Victor D. López's Blog: Victor D. Lopez, page 95

Alice

Alice



In troubled times I've called your name,

My love, and clung to it as does a child,

To the belief in Santa,

Or the sightless, to the hope of light;

It is for me,

The visionary dream,

That drives perseverance,

And decries despair;

It is the hope of wretched souls,

In purgatory awaiting,

The seemingly forgotten promise,

Of their eventual release.

When my stale words confuse, confine,

Confound my mind, and images converge

Into the swirling blur of madness,

I call your name.

Then hopelessness recedes,

As does an incorporeal nightmare,

Slowly fading, leaving behind only sweat-soaked sheets,

Yielding to the purifying rays of the dawn's rising sun.

A simple word, your name, but to me, a powerful amulet,

Which pierces the darkness and melts away,

The deformed forms that haunt and taunt my darkest days,

And fills them with all on earth that heals and renews.

A simple word which simply is my all, a synonym for sincere,

Unpretentious love that seldom asks yet freely gives,

That does not question, but simply knows,

That does not quickly burn, but always, and forever, warms.

Excerpted from Of Pain and Ecstasy: Collected Poems available in paperback and Kindle versions from Amazon.com and CreateSpace.

Unsung Heroes (Excerpt 2 – Remedios)

Remedios (Maternal Grandmother)

Your husband died at 40, leaving you to raise nine children alone.

But not before your eldest, hardest working son, Juan, had

Drowned at sea in his late teens while working as a fisherman to help

You and your husband put food on the table.

You lost a daughter, too,

Toñita, also in her early teens, to illness.

Their kind, pure souls found

Their way back home much too soon.

Later in life you would lose two more sons to tragedy, Paco (Francisco),

An honest, hard working man whose purposeful penchant for shocking

Language belied a most gentle nature and a generous heart. He was electrocuted

By a faulty portable light while working around his pool.

And the apple of your eye, Sito (José), your last born and most loving son, who

Had inherited his father's exceptional looks, social conscience, left of center

Politics, imposing presence, silver tongue, and bad, bad luck, died, falling

Under the wheels of a moving train, perhaps accidentally.

In a time of hopelessness and poverty, you would not be broken.

You rose every day hours before the dawn to sell fish at a stand.

And every afternoon you placed a huge wicker basket on your head and

Walked many, many miles to sell even more fish in other towns.

Money was tight, so you often took bartered goods in

Exchange for your fish, giving some to those most in need,

Who could trade nothing in return but their

Blessings and their gratitude.

You walked back home, late at night, through darkness or

Moonlit roads, carrying vegetables, eggs, and perhaps a

Rabbit or chicken in a large wicker basket on your strong head,

Walking straight, on varicose-veined legs, driven on by a sense of purpose.

During the worst famine during and after the Civil War, the chimney of your

Rented home overlooking the Port of Fontan, spewed forth black smoke every Day.

Your hearth fire burned to feed not just your children, but also your less

Fortunate neighbors, nourishing their bodies and their need for hope.

You were criticized by some when the worst had passed, after the war.

"Why work so hard, Remedios, and allow your young children to go to work

At too young an age? You sacrifice them and yourself for stupid pride when

Franco and foreign food aid provide free meals for the needy."

"My children will never live off charity as long as my back is strong" was your

Reply. You resented your husband for putting politics above family and

Dragging you and your two daughters, from your safe, comfortable home at

Number 10 Perry Street near the Village to a Galicia without hope.

He chose to tilt at windmills, to the eternal glory of other foolish men,

And left you to fight the real, inglorious daily battle for survival alone.

Struggling with a bad heart, he worked diligently to promote a better, more just

Future while largely ignoring the practical reality of your painful present.

He filled you with children and built himself the cross upon which he was

Crucified, one word at a time, leaving you to pick up the pieces of his shattered

Idealism. But you survived, and thrived, without sacrificing your own strong

Principles or allowing your children to know hardships other than those of honest work.

And you never lost your sense of humor. You never took anything or

Anyone too seriously. When faced with the absurdity of life,

You chose to smile or laugh out loud. I saw you shed many tears of laughter,

But not once tears of pain, sorrow or regret. You would never be a victim.

You loved people. Yours was an irreverent sense of humor, full of gentle irony,

And wisdom. You loved to laugh at yourself and at others, especially pompous

Fools who often missed your great amusement at their expense, failing to grasp

Your dismissal, delivered always with a smile, a gentle voice and sparkling eyes.

Your cataracts and near sightedness made it difficult for you to read,

But you read voraciously nonetheless, and loved to write long letters to loved ones

And friends. You were a wise old woman, the wisest and strongest I will ever

Know, but one with the heart of a child and the soul of an angel.

You were the most sane, most rational, most well adjusted human being

I have ever known. You were mischievous, but incapable of malice.

You were adventurous, never afraid to try or to learn anything new.

You were fun-loving, interesting, kind, rambunctious, funny and smart as hell.

You would have been an early adopter of all modern technology, had you lived

Long enough, and would have loved playing—and working—with all of my electronic toys.

You would have been a terror with a word processor, email, and social media and would

Have loved my video games—and beaten me at every one of them.

We were great friends and playmates throughout most of my childhood. You followed

Us here soon after we immigrated in 1967, leaving behind 20 other

Grandchildren. I never understood the full measure of that sacrifice, or the love that made it

Bearable for you. I do now. Too late. It is one of the greatest regrets of my life.

We played board games, cowboys and Indians, raced electric cars, flipped

Baseball cards and played thousands of hands of cards together. It never

Occurred to me that you were the least bit unusual in any way. I loved you

Dearly but never went far out of my way to show it. That too, I learned too late.

After moving to Buenos Aires, when mom had earned enough money to take

You and her younger brothers there, the quota system then in place made it

Impossible to send for your two youngest children, whose care you entrusted

Temporarily to your eldest married daughter, Maria.

You wanted them with you. Knowing no better, you went to see Evita Peron for Help.

Unsurprisingly, you could not get through her gatekeepers. But you were

Nothing if not persistent. You knew she left early every morning for her office.

And you parked yourself there at 6:00 a.m., for many, many days by her driveway.

Eventually, she had her driver stop and motioned for you to approach.

"Grandmother, why do you wave at me every morning when I leave for work?"

She asked. You explained about your children in Spain. She took pity and

Scribbled a pass on her card to admit you to her office the next day.

You met her there and she assured you that a visa would be forthcoming;

When she learned that you made a living by cleaning homes and washing Clothing,

She offered you a sewing machine and training to become a Seamstress.

You thanked her but declined the offer.

"Give the sewing machine to another mother with no trade. My strong back and

Hands serve me well enough and I do just fine, as I have always done."Evita must

Have been impressed for she asked you to see her yet again when the children had arrived in

Buenos Aires, giving you another pass. You said you would.

You kept your word, as always. And Evita granted you another brief audience,

Met your two youngest sons (José and Emilio) and shared hot chocolate and

Biscuits with the three of you. You disliked and always criticized Peron and the

Peronistas, But you never forgot Evita's kindness and defended her all your life.

You were gone too quickly. I had not said "I love" you in years. I was too busy,

With school and other equally meaningless things to keep in touch. You

Passed away without my being there. Mom had to travel by herself to your

Bedside for an extended stay. The last time I wrote you I had sent you a picture.

It was from my law school graduation.

You carried it in your coat pocket before the stroke.

As always, you loved me, with all of my faults that made me

Unworthy of your love.

I knew the moment that you died. I awoke from a deep sleep to see a huge

White bird of human size atop my desk across from my bed. It opened huge

Wings and flew towards me and passed through me as I shuddered.

I knew then that you were gone. I cried, and prayed for you.

Mom called early the next day with the news that you had passed. She also

Told me much, much later that you had been in a coma for some time but that

You awoke, turned to her without recognizing her, and told her that you were

Going to visit your grandson in New York. Then you fell asleep one last time.

I miss you every day.

From Of Pain and Ecstasy: Collected Poems (C) 2011 Victor D. Lopez (Amazon Kindle and CreateSpace)

On My Poetry

On My Poetry



I am a child playing with finger-paints,

plopping blobs of multi-colored paint,

which runs and clumps onto the canvas,

making my attempts,

to depict what I see and feel,

into murky shadows of a world too crudely rendered.

Incomprehensible swirls,

of my chubby little hands,

struggling,

with mindless tenacity,

to paint,

blurry, evanescent, unrecognizable details,

as senseless as the death throes,

of a writhing salamander,

half drowned in a paint can by a sadistic child,

and thrown onto a canvas,

to create art,

through the stains of its death throes,

A child,

trapped,

in a middle-aged body,

staining with artless hands,

unrecognizable forms,

in a pointless effort,

to render,

some meaning,

on the canvas,

of his life.

From Of Pain and Ecstasy: Collected Poems

(C) 2011 Victor D. López

Unsung Heroes

Unsung Heroes

Although I stand on the shoulders of giants,

I fail to see much farther than the bridge of my nose.

The fault in mine. The shame is mine.

For I am unworthy of you, my beloved dead.

 

Emilio (Maternal Grandfather)

Your crime was literacy,

And the possession of a social conscience,

That made you yearn to see your beloved Spain remain free,

And prevented you from suffering fascists lightly.

You did not bear arms,

For you abhorred all violence,

You did not incite rebellion, though you

Rebelled against the foreign and domestic enemies of freedom.

As best I can tell you were an idealist who,

In a time of darkness,

Clung passionately to the belief,

In the perfectibility of the human spirit.

You would not abide the lies the regional papers carried,

And translated news from American and British newspapers,

About the gathering storm,

Sharing the truth freely with all who would listen.

You gave speeches, and wrote speeches delivered by others, in support of a doomed

Republic collapsing under the weight of its own incompetence and corruption.

You were warned by friends of your imminent arrest and offered passage back to the

U.S. or to Buenos Aires where so many of your friends had already found refuge.

But they would not get your wife and nine children out,

And you refused to leave them to their fate.

They came for you, as always, in the middle of the night,

These cowards with stern faces hiding behind machine guns.

They took you prisoner, not for the first time, to the Castillo de San Anton,

A fortress by a most beautiful, tranquil bay,

Where they tore out your nails, one by one, and that their

Gentlest caress while they asked you for names.

You endured, God knows what there, for months,

And were sentenced to be shot as a traitor at La Plaza de María Pita.

But the Republic had friends, even among the officers of the fascist forces,

And one of them opened your cell door on the eve of your execution.

You had contracted tuberculosis by then, yet, according to grandmother, you

Managed to swim miles across the bay in a moonless night, to safety in the home of

Another patriot who risked his life and the lives of his family to hide you in

His cellar and made a trip of many miles on foot to find your wife.

He found your home and told your wife of your unexpected reprieve,

And asked her to send some clothing and some shoes to replace your dirty rags.

You eldest daughter, Maria, insisted in accompanying the stranger back on foot, taking

Clothing and what provisions she could quickly gather and carry to you.

From time to time you accepted the hospitality of an overnight stay

In the attic or hay loft of a Republican sympathizer as these were not hard to

Find in the fiercely independent Galicia under the yoke of one of its own.

But mostly you lived in the woods, with active guerrillas for years.

You lived with all the comforts of a hunted animal with others who would not yield,

Whose greatest crime consisted of being on the wrong side of a lost cause.

I hope it brought you some comfort to know you were on the right side of history.

It brought none to your wife and none to your youngest children.

As you paid your long penance for your conscience, once a month or so, after some

Time passed, you visited your wife and children. You were introduced to the little ones

As an uncle from afar. They did not know the bearded wild man who paid these visits

In the middle of the night and left wearing dad's old, clean clothes.

The older ones, Maria, Josefa, Juan and Toñita, all in their teens, told the little ones

That their "uncle" brought news of their dad. The younger children, still wearing the

Frayed cloaks of their innocence, accepted this, not questioning why he stayed in

Mom's room all night and was gone before they awoke the next morning.

Your grief at playing the part of a stranger in your own home, of not embracing your

Children on whom you doted, one and all, for their protection and yours, as there were

No shortage of fascists who tried to ply them with pastries and candy,

Seeking to use their innocence as a weapon against you.

Your parents were relatively wealthy business owners who farmed the sea but

Disowned you—perhaps for your politics, perhaps for choosing to emigrate and

Refusing to join the family business, or perhaps for marrying for love in New York City

A hard working girl beneath your social station in their eyes.

You lived just long enough to see Spain delivered from war,

Though not freed of its chains.

You were spared the war's aftermath.

Your wife and children were not.

No books record your name. Most of those who knew you are dead.

Yet flowers have long perpetually appeared on your simple above-ground burial site in

Sada that holds your ashes, and those of your eldest son, Juan, and second-

Eldest daughter, Toñita, who died much younger than even you.

Your wife has joined you there, in a place where

Honor, goodness, decency, principle and a pure,

Broken heart,

Now rest in peace.

From Of Pain and Ecstasy: Collected Poems (C) 2011 Victor D. López

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Through April 2012, I am offering a 30% off discount coupon code for the soft cover version of my Intellectual Property Law: A Practical Guide to Copyrights, Patents, Trademarks and Trade Secrets book. The code is available only for books purchased directly from CreateSpace and will not work with any of the other retailers currently offering the book for sale, including Amazon.com and Barnes and Noble (BN.com). The discount is also not applicable to the Kindle or Nook versions of the book.

To use the discount, you must visit the CreateSpace page for the book at https://www.createspace.com/3646606 where you will find detailed information about the book. To purchase the book, click on the "add to cart" button and then type the following discount code at checkout in the appropriate box: K4GW7HNM. Individuals, libraries and book retailers may purchase as many books as they like at a 30% discount off the $16.95 price for this book through the end of February 2012. And you are welcome to share this discount code with anyone you like.

For additional information about me or any of my books, textbooks and current scholarly articles, you can visit http://www.victordlopez.com.

Thank you for your interest.

30 Percent off Coupon Code for My Intellectual Property Book Valid through February 2012

Through February 2012, I am offering a 30% off discount coupon code for the soft cover version of my Intellectual Property Law: A Practical Guide to Copyrights, Patents, Trademarks and Trade Secrets book. The code is available only for books purchased directly from CreateSpace and will not work with any of the other retailers currently offering the book for sale, including Amazon.com and Barnes and Noble (BN.com). The discount is also not applicable to the Kindle or Nook versions of the book.

To use the discount, you must visit the CreateSpace page for the book at https://www.createspace.com/3646606 where you will find detailed information about the book. To purchase the book, click on the "add to cart" button and then type the following discount code at checkout in the appropriate box: K4GW7HNM. Individuals, libraries and book retailers may purchase as many books as they like at a 30% discount off the $16.95 price for this book through the end of February 2012. And you are welcome to share this discount code with anyone you like.

For additional information about me or any of my books, textbooks and current scholarly articles, you can visit http://www.victordlopez.com.

Thank you for your interest.

 

For Devon Short

A little angel winks from up above,

The littlest fireman in God's domain,

Bathed in God's Grace, covered with His love,

Untouched by earthly cares, worries, or pain.

 

Too soon your race was done, Devon, dear child,

Only five summers' suns warmed your sweet face,

And yet you brought much joy for one so mild,

To all who knew your smile, felt your embrace.

 

Tears mark your passing in a time too brief,

We wish God had less pressing need of you,

Your family struggles now to bear their grief,

Lord, grant them peace and strength their whole lives through.

 

Your spirit flies now high above the sky,

Lifted by love that will not, cannot die.

 

From Of Pain and Ecstasy: Collected Poems (C) 2011 Victor D. Lopez

Ode to Innocence

Oh half-remembered, fleeting happy time,

When nothing mattered more than love and play,

Imagination was then in its prime,

And life began anew with every day.

 

A flower was then a joy, a mystery,

And not a petal, root and simple stem,

And life was full of wondrous fantasy,

Untainted by the intellect of man.

 

That time is gone now, It cannot return,

The fruit's been swallowed, its slow poison kills,

And yet my fallen heart will always yearn,

For that ephemeral time of unknown skills.

 

Oh false god, knowledge, daily you destroy,

All that was holy in me as a boy!

 

From Of Pain and Ecstasy: Collected Poems (C) 1978, 2011 Victor D. Lopez

On My Poetry

I am a child playing with finger-paints,

plopping blobs of multi-colored paint,

which runs and clumps onto the canvas,

making my attempts,

to depict what I see and feel,

into murky shadows of a world too crudely rendered.

Incomprehensible swirls,

of my chubby little hands,

struggling,

with mindless tenacity,

to paint,

blurry, evanescent, unrecognizable details,

as senseless as the death throes,

of a writhing salamander,

half drowned in a paint can by a sadistic child,

and thrown onto a canvas,

to create art,

through the stains of its death throes,

A child,

trapped,

in a middle-aged body,

staining with artless hands,

unrecognizable forms,

in a pointless effort,

to render,

some meaning,

on the canvas,

of his life.

 

From Of Pain and Ecstasy: Collected Poems (C) 2011 Victor D. Lopez