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Words that breathe life back into old Terlingua
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The stones of Terlingua are Silent
by Dr. Jalapeño Schwartz
by Dr. Jalapeño Schwartz
The words above were used by Dr. Jalapeño Schwartz to tell a friend the value of the websites "Familias de Terlingua" and "Life Before the Ruins." He notes that the past has so faded with the departure of the people, until today the past is not readily visible in the stones of the ruins that remain.
His kind and wonderful words just sounded like haibun, concise Japanese prose-poetry. So we got his permission to place it in our "Welcome" page. As we initiate this poetry page it seems fitting to include it here as the first poem. Above, his words stand among the stones which once were the home of Severiano Chavarría at la Coyota.
His kind and wonderful words just sounded like haibun, concise Japanese prose-poetry. So we got his permission to place it in our "Welcome" page. As we initiate this poetry page it seems fitting to include it here as the first poem. Above, his words stand among the stones which once were the home of Severiano Chavarría at la Coyota.
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El Solitario
by Darla McBryde Among the candelia and ocotillo,
there is a spiraling tantrum tossed terrain, with the scent of wild mountain cat on the wind where the heart is a galloping horse where the heart is a geode with the desert beating inside. Ancient caldera, once a fertile womb of sand and mud, The earth shook as your children were conceived of lava now lost and buried among sun baked thorns and cinnabar veins, eons of bleached bone weave strata and fossil, the crushed skulls of the ancestors are pinned like butterflies. Lonely one, the stars gather over you, some nights the hand of God reaches down, runs His fingers along the circles of your moonlit ridges, dips into the Earth’s marrow traces the labyrinth. © Darla McBryde- published in Cenizo Journal |
Click on image to enlarge it.
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A gourmet offering for El Día de los Muertos 2012
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Ofrenda
by Darla McBryde I am in the mood for mole
hot chiles and warm rich chocolate I want to skip barefoot through starlit stone gardens with a big sugar skull grin on my fandango face Cover my bones with marigolds Worship at my altar I will pen little calaveras con amor for todos los bandidos muertos A todas las mujeres nos encantan los muchachos malos y guapos Let me be your Catarina Dance with me on my grave I will bring the tequila You bring the limes I am in the mood for mole hot chiles, rich chocolate, more. © Darla McBryde |
a 1910 zinc etching by Mexican printmaker José Guadalupe Posada
Poster by Craig Legg
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Dia de los Muertos 2015
An Unconscious Ofrenda
By Darla McBryde
and Antonio S. Franco
What is a day, a week, a month to the dead?
A year is a second. A month does not matter.
Time haunts the living. The dead do not see it.
The dead know nothing
of the long hours before the veil thins
El Rio Bravo loosens the locks on the border,
shifting a bit to the north, a bit farther south,
eventually blurring to muddy memory.
Marigold petals and Monarch wings
woven in the Chisos' floating dreams
make soft orange blankets
conjured to cover the timeless dead.
Under this charm the Day of the Dead wakes.
In a long overdue reunion of blood and flesh
three brothers sit under the lazy eucalyptus and
rustling cottonwoods next to Terlingua Creek.
Along their way they had visited at their mother’s grave,
peaceful under the still marble angel wings.
Cigarette smoke wafts across the bougainvillea,
but no one is smoking in this grotto of descansos,
ghosts are welcome.
Their mother joins the Old Ones
eavesdropping on the brothers' stories
as once again their father walks the streets,
his bravado and swagger bigger,
more legendary, more alive than ever.
Three hearts beat as one. Kindred blood flows through veins,
sacred conduit to what was, what is, what will be.
Sugar skulls bare their teeth in a knowing grin
while salt and tequila loosen tongues
to recount the tales that shaped the lives,
an unconscious ofrenda.
Ravens in full goth regalia invite The Bones to dance
as day trades the sun for night and moon.
Smoke from forgotten bonfires billows upward,
diffusing into the Milky Way.
© Darla McBryde
November 2, 2015
Alpine, Texas
By Darla McBryde
and Antonio S. Franco
What is a day, a week, a month to the dead?
A year is a second. A month does not matter.
Time haunts the living. The dead do not see it.
The dead know nothing
of the long hours before the veil thins
El Rio Bravo loosens the locks on the border,
shifting a bit to the north, a bit farther south,
eventually blurring to muddy memory.
Marigold petals and Monarch wings
woven in the Chisos' floating dreams
make soft orange blankets
conjured to cover the timeless dead.
Under this charm the Day of the Dead wakes.
In a long overdue reunion of blood and flesh
three brothers sit under the lazy eucalyptus and
rustling cottonwoods next to Terlingua Creek.
Along their way they had visited at their mother’s grave,
peaceful under the still marble angel wings.
Cigarette smoke wafts across the bougainvillea,
but no one is smoking in this grotto of descansos,
ghosts are welcome.
Their mother joins the Old Ones
eavesdropping on the brothers' stories
as once again their father walks the streets,
his bravado and swagger bigger,
more legendary, more alive than ever.
Three hearts beat as one. Kindred blood flows through veins,
sacred conduit to what was, what is, what will be.
Sugar skulls bare their teeth in a knowing grin
while salt and tequila loosen tongues
to recount the tales that shaped the lives,
an unconscious ofrenda.
Ravens in full goth regalia invite The Bones to dance
as day trades the sun for night and moon.
Smoke from forgotten bonfires billows upward,
diffusing into the Milky Way.
© Darla McBryde
November 2, 2015
Alpine, Texas
This page was updated April 29,2013 with minor changes.
