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The Four Faced Wind

Poetry by Valeria Castellanos

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Dark

The Garden

We went into the garden,
To plant a seed,
And, watch it grow.
But, then I found,
That someone else,
Was walking in the garden.

Someone was there.
I could not see.
And, evil never dies.

There are voices in the garden now,
Voices without faces,
Voices whispering,
Whispering,
To the innocents,
Things it does not mean,
For us to know.

And, there is laughter in the garden,
Which is neither mine nor yours.
It is not the kind of laughter,
Which I like to hear.

This sound does not belong in the garden,
This dark sound,
Crawling behind the indigo, poison shadows.
This is not the humming of humming birds.

It is murmuring,
Dark and torpid murmuring,
Murmuring, from under the fountains,
And, from under the grayness, under the stairs.

This is not the sound of green or sun,
Or, the joy of praying mantis prayers.
I cannot understand the murmured whispers,
But, the children are laughing,

Laughing,
And, this is not the smell of flowers,
Or, bee hives filled with honey.

Something in the garden is calling,
Calling to the children,
Calling, calling gray and thin,
Like the the sound of chilling rain,

Calling, thin and hollow,
Calling the children to bring their souls,
And, to come into the garden.

Now, I am hearing songs in the garden,
Songs you and I have never sung.
The children are humming the songs,
Humming the songs,

Humming the gray and haunting refrains.
I fear that the children will think,
This is only a game.

I fear that the garden will lure them away,
And, they will be tricked,
Into training their souls for trinkets.

I do not remember another time,
Of so many spiders and spider webs.
So much seems strange, so much seems wrong,
And, there are so many whispers,

Whispering, whispering,
Thin and cold,
And, the garden is gray and unfamiliar.
I do not want to go into the garden.

The voices in the garden are gathering faces,
And, the whispering voices are speaking in tongues.
I hear their murmuring, whispering voices,
Laughing and humming the music I don’t understand.

The children are whispering now,
And, humming and laughing and singing the words.
And, the gates are singing, all of the gates,
The gates are singing and calling.

I hear them calling, calling.
There are so many gates in the garden now.
There are gates I never have seen before.
There are gates I can’t even imagine.

I do not want to go into the garden,
Where the voices are calling, whispering, humming,
I do not want to go out to the gates,
Gates that may open up anywhere,

Gates that lead to other places,
Gates that may lead to the other side.

I do not want to go into the garden,
With whispering voices,
With calling gates.

But, the garden is the whole world,
And so, I have to go.

1985

The Incurious Beatles

The incurious beetles
Are scurrying over the broken shards of reality
Slipping into the illusions of crevices in the canvas
Into cracks of absurdity, of obscurity
Obscenity, infinity
Into five fold mutations
Mutilations
Radiation situations
Stimulations
Simulations
Manipulations
Interrupted continuations
Eradications
Fornications, ejaculations
Fabrications of instability and insanity
Extinction events enclosed in a jar

It is the perfection of nature’s immutable laws
Which keeps me in balance
But, I am still descending into gravity
And, time is catching up
Space running out
Water turning into ice
Hair turning white
Bones cracking
Every mirage a possibility
But, don’t forget Fukushima

I am only a whispering flower
Made of dust
Thirsty
On the edge of the desert
On the edge of emptiness
On the edge of my own extinction
And, maybe the extinction of everyone else

Burned by passing asteroids
By raging daylight
Distant moons and meteor showers
And, howling, cosmic energies
Vibrations feeding my aura with sensations
And, revelations
Struck by a comet from another solar system
Bringing dreams fed by heavy, black stones
Moans transformed into a trembling, musical note
Of unimaginable beauty
And, a smile fed by the memory of every day which ever was

 

The Garden

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“The Red Moon” “The Garden” – Digital Compilation by V. Castellanos

We went into the garden,
To plant a seed,
And, watch it grow.
But, then I found,
That someone else,
Was walking in the garden.

Someone was there.
I could not see.
And, evil never dies.

There are voices in the garden now,
Voices without faces,
Voices whispering,
Whispering,
To the innocent ones,
Things it does not mean for us to know.

And, there is laughter in the garden,
Which is neither mine nor yours.
It is not the kind of laughter,
Which I like to hear.

This sound does not belong in the garden,
This dark sound,
Crawling behind the indigo, poison shadows.
This is not the humming of hummingbirds.
It is murmuring,
Dark and torpid murmuring,
Murmuring from under the fountains,
And, from under the grayness under the stairs.
It is not the sound of green or sun,
Or, the joy of praying mantis’ prayers.

I cannot understand the murmured whispers,
But, the innocent ones are laughing,
Laughing,
And, this is not the smell of flowers,
Or, beehives filled with honey.

Something in the garden is calling,
Calling to the innocents,
Calling, calling gray and thin,
Like the sound of chilling rain,
Calling, thin and hollow,
Calling the innocent ones,
To bring their souls,
And, to come into the garden.

Now, I am hearing songs in the garden,
Songs you and I have never sung.
The innocent ones are humming the songs,
Humming the songs,
Humming the gray and hunting refrains.

I fear that the innocent ones will think,
This is only a game.
I fear that the garden will lure them away,
And, they will be tricked,
Into trading their souls for trinkets.

The flowers in the garden are withered,
And, the voices in the shadows are gathering faces.
The gate to the garden is standing open.
Neither you nor I would have left it that way.

I do not remember another time,
Of so many spiders and spider’s webs.
And, there are so many whispers,
Whispering, whispering,
Thin and cold,
Like the sound of chilling rain.

The innocent ones are whispering now,
And, speaking in tongues,
Whispering now and humming,
Singing and laughing,
The laughter I do not like to hear.

I do not want to go into the garden.
The withered flowers have gathered faces,
And, the faces are faces,
You and I have never seen.
The voices never cease their calling,
Murmuring, whispering, moaning,
Humming the hunting refrains,
Of music I don’t understand.

I do not want to go into the garden.
I do not want to go out,
Into the poison, indigo shadows.
Not even just to close the gate.
I do not want to go into the garden,
Of so many spiders and spider’s webs,
The garden of grayness from under the fountain,
From under the stairs.
But, the garden is the whole world,
And, so I have to go.

Dark Alley Rain

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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

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