Translation of previous poem

It doesn’t matter if nobody likes my poetry.

There’s just one person that interests me.

There were others, but they already left this website.

I think this Caribbean woman is very interesting.

We’ll see if she gives me a like without understanding.

Or maybe she’ll take the time to translate it.

[2/14/20:  This is not poetry.  This is a paragraph that was broken into lines similar to poetry.   Just an experiment to see how many views and likes it got.  Thank you Word Press.]



Que me importa si nadie le gusta mi poesía.

Sola queda una persona que me interesa.

Había otras pero ellos ya abandonaron  esta página.

Me parece muy interesante esa mujer caribeña.

A ver si me da un me gusta sin entender

O quizás toma el tiempo para traducirlo.


The swamp is frozen.

Millions of little lives

Lay dormant.

Waiting for their chance to flourish.

Lizards and serpents sleep

Next to beautiful lillies

Dieing to bloom.


Meanwhile the privileged

Merrily ski the slopes.

Immune and ignorant to the storm

That is coming.

They misread the radar

And disregard the forecast.

The mountain is snow covered.

White on white.


I am ready for the storm,

Relatively safe in my cacoon.

Nestled in a tree by the ridge.

Waiting for the resurrection

Of spring.


The skiers pass, again, ignorant

That I even exist.

I had visions of late nights

With you seated in my comfy chair,

Belting out improvised blues, while

I loosely strum the 12 bars and 3 chords

That tell my life’s story.

We would create

Passionate songs about love and lust

Building a unique rhythm

Formed only by us.

Like two dreamers

Who melt into a single fantasy.

We’ve been together for a thousand years.

Off and on.

Through wives and lovers,

Friends and others.

Husbands and enemies under covers.

You waited on the mountain top.

Seated under the pines watching the waves crash

While I frolicked with the sirens.

Knowing they are but a diversion.


Old man in the mirror

An old man watches me through my mirror.

It couldn’t be clearer,

His days are gone.

Like his old hippie song.

Old man staring.

Still wanting, still caring.

Like the mirror’s a door.

And his eyes just a whore

Lost in the past.

Where time moved too fast.

And men would fight for the right to

Want something more.