The way of the stream can lead
a senseless soul to an outstretch
of land where effort is made
to bear fruit in an altered way.
The martyrs have been silent
against the wreckage of a coppery
existence. A bone was buried
beneath the roots of the tree.
A breeze in a grey hue,
imposed by the heavy clouds above,
and the open mouth of the lake
can only yield to the intersection
between water and earth.
All artwork, photos, and text © Copyright 2008-2009 Liliana Almendarez unless indicated otherwise. All Rights Reserved. Any downloading, copying or use of images on this website is strictly prohibited without express written consent by Liliana Almendarez.
Friday, October 16, 2009
Thursday, October 15, 2009
Untitles #3
Our grandfather gave us chocolates,
soaked in rum, with hard white shells
me and my sister gathered them
like robin's eggs, hid them
in small wooden boxes. He thought
we loved them and we did, but not
to eat. The bells for the flock
would ring across the valley of lights.
Our grandmother made us scrambled eggs,
nopalitos in red chile sauce, refried beans
with fresh tortillas from her blue-tiled kitchen.
The memory of the first bite of sour and spice
still makes my mouth water. She broke open
an aloe leaf and bathed my sunburned back.
The bells would ring across the valley of lights.
They never told us about martyrs or read us
bedtime stories. Instead, the waters flood down
the mountain when the earth split open
and the horses were swallowed up whole
and the bells continue to ring across the valley.
All artwork, photos, and text © Copyright 2008-2009 Liliana Almendarez unless indicated otherwise. All Rights Reserved. Any downloading, copying or use of images on this website is strictly prohibited without express written consent by Liliana Almendarez.
soaked in rum, with hard white shells
me and my sister gathered them
like robin's eggs, hid them
in small wooden boxes. He thought
we loved them and we did, but not
to eat. The bells for the flock
would ring across the valley of lights.
Our grandmother made us scrambled eggs,
nopalitos in red chile sauce, refried beans
with fresh tortillas from her blue-tiled kitchen.
The memory of the first bite of sour and spice
still makes my mouth water. She broke open
an aloe leaf and bathed my sunburned back.
The bells would ring across the valley of lights.
They never told us about martyrs or read us
bedtime stories. Instead, the waters flood down
the mountain when the earth split open
and the horses were swallowed up whole
and the bells continue to ring across the valley.
All artwork, photos, and text © Copyright 2008-2009 Liliana Almendarez unless indicated otherwise. All Rights Reserved. Any downloading, copying or use of images on this website is strictly prohibited without express written consent by Liliana Almendarez.
Wednesday, October 14, 2009
Untitled #2
The seconds here, wasp's wings and inverted
dead spiders gathered by the corner
of brick and grass. What's left of us
when the peaches have dried up (or left stolen)?
No fruit was safe when the squirrels were gathering
for their winter. No barking dog deterred
the furry thieves from their feast as one-by-one
the green peaches were picked away in an early harvest.
The hours here are measured by the wind
and the brittle leaves gathered in the corner
of brick and fence. What's left of us
when the roses have died on the vine?
No petals were safe against the cold autumn breeze
as the hand of winter began to turn the page.
No prowling cat could scatter enough birds.
What's left now in this cruel hour of morning sunrise?
All artwork, photos, and text © Copyright 2008-2009 Liliana Almendarez unless indicated otherwise. All Rights Reserved. Any downloading, copying or use of images on this website is strictly prohibited without express written consent by Liliana Almendarez.
dead spiders gathered by the corner
of brick and grass. What's left of us
when the peaches have dried up (or left stolen)?
No fruit was safe when the squirrels were gathering
for their winter. No barking dog deterred
the furry thieves from their feast as one-by-one
the green peaches were picked away in an early harvest.
The hours here are measured by the wind
and the brittle leaves gathered in the corner
of brick and fence. What's left of us
when the roses have died on the vine?
No petals were safe against the cold autumn breeze
as the hand of winter began to turn the page.
No prowling cat could scatter enough birds.
What's left now in this cruel hour of morning sunrise?
All artwork, photos, and text © Copyright 2008-2009 Liliana Almendarez unless indicated otherwise. All Rights Reserved. Any downloading, copying or use of images on this website is strictly prohibited without express written consent by Liliana Almendarez.
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