Cala Lilies, or Watching Winter Olympics 2014 from South America!
-a poem by NinadesusOjos
Grace in my South American garden,
icy little dancers,
girls in yellow dresses
twirling fast and straight
in center of furling rinks,
each one
a yellow candle taper
on a snowy wax
doily
edged with green.
A love line to God this morning..
God,
I wish
my pen
were the tongue
of a skilful
orator
to applaud
Your
truth,
humility,
righteousness.
The Way is Perfect – an old poem by Amy Carmichael
Long is the way, and very steep the slope,
Strengthen me once again, O God of Hope.
Far, very far, the summit doth appear;
But Thou art near my God, but Thou art near.
And Thou wilt give me with my daily food,
Powers of endurance, courage, fortitude.
The way is perfect; only let that way
Be clear before my feet from day to day.
Thou art my Portion, saith my soul to Thee,
O what a Portion is my God to me. (Amy Carmichael)
Psalm 16:5-6 “Lord, you have assigned me my portion and my cup; you have made my lot secure. The boundary lines have fallen for me in pleasant places; surely I have a delightful inheritance.”
White City – a Poem about Racial Discrimination in South America
-by NinadesusOjos
Jewel city of the Americas,
Pearl spun into stressed fabric of Andes life,
Where folks still sense silken whispers,
Glimpse, in memory, inlaid tortoiseshell haircombs,
Pompadoured raven locks of fine ladies,
curves of white cheekbones,
Sheepswool-white, pearl-white, cotton-white.
Long swallow-tail coats on gentlemen,
Imperious be-jewelled white fingers “SNAP”!
beckon for the lady’s fan.
Quechua slaves, dark brown, scurry, obey, eyes cast down.
Tiered stone mansions, spreading stairs,
An historic tapestry of old, white-washed buildings, red clay roofs, tiles,
textured, textiles, speckled – pink, blue, peach.
Deceptively spacious, these ornate estates
discreet behind massive carved doors,
CLOSED.
In the streets OUTSIDE, hunkering on gray greasy pavement,
green-hued teeth chewing leaf,
(to kill the hunger pangs)
homespun striped ponchos, stained,
cover dark brown trembling skin.
A silent myriad Quechuas still sit,
lower gaze beneath stares of white men.
Neighbors
NEIGHBORS
My neighbors live at the edge
of the River Rocha
open canal
chemical waste, raw sewage.
Their homes pop up, proliferate
like toadstools after rain,
disappear again,
houses of ripped sheet plastic, sticks, garbage.
When we visit with donations
one man with long white hair,
dark sunburned wrinkles,
asks, “soymilk instead?”
Four more are young
wild wiry glue-sniffers,
dusty, tousled hair,
angry, jumpy eyes.
One keeps three sheep in the riverbed,
hobbled, corraled with clinging driftwood.
Traffic whines within yards, oblivious,
every few weeks police knock down,
set afire my neighbors’ homes,
they scout the city garbage bins
for present food and future building materials,
they want squatters’ rights
to this land nobody else wants
and nobody else wants them to own,
they stake claim
in the pestilential air
on the burned, polluted flood silts
dotted with spindling shrubs,
their lives as tentative and embattled
as the gnarled and stunted willows
barely growing
in the Rocha riverbed.
©Globe Prints by NinadesusOjos, 2012 -2017.Any and all unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material, including all photographs, without express and written permission from this blog’s author and/or owner is strictly prohibited by law.
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