
She writhed on the ground.
But for her tiny voice, I thought I would her shrieks.
He picked her up and tried his tricks again.
I watched him with more focus.
He was not pinching, but stretching,
he was not plucking, but caressing.
She fluttered, she flapped, she flew.
The butterfly man spoke no English
but when that beauty began her second life
I understood his laughter nonetheless.
-Knowing Land-
I float along staring out
at thriving hills green as life.
The thickest cloak ever grown
keeps warm unseen souls within.
While here I sleep not in beds
but underneath ancient leaves.
Have liquid dreams, swimming trees
and wish I knew knowing land.
-On the Other Side of the Hill-
Such tiny legs.
Flailing, grabbing, tugging, struggling.
A pair of withered and wet wings.
Sticky with fluid, pain, and hope.
What she aches for is life
to flap her butter wings.
It won't come easy.
But like a pirate sailing on blood.
Terror's hand on the wheel,
agony's breath in the sail.
A vicious fight will come.
Against death's cruelty sharpened claws.
She may not win
since so many parish.
Even if she fights the hardest,
even if she beats back death.
He may still claim her from exhaustion
for this is a war of attrition.
However, there is a chance of life
A chance that her wing will open.
Then she will take flight
only to climb a grand hill,
where she will face death's army.
-Fireflies-
A million little lights.
Delicate white flicker
that tips the unlit air
to empty out the ink
and bare Earth`s quiet shape.
I detect a faint
ruft,
a whispered secret
wafting up the sky
gently lifting truth,
illuminated by
a million little lights.
