Maria (Paternal Grandmother)
You were a gentle, genteel young woman swept away by a man Thirteen years your senior who gallantly courted you, Riding proudly atop his great steed, and who offered you Safety, security, his good name and his heart. He gave you four children—two boys and two girls—and left you, And them, just before the Guardia Civil came for him. You told them that Your husband had emigrated to Argentina and was an honorable man. They questioned you but left empty handed and did not trouble you again. For the next decade, you managed your husband’s affairs, Continued with his business for a time, Grieved the death of your youngest son, Manolito, to meningitis, And found comfort in your lot, which was better than most. You were a proud, prim, proper, handsome woman, With large, penetrating, deep blue eyes. Though you were not the a radiant beauty like your older sister, Who died young but whose beauty long outlived her in the eyes of many. But you were beautiful, and turned more than your share of heads in younger days. And you fondly recalled all the good, young men from good families who courted you, Whom you kept at a proper distance through your virtue, wielded like A great shield; yet you took no small pride in recounting their attentions. You were kind, generous, and self sacrificing. And you were strong, though this Trait was not encouraged of proper women of the time. You were a Good friend, and though you could appear as aloof as a queen walking among her Subjects, you had many close friends among both rich and poor. Though you were proud, you tilled the soil and grew potatoes, beets, beans, Cabbage, artichokes and many other vegetable in your ample garden, Picked apples, lemons, pears, figs and many other fruits for your family, From your fruit trees, milked your cows, and raised chickens and rabbits. Your pride sustained you through the tough times, and you took comfort from Your illustrious relative, José Sánchez Bregua (1810-1897), the distinguished Four-star General, Commander in Chief of the forces of Spain, and War Minister whose State funeral was the first moving picture shot in Spain. Your memories of a gentler past colored by both real and imagined glory, And your overly strong pride in your children, grandchildren and family, Rescued you from loneliness and the unpleasant realities of life, And condemned you to remember the past at the expense of living the present. The last time I saw you, you were as strong and lovely as ever, with perfect Posture, and every hair in place. Your eyes were still clear, and your smile as Gentle and reassuring as it had always been. But you did not know me, and spoke to me of Your son and grandson in New York of whom you were so proud. While dad and I sat next to you, you told us both about ourselves and of Sánchez Bregua, and of your many suitors when you were young, and of your Virtuous friends, and of your husband’s good name, and of his standing in the Community, and whispered not a word of pain, of loneliness or of self-sacrifice. Your soft voice spoke only of pleasant things I’d heard many times before that belied Your strength, your mettle, your life deferred, your wounds covered over by the only Salve available to you—pride—and by the unshakable knowledge of who you were Without a moment wasted in the pointless contemplation of what might have been. Dad and I left you for the last time, contentedly fussing with your old sewing Machine, the same one on which you had made your children’s clothes, and taught Your two daughters their craft. You did not recognize us, but chatted politely and did Not notice our tears when dad and I said what would prove to be our final good-byes.Unsung Heroes — Excerpt #4: Maria
Various sample readings from of Pain and Ecstasy are available at
Filed under Poetry
Unsung Heroes — Excerpt #3
Manuel (Paternal Grandfather)
They also came for you in the middle of the night, But found that you had gone to Buenos Aires. The Guardia Civil questioned your wife in her home, Surrounded by your four young children, in loud but respectful tones. They waved their machine guns about for a while, But left no visible scars on your children, Or on your young wife, whom you Left behind to raise them alone. You had been a big fish in a little pond, A successful entrepreneur who made a very good living, By buying cattle to be raised by those too poor To buy their own who would raise them for you. They would graze them, use them to pull their plows And sell their milk, or use it to feed their too numerous children. When they were ready for sale, you would take them to market, Obtain a fair price for them, and equally split the gains with those who raised them. All in all, it was a good system that gave you relative wealth, And gave the poor the means to feed their families and themselves. You reputation for unwavering honesty and fair dealing made many Want to raise cattle for you, and many more sought you out to settle disputes. On matters of contracts and disputed land boundaries your word was law. The powerless and the powerful trusted your judgment equally and sought you out To settle their disputes. Your judgment was always accepted as final because Your fairness and integrity were beyond question. “If Manuel says it, it is so.” You would honor a bad deal based on a handshake and would rather lose a Fortune than break your word, even when dealing with those far less honorable Than yourself. For you a man was only as good as his word, and you knew that the Greatest legacy you could leave your children was an unsullied name. You were frugal beyond need or reason, perhaps because you did not Want to flaunt your relative wealth when so many had nothing. It would have offended your social conscience and belied your politics. Your one extravagance was a great steed, on which no expense was spared. Though thoughtful, eloquent and soft-spoken, you were not shy about Sharing your views and took quiet pride in the fact that others listened When you spoke. You were an ardent believer in the young republic and Left of center in your views. When the war came, you were an easy target. There was no time to take your entire family out of the country, and You simply had too much to lose—a significant capital tied up in land and Livestock. So you decided to go to Argentina, having been in the U.S. while You were single and preferring self exile in a country with a familiar language. Your wife and children would be fine, sheltered by your capital and by The good will you had earned. And you were largely right. Despite your wife’s inexperience, she continued with your business, with the Help of your son who had both your eye for buying livestock and your good name. Long years after you had gone, your teenaged son could buy all the cattle he Wanted at any regional fair on credit, with just a handshake, simply because He was your son. And for many years, complete strangers would step up offering a Stern warning to those they believed were trying to cheat your son at the fairs. “E o fillo do Café.” (He is the son of the Café, a nickname earned by a Distant relative for to his habit of offering coffee to anyone who visited his Office at a time when coffee was a luxury). That was enough to stop anyone Seeking to gain an unfair advantage from dad’s youth and inexperience. Once in Buenos Aires, though, you were a small fish in a very big pond, Or, more accurately, a fish on dry land; nobody was impressed by your name, Your pedigree, your reputation or your way of doing business. You were probably Mocked for your Galician accent and few listened or cared when you spoke. You lived in a small room that shared a patio with a little schoolhouse. You worked nights as a watchman, and tried to sleep during the day while Children played noisily next door. You made little money since your trade was Useless in a modern city where trust was a highly devalued currency. You were an anachronistic curiosity. And you could not return home. When your son followed you there, he must have broken your heart; You had expected that he would run your business until your return; but he Quit school, tired of being called roxo (red) by his military instructors. It must have been excruciatingly difficult for you. Dad never got your pain. Ironically, I think I do, but much too late. Eventually you returned to Spain to A wife who had faithfully raised your children alone for more than ten years and was No longer predisposed to unquestioningly view your will as her duty. Doubtless, you could no more understand that than dad could understand You. Too much Pain. Too many dreams deferred, mourned, buried and forgotten. You returned to your beloved Galicia when it was clear you would not be Persecuted after Generalisimo Franco had mellowed into a relatively benign tyrant. People were no longer found shot or beaten to death in ditches by the Side of the road. So you returned home to live out the remainder of your Days out of place, a caricature of your former self, resting on the brittle, Crumbling laurels of your pre Civil War self, not broken, but forever bent. You found a world very different from the one you had built through your Decency, cunning, and entrepreneurship. And you learned to look around Before speaking your mind, and spent your remaining days reined in far more Closely than your old steed, and with no polished silver bit to bite upon.Of Pain and Ecstasy: Collected Poems (C) 2011 Victor D. Lopez is available for the Kindle and in paperback at http://www.amazon.com/Of-Pain-Ecstasy-Collected-ebook/dp/B0059XEREI/ref=tmm_kin_title_0?ie=UTF8&qid=1371405797&sr=1-9
Various sample readings from of Pain and Ecstasy are available at http://www.youtube.com/channel/UCGA9jqMarpGQdW3Zj6X1CZw/videos?view_as=public
Filed under Poetry
On Shattered Dreams
Memories assault my mind,
And make me drink a drought of darkness all my own,
The once-filled corners of my soul,
Are empty now, and though accompanied, I am alone.
I’ve given all I had to chase a dream,
Which taunted me for much too long a time,
Shards of reality now cut the empty refrains,
Of what might have been,
Of shattered truths and dreams gone awry.
I seek with the hunger of a dying soul,
For that which I know can never be found,
And am rewarded for my foolishness,
By finding an endless void where the only meaning to be gleaned,
Is from the shadows cast by my dying mind.
What of Don Quixote,
With his faithful Sancho Panza,
When dragons begin to take their true forms,
And windmills appear? He fights to hold on to the dream,
And failing to do so dies from the crushing weight of his reality.
When I awake, I will redden profusely,
Put down my ragged lance,
And take my rightful place,
Beside the great dolts of our time.
But still I sleep,
Though I know the uneasiness of incipient wakefulness,
I cling on to the dream, knowing it a dream,
For in its sweet promises lie the only truths I can accept,
My only hope the evanescent reverie of an immature mind.
(c) 1988,2012 Victor D. Lopez.
Of Pain and Ecstasy: Collected Poems (C) 2011 Victor D. Lopez is available for the Kindle and in paperback at http://www.amazon.com/Of-Pain-Ecstasy-Collected-ebook/dp/B0059XEREI/ref=tmm_kin_title_0?ie=UTF8&qid=1371405797&sr=1-9
Various sample readings from of Pain and Ecstasy are available at http://www.youtube.com/channel/UCGA9jqMarpGQdW3Zj6X1CZw/videos?view_as=public
Filed under Poetry
On Fading Dreams
On Fading Dreams
Why have you left me, sweet old dreams of youth?
I’ve tried so hard to hold them in my heart,
Where have they fled, faith, honesty and truth,
Or were they only visions from the start?
Do I hear music deep within my soul?
Or mocking echoes from a bygone time?
The embers grow, though I am growing old,
But they grow dark and cold, as does my rhyme.
Each passing moment wears away my hope,
As does the wind-swept sand the desert stone;
Rich symphonies fading into one note,
Leaving me empty, bitter and alone.
I grieve not for my life; I have more sense,
I grieve far greater loss — my innocence.
From Of Pain and Ecstasy: Collected Poems (C) 2011 Victor D. Lopez
Various sample readings from of Pain and Ecstasy are available at
http://www.youtube.com/channel/UCGA9jqMarpGQdW3Zj6X1CZw?view_as=public
Filed under Poetry
Mergs (Or Why Godot Can’t Come . . .)
[From Book of Dreams 2nd Edition: Science Fiction and Speculative Fiction Short Stories (C) Victor D. Lopez 2012]
Something was definitely wrong with the world. The Provider appeared to have abandoned his children, and the cold advanced unchecked from the great beyond, even as the land lost its life-giving warmth. And, although every single being was aware of the incipient disaster, none could understand the reason for the inexplicable climate change, let alone think of a way to stave off the certain destruction of their kind.
Mergs, the dominant beings in a world of almost limitless bounty, are highly resilient, sentient beings who had evolved in an environment that offers no natural impediment to their growth and development. With no natural enemies to protect against and no need to marshal limited resources, Mergs, who are not by nature particularly gregarious, never developed a social structure or any concept of property; all the necessities of life are provided by the land in inexhaustible quantities. Each simply takes from the land in accordance with its needs or appetites without the slightest need for toil, industry or planning. Food can be found all around in limitless quantities and variety. All that is required to procure a meal is to bend down and scoop up tasty, highly nourishing morsels of delectable substances in endless varieties and inexhaustible quantities. Thirst quenching, delicious liquids quite nourishing in their own right are available in pools, lakes and rivers of various sizes scattered throughout the land. As with the solid food, the land offers up liquid nourishment in endless variety, some yielding intoxicating effects not unlike that of alcohol and hallucinogenic drugs in the human system. These intoxicating springs are particularly popular with Mergs who are not by nature temperate creatures.
Although the Mergs’ existence might seem a utopian one, there is, alas, a price exacted for such a life of perpetual ease and unending bounty. Endless leisure and an existence devoid of challenge had made the Mergs into a rather intellectually dull race. Intelligence is not prized in a land that so freely yields up its bounty, where there is no game to hunt or trap, no enemy to guard or plot against, and no need for shelter to protect one’s property or oneself from the elements, or the aggression and greed of others. Thus, while Mergs had the same genetically coded survival instinct as all other living organisms, the particular circumstances of their rather hospitable world did not necessitate that it give birth to science, mathematics, or the cultivation of knowledge that at its most fundamental core is born of the survival instinct. For Mergs, survival merely requires eating, sleeping and reproducing to take place. And, since Mergs reproduce asexually, that function is best served by eating as much as possible, thus obtaining the necessary mass and energy required by the reproductive function. Not surprisingly, then, Mergs spend most of their waking hours eating, or looking for new sources of food in order to find pleasure in what would otherwise be the tedium of their primary occupation.
Although the Mergs have no religion as such, they share a universal belief in the Provider, their creator who is the source of life and, in accordance with their belief system, constantly replenishes their supply of food and keeps the land warm for their benefit. Perhaps such a belief system developed due to the destructive floods and killing fumes that are inexplicably visited at least once on the land during the typical Merg’s life cycle. In the Mergs’ belief system, the Provider doles out such catastrophes as punishment for unknown transgressions of which they must surely be guilty, though they be beyond their comprehension. But, because such punishments are uncommon, they represent more an apocalyptic myth than a reality to be feared by the average Merg.
When such disasters occur, the remarkable resilience of these creatures allows them to spring back undaunted to soon forget they had taken place. And if the Provider earned their respect through the awesome power he wields, he also earns their unwavering devotion through his constant replenishment of their food supplies which miraculously appeared daily throughout the land, rumored to emanate mostly in a far-off region of the world, where they are said to gush forth in incalculable quantities, conjured forth by the benevolent Provider, erupting from the bowels of the land and spread by Him to the four corners of the land through powers beyond their ken.
Despite the fact that most Mergs spend their whole life in a relatively small area, some travel does occur in one of two ways: some Mergs literally eat their way from one place to another in search of different sources of food, and each recurring flood deposited a few hardy survivors in far-off lands. Additionally, some of the more adventurous Mergs‑‑those not yet of breeding age who for that reason need not spend most of their time eating‑‑sometimes venture to climb “the growing regions,” incomprehensively vast, dark mountains that rise upward slowly and inexorably as lava-fed islands do on Earth’s oceans, reaching for the heavens, stretching out endlessly into the Great Beyond. Unlike the beneficent land, these regions are largely bereft of food and contain no pools of liquid from which to drink. Some Mergs believe that these massive desert regions are a link to the Great Beyond through which a brave Merg with a pure heart might travel, prove its worth and earn the right to meet the Provider. Few were brave or foolish enough to attempt the quest, and of those who did, fewer still returned to tell of it. The fortunate few who made it back alive uniformly reported that the warmth of the land did not reach into the higher regions, but clung close to the ground. Despite such discouraging reports, a few Mergs still ventured forth from time to time, convinced that none who had tried the ascent before them had been worthy, and taking heart in the fact that so many had not returned, believing these to be enjoying the unimaginable Epicurean delights awaiting in the Provider’s domain.
But then the cold began to spread over the land, bringing with it more death and devastation than had ever been visited by floods or noxious clouds. Many Mergs blamed the adventuresome youths for having angered the Provider by trying to venture into his realm, thus visiting upon them this new, harsher punishment. The practice must be stopped. An alarm call went out to every corner of the land summoning Mergs to come together. Although Mergs normally kept to themselves, communication was possible between them at a low, instinctual level; news could travel very fast between them in reporting disaster or new sources of food. Other than the rare flood and killing cloud warnings, Mergs communicate with one another most often to report the opening up of a canyon in the land; such canyons, which indiscriminately appear and slowly disappear again as the land exposes for a time its most rare, delectable food source. These ephemeral canyons are believed to be a special reward from the Provider, and are very much welcomed. But this time the Mergs’ natural communications network was exploited for a far more important purpose, a call for prayer to seek forgiveness from the Provider. And so they prayed for forgiveness, and for the wisdom not to stray again from the path he’d intended for them to take.
Their contrite supplications, however, went unanswered, and the world slowly, inexorably cooled down. And still they prayed, with every ounce of remaining energy, their communal supplications rising above an ocean of despair threatening to engulf them. But if the Provider heard them, he was unmoved; rather, he seemed to mock them by delivering ever greater quantities of food in endless waves of tantalizing richness even as he allowed the earth to cool, spreading out before them a cornucopia of delights while doling out a slow and painful death.
And still they prayed. And still the earth grew colder. And still they died. And still those that remained, clung to hope, huddling together in groups, billions upon billions of Mergs, making use of what little warmth remained in their bodies and in the land, ensuring that the ones in the center of the group survived a little longer to raise their thoughts skyward, towards the dark, forbidding Great Beyond, hoping that the Provider would hear their prayers and deem them worthy of deliverance.
* * *
Meanwhile, a universe away at the intersection of Houston Street and the Bowery in New York City’s Lower East Side, two police officers knelt by the decrepit figure of a man who lay motionlessly in a tightly curled fetal position on the snow covered ground, dressed in many layers of tattered, filthy clothing, covered by several oily sheets of cardboard from under which emerged shoeless, deeply callused, dirt encrusted feet which, like the man’s leathery face, had turned somewhat blue in the sub freezing temperature. He was lying in a pool of melted snow mixed with vomit and bodily wastes. The older of the two officers was trying to find a pulse in the man’s neck.
“He’s dead, Harry,” he said to the younger man, looking up into the latter’s somewhat contorted expression, large brown eyes squinting behind a large leather-gloved hand cupped over his nose in a vain attempt to keep out a most inhuman smell. “Call an ambulance,” the kneeling man added, fighting to quell a wave of nausea. The young officer did not respond for a few moments; he simply stared at the body, a mixture of sadness, shock and revulsion on his face.
“Did you hear me, Harry? Call a damned ambulance, now. I don’t want to spend the rest of the shift here.”
“Yeah, Mike,” the young officer replied, finally hearing the other’s voice. “Are you sure he’s dead?” he queried, rising to comply with his partner’s request.
“He’s dead all right, but not too long; he’s not stiff yet. I’d swear I felt a bit of warmth in his neck when I took his pulse. Poor bastard. Seems about 50-55 with no visible trauma; My guess is the booze got him, or the cold. There’s no I.D. on him. Just another John Doe for the morgue.”
“I’ll never get used to this,” exclaimed the younger man, turning towards the squad car to place the call.
“Don’t sweat it, Mike. He kicked off peacefully, which is all any of us can hope for. Nobody’ll even know he’s gone.”
* * *
And still the Mergs prayed for deliverance to a deity who could not hear them, hoping to recapture the favor of their divine Provider, clinging with the last remnants of their strength to a faith powerless to stave off the advancing chill of death.
_________________________________
This is one of eight short stories from my Book of Dreams 2nd Edition: Science Fiction and Speculative Fiction Short Stories, available in paperback and Kindle versions from Amazon.com. Additional information and another short story preview are available at http://www.amazon.com/Book-Dreams-2nd-Edition-Speculative/dp/1480295914/ref=sr_1_8?ie=UTF8&qid=1370368407&sr=8-8&keywords=victor+d+lopez
Filed under Fiction
Siren’s Song
Poetry is a dangerous siren’s song,
That calls the soul towards a chasm deep,
Dulling the senses and making the heart long,
For that which it may touch yet never keep.
A sonnet is too much the friend of truth,
And leaves no room for self-deluding lies,
It emulates the honesty of youth,
And artifice, through artifice, soon dies.
Essential truths will spill onto the page,
Transpiring through the pores of consciousness,
Leaving exposed the battles that we wage,
To build facades of hope for hopelessness.
I can deny the painful song I hear,
But it’s too late; its message is too clear.
From Of Pain and Ecstasy: Collected Poems (C) 2011 Victor D. Lopez
Various sample readings from of Pain and Ecstasy are available at
http://www.youtube.com/channel/UCGA9jqMarpGQdW3Zj6X1CZw?view_as=public
Filed under Poetry
Third Sunday Blog Carnival: Volume 1, No. 8
Welcome to the August Third Sunday Blog Carnival! As always this post represents a wealth of talent, this month courtesy of 22 bloggers: 9 in the Poetry category, 3 in the Fiction category. and 10 in the Writing/The Writing Life category. Below, many of the participants have described their posts; I also share my thoughts on each one.
Which brings me to a question I would like to ask all of you: Do you find my comments here on the post to be helpful?
Filed under Politics
