The Four Faced Wind

Poetry by Valeria Castellanos


November 2017

The End of November – 2014

The End of November

I have become fascinated by my own,
Anatomically accurate inefficiency and boredom,
My ability to write inarticulate poetry,
To paint hieroglyphics in excruciating colors,
And, to believe in things unproven by science.

Fire has pretty much devastated earth,
The end of the Age of Pisces is upon us,
And, materialism has been conquered,
Matter has been transformed,
Particles outlived and overthrown,
Force fields overgrown.
Now, there is nothing left to do.
I’ve gone about as far as I can,
But, I still have to stay up,
Because, sooner or later, the fireworks will begin.

So, what are you going to do,
Between now and then?
Let’s face it, fellow poets,
Words are a pretty poor substitute for life.
At least with a martini, you can dance.

Dark Alley Rain

Dark Alley Rain

Footsteps echo dark alley rain
Splashes in neon reflections of street light’s circles
Sidewalks of cold cement which breath cannot break
Rough brick walls which hands cannot tear down

Seeking in the shadows for a lost yesterday
For cracks in the exoskeleton of the city
Streams of cold air that smell like you

The Nightingale has fled into blue eyed nightshade dreams
Where rain no longer reaches
Life is full where they have gone
Beyond the reality of rainstorms

Here the wet night rains are still alive
They stretch my skin as taught as empty moonlight
Consumed by the intensity of clouds underfoot
Boiling smoke, smelling like dim sum
And, air conditioning, powered by thunder
Trying to not forget anything about you

Maple leaves, as red as my heart
Have sunk into thick, black mud
Where you and I used to walk
Holding hands

A wet, bedraggled pigeon feather
Stuck to hexagonal, sidewalk blocks
On a lonely corner that once was ours

Starlight is pushing against the cloud
A wet shadow glides by
A perfumed breeze brushes my shoulder
And, everything is just as it was
Suddenly you are mine again
Beside a swirl of rainbow oil in the gutter
Just like it used to be
The taste of rain in my mouth is real
And, I am satisfied for days



In the ruined cities
Of my mythology
Coba reigns as a king
As many as fifty-five thousand
City bereft

Ceased to thrive
No longer alive
Didn’t survive
Took all the colors away
Except for the cold, stone gray
And, the spider web roads of white scabay
Tying up the world

No one left now to be the hosts
Except the Aluxob
Who are not even ghosts
They are the red eyed
Foot and hand
To the land
Dancing on the old mounds
Listening to the long gone sounds
Flaunting their invisibility
Just counting the days between the risings of Venus
Not even thinking about the past

While Coba, the City of Ruffled Waters
Is caressed by the winds of the sea
Today we could just pay a fee
To visit your grass filled lakes
And, run on your limestone roads
Climb your temples
Towering over tree tops
Trek beneath your green, jungle breeze
Over your newly mowed
Sunken plazas
Over your shaded, leaf-litter floors
Down your corbelled hallways
Under your sharp, arched doors
Watched by steep, stone staircases
Embellished by hieroglyphic faces
Carved out of meanings which never change
Or, change in the ways the never-changing ocean changes
The way the ever-changing moon is always the same

Together we could pass by hidden cenotes
Deep, blue waters, without waves
We could pass by hidden caves
We could search for long, lost jades
And, earrings made of ornamental flowers
We could call the Aluxob
Who don’t even exist any more
Out of temple towers
Out of dark, half buried vaults
Out of abandoned halls
Out of unbearably ornamented, geometric walls
But, they won’t come
They are busy romping on pyramids
Listening to stones no longer containing music
Drenched in sunlight but devoid of incense
Teeth clenched, humid and hotter than Hell
Cracking rocks
And, tearing down the mountains
To release the ancestors
From the grip
Of Meru Witz

I would be happy to meet you there
Even at noon
At Nohoch Mul
Where the roads originate
From weathered monuments
Decorated with temples as heavy as mountains
Covered with snake skins
Under the auspices of Muluc and the Moan bird
And, memories of bells
Of quetzel feathers
Of obsidian knives
Ceremonial footsteps and God food
Cactus thorns, stingray’s tails
And, a flood of sacred blood

And, in every direction
Spreading perfection
Absolutely white roads
Absolutely straight, straight, straight
Absolutely, I can’t wait
Absolutely, right through the jungle
Straight on ’till morning
Straight on to Yaxun
On to Xcaret
On to intrigue
Forget about fatigue
Running on to here to there
From Coba you can go almost

We could sit together in the shadows
You could be my heart throb
We could watch the Aluxob
The ones nobody knows
Running by the rubble heaps of buried treasures
Stomping in ceremonies without measures
Painted murals
Glowing, hidden
So forbidden
Grotesque, indeed, in their descriptions
Inexplicable in their strange inscriptions
Which even the Aluxob don’t understand
Pyramid climbing
Give me your hand
And, sculptures, inscrutable, unfamiliar
Wonderful, wise, they will bewilder
With fangs and wild, galactic eyes
Oppressive size
Stoic, in full sight of everyone
Washed by the numbing sun

I could meet you right by the steale
Of the Wayob women
Hyenas on the rampage
Waving feathers and clubs
And, jumping on captives
A terrific, honorific, witchcraft dance of
Conquest for commerce
For competition
For corruption
Celebrating that the world is not yet at its end
Summoning the collapse to come

We could just keep going
As fast as you like
Or as slow
Maybe as far as Xibalbabe
Next thing you know
Where did the time go?

Nothing left to show
Buried under the Pleiades
Under layers of limestone
Under endless cycles of 52 years

But, you are never ready to go
You say the things still there
Are way too slow
There has already happened
There is nothing soft left in Coba
And, everything is humid and hotter than Hell
All of the plates are broken
All of the smoke is gone
Neither laughter there, nor tears
Neither dreams nor fears
Gone for eleven hundred years

You say
Even Dante
Would have been impressed
Had he found this new sort of
Dripping with heat, Hell
This pre-Columbian, scorching Hell
This starlight torching Hell
This blinding, grotesque, empty Hell
Where the tallest temple
Had to reach the stars
And, the ballcourt was a confrontation with death

Of course, you are right, as always
We don’t need the abandoned hallways
It doesn’t matter where we go
Or even what we do
I’ll still be waking up later than you
I’ll still be holding your hand
In my hand
And, writing down things
Which I don’t understand

Afternoon in the Everglades

Afternoon in the Everglades
After lunch of frog’s legs,
‘Coon stew and craw daddies,
‘Gator tails and catfish, fried,
Beside banana sinkholes, wide,
Bopping with mosquitoes,
Which I brush aside,
Before I hide, beside,
My glass of frozen lemonade,
Behind the buzzing-lizard promenade.

Here I hesitate, I wait,
Inside the merry, tropic shade,
Where turtles swim and heron wade,
I wait for you, to have some fun,
For, better you than anyone.

So, let’s hold hands and let’s play pirate.
Let’s go look for Peter Pan.
Let’s sail across the streams and rivers,
Made of pale-green glass,
Down criss-crossed trails,
Of dark cat’s tails,
Under sweet-green grass,
Through red-brown seas, brown-golden tweeds,
And, yellow-shot, dry ochre weeds,
That wave in the low and slanted rays,
Of the winter-hot, burnt-orange sun.

Set sail, I say. Let’s seek our way.
Let’s follow the paths of fairy tales.
You raise the anchor, I’ll set the sails.
Let’s search for sunken galleons,
Filled with myths and gold doubloons,
Lost in rainbow’s golden tunes.

Let’s search between the hollow reeds,
And, inside air-plant’s golden seeds.
Let’s search beneath the secret echoes,
Bounding off of the dark, brown fur,
Of chocolate-velvet, cat tail canes,
That fringe the hidden-heron lanes,
With bamboo swaying overhead,
In towers ten feet tall.

Oh, here in the pastel fields of grass,
We, in our ships, are Kings and Queens.
Adventure waits on every hand,
Where the saw-grass kisses the wet, white land.

The prow of our boat is a gumbo-limbo,
The riggings are ropes of the strangler-fig,
And the spiny-tall, palmetto trunks,
All gray and struck like sun-stained glass,
Are the sails of our ship,
Are the masts of our ship,
And, we sail through the saw-grass sea.

We beach on the floors of the forest-ferns.
We follow the wiggles of lizard’s turns.
We swing on the green vines with never a care.
May the snakes, and the scorpions and crocodiles beware.

Let’s adorn one another with lichen-lace gowns.
Let’s crown one another with red, persimmon crowns.
Arm one another with cactus spine swords,
Hung from our waists by green, liana cords.
Let’s wear cloaks of skink-skin reflecting back the sun.
And tell the shadows, dark and gray,
They must be on the run.

Hark! Ahead! The Jolly Roger!
Manned by raptor scallywags,
Ruffians and rag-a-muffins,
Dressed in bedraggled rags,
Long feathered, sharp billed,
Their pugnacious schooner filled,
With bowl legged, bully birds,
Screeching such contemptuous words,
Man the cannons! They won’t stay!
Fire! And they’ve all flown away!

Grab the spy glass, be the outlook!
Off the bow rides Captain Hook!
If a snout pops out, give a hearty shout,
For we don’t want a shock, from the tick-tock, crock.

We have no wish to be pirate’s captives.
We did not want to walk the plank.
So we turned and we rammed the wicked ship,
And we laughed when she buckled,
And she broke and she sank.
So we never had to swim,
With the Fakahatchee mermaids.
Instead we dance at pow-wows,
With the Micasukee Indians.
We have dinner pick-nicks,
With the Payhayokee Lost Boys,
Tell each other stories in their tree-house nests,
And laugh beneath the moonflowers
When the rain clouds rest.

The coming evening’s yawning, lazy.
Let’s jump up, do something crazy.
Let’s go capture all the tree-snails,
Painted-candy colors, swirling,
On their twirling, porcelain shells.
Let’s put them with the curl-tipped ferns,
And, give them to the clouds.

Oh, let’s not go to sleep tonight,
Let’s stay out all night long,
Let’s stay, you and me,
Let’s go live in a tree,
Oh, let’s stay,
In the saw-grass sea.

But, after the shadows,
Were stretched out longer,
Than anyone ever thought they would,
Than anyone ever thought they could,
The story book folk all went off to their beds,
And, the fairy folk pirates,
Shied away and shook their heads.

The ragged band of raptor birds,
Went home to nests in cypress trees.
Behind the red sun, mangrove seas.
With the turn of the wind,
With the change of the breeze,
And, without us aboard,
At the end of the day,
Our ship raised her anchor,
And, just sailed away.
Just left us behind and so what can I say?

We will have to go home now,
It’s time now for bed.

But, I wish that,
Forever the Everglades dance,
In your soul, in your life,
In your heart and your head.
V. Castellanos – 1999

Call me Nomad

Call me Nomad

Call me nomad.
Call me wanderer.
Call me woman without a home.
My home is in my hand.
My home is in my heart.
My home is in a piece of cloth,
Embroidered with a bird.

I wander,
With the ghosts of the tree,
Over the earth’s green, neglected bones.
I do not follow the urgent calls,
And, the feet of marching men.
I follow the flowers of desert rains.
I follow the halos and rainbows,
Dissolving into invisible sands.

The world is going its own way,
But, I am going mine.

Call me nomad.
Call me dreamer.
Call me woman on the loose.
My home is in your arms.
My home is in your thoughts.
My home is in a perfumed poem,
You gave me long ago.

I am dreaming,
With the fluid sky,
Into the stone’s neglected breath.
I do not follow the nightmares,
That others call their own.
I follow the footsteps of changing tides.
I follow the echoes of fire in the sea,
Dissolving into invisible lands.

Call me nomad.
Call me foolish.
Call me woman without fear.
My home is neither far nor near.
My home is wherever you happen to be,
With the bones of the earth,
With the ghosts of the tree,
With the rain in the desert,
The fire in the sea.
My home is beside you,
And, no matter where,
If that’s where you are,

I am going to be there.

Hormiga Wars


Hormiga Wars

The Hormigas have started invading
The Hormigas are everywhere
They are swarming into the kitchen
They’re climbing into my hair

You get the matches and bullets
I’ll get the guns and the knives
Run and tell all of the neighbor
To protect all their children and wives

Look out they are stealing the sugar
Some are marching away with the toast
A garrisons gotten the rice and the beans
A battalion is eating the roast

I’ve set up bazookas
The bombs and alarms
I’ve cocked all the triggers
On all the firearms

I have primed all the missile
Shot holes in the floor
Oh, I dare them to open
This booby-trapped door

Now they have gotten
The strawberry jam
They’ve taken the herring
They’re stealing the ham

I’ll get explosives
And, camouflage gear
You bomb that squadron
Before it gets here

They are stealing the towels
They are taking my shoes
Quick get machine guns
We must save the booze

They’re clogging the plumbing
They’re stealing the lamps
They’ve eaten your toothpaste
The sheets and the stamps

Poison gas is effective
Get gas masks and spray
Machetes and rifles
Oh, we’ll make them pay

The goldfish are safe
But, they’ve gotten your hat
They can have all the mice
But, let’s rescue the cat

They’ve gotten the curtains
Pot holders and chairs
Now they’re taking the sink
And, the windows and stairs

Set up the ambush
Put traps in the hall
Let’s blow up the toaster
They’ll die when they fall

They are crossing the clothesline
They’re climbing the trees
Agent Orange will work
If we get a good breeze

I will use atom bombs
It is fair to, I say
Just think what will happen
If they get away

They will multiply, multiply
Multiply more
They will cart off the car
And, the road
And, the store

The golf clubs, the babies
The sea and the shore
We must kill everyone!
This is war! This is war!

I think we are winning
They’ve called a retreat
There are only a thousand now
Under my feet

They are dying by hundreds
By millions perhaps
Their lungs filled with acid
Their feet caught in traps

Get grenades! Shoot the rockets!
Now, they’re on the run
And, the piles of their carcasses
Say we have won!!

Scurry back to your holes
In the walls in the ground!!
Bet you figured out now
We don’t want you around!!

The survivors are scampering
They’ll not be back soon
Oh, I think we’re safe now
Well, at least until noon

Hormiga is the Spanish word for ant

V. Castellanos – March 2002




So, into the wide, wild world I would go.

There were so many things that I wanted to know,
About stones, about clouds, about dragonfly’s feet,
About why the sun rises, and what wizards eat,
About roots and rainbows and red birds in flight,
Why teddy bears snuggle and toy soldiers fight,
Why angels smile brightly and why spiders bite,
About fire and ashes and passion and snow,
Melodies, symphonies, magnetic flow,
To places with faces I wanted to go.
With a laugh and a teardrop, a smile and a cry,
A wedding, a bedding, a child and a sigh,
My kisses were given, my messages sent,
My heart throbs were broken, my appetites spent.

Now, I wonder where all of my wondering went.

A Disciple of Zarathustra

A Discipline of Zarathustra

She came with empty hands,
Without a gift but, with curious eyes,
To watch the unfolding of a great potential.
She followed the roads not taken,
Since Zarathustra’s days.
She climbed into the tallest tree,
And, would have chosen to hammer gold,
Into the likeness of gods,
But, instead,
She found the circus was still playing.

Dare devils chasing fame on a tightrope,
The audience eagerly following the trapeze artist,
Swinging from one illusion to the next,
Always with better lights, more sequins,
New and improved.
Everyone wishing they could be so high.
The magician pickpockets, with a disappearing act,
Worked the crowd,
Composed of slaves and cowards,
Because all the free and the brave,
Had been shipped out to the front,
To fight for the Robber Barons and the Banksters.

But, the clowns kept everyone laughing,
So, no one had time to think.

In town all the unemployed were playing dominoes,
While those with jobs played politics.
The cities were full of citizens and civilization,
Boundaries and limitations,
Order and disorder, discord and illusions.
Overflowing with immigrants,
Kept under control,
With licenses, trade agreements, taxes and jails,
Or, not kept under control at all.
In the capital, everyone playing democracy,
And, lining their pockets as quick as can be,
Because, you never know when the music will stop.
The LGBT have escaped from the closet and stolen the rainbow.
The wavering, nihilistic phantoms are engulfed in their own pity,
Waving their handkerchiefs,
But, at a loss of what to do.
They have nothing to say.

The fight has moved from survival to control.
It has gone from hand-in-hand to every-man-for-himself.
Unerring instincts giving way to words which turn to lies.
What man can understand himself with words,
When we are all propelled by the ebb and flow of wild emotions,
And, our dark and deep desires remain submerged?
Yet, by them we are urged.
Unconsciously, inevitable.
Nothing has changed,
Except the cast and the complications.
We will act the same.
No cosmic awakening,
Trinity shaking,
Fukushima shuddering realization.

V. Castellanos – November 2014

The Center of the Galaxy

The Center of the Galaxy

I am on the lookout for the center of the galaxy,
Because, I know, that is where I am going.

I have come and gone this way before.
So many times,
I have become disoriented.
I have refused to become confused.
But, I have heard voices,
And, I have had to made choices.
It has been a very long day,
And, I am still on my way.

I suppose this is because,
I am spinning and revolving,
And, evolving, all at once.

I have discovered that,
Besides being vibrant,
I am vibrating,
I am filled with dust.
I am filled with desires and color.
My desires are sometimes filled,
And, sometimes not.
My dust grows slowly,
Changes only year to year,
But, I have seen my colors change,
Quick as a chameleon’s wink,
Depending on if I am holding hands,
With iguanas or piranhas,
And, whether I am walking,
On the counter-clockwise trails,
With wise, left-handed lizard boys,
Or, with right-handed, painted snails.

But, when I try to follow,
The universe’s spiral ways,
Once again, I find myself,
Dancing in a haze.
Dancing in a daze.
Lost and dizzy in the maze,
Filled with alamanda flowers.

And, I am, just like the flowers,
Just like the iguanas,
Just like the piranhas,
Just like the universe,
Propelled by cycles, by reflections,
By attitudes and intentions,
By all sorts of revolutions,
By resolutions,
And, by the transformation of opposites.

I am a yin-yang, on-off electric being,
Squeezed in between a limitless infinity of light and dark,
Made of in-out tints and shades of gray,
Here-there infrared,
Devil-may-care ultraviolet,
Spinning, sputtering, neon pinwheels,
Water spouts and sand storms,
And, nearly impossible invisibility.
I am made of so many colors,
I can’t keep count.
Some of my colors have not yet,
Even been recognized.
Some do not yet have names.

In the sooner-or-later tomorrow,
My colors will change and find themselves new signatures.
Then I will be filled with smoke instead of colors.
I will be amazing and I will start my own maze,
Filled with alamanda flowers.

In those days,
I will live like an iguana,
Like a piranha,
Like a pinwheel.
I will think like the lizards think,
Like the snails blink,
Like a chameleon’s wink.

I will die like a butterfly.
I will burn like a sunset,
Caring neither where I go, nor what I get.
I will be rearranged, reassembled and regenerated.
Revolutions, without resolutions, will continue,
And, I will too.
I will come and go, again,
Still dizzy and confused.
I will search for a way,
Beyond the haze,
Beyond left and right-handed days,
Beyond the dust,
Beyond desires,
Beyond the burning sunset fires,
Beyond all the crazy tints and shades,
Beyond the colors of the world,
Because, my destiny is a black hole.

I am always on the lookout for the center of the galaxy,
Because, I know, that is where I am going.

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