Summer Poetry

Summer Evening (Draft)

Slow soft waves, 
splash serene Puget sound, 
salty scented air, 
arid dry thought desert, 
completely barren imagery, 
mind toxin fluid finally broke, 
out of the basin holding it in, 
in as much time as it, 
took to finally let it flood, 
it evaporates every which way, 
whisked away by a calm sea breeze, 
slow breath breathing in, 
the essence long since forgotten, 
forever it seems for the mind, 
lost in forested foggy fields, 
of perpetual self-loathing, 
looking back losing that fear, 
a brief glance into your eyes, 
gravitating toward your voice, 
calm cadence clearing my thoughts, 
sharing a story I wanted to forget, 
for a moment not knowing, 
what your thoughts were, 
but knowing I needed to move on, 
finding a sympathetic ear, 
easily forgetting all that was, 
drowning me in a sea of self-doubt, 
soft mesmerizing waves wind, 
whipping off the sound, 
chilly August evening event, 
holding you close, 
losing all sense of time and space, 
serene salty Puget sound scent.

UNTITLED

UNTITLED

Dark Rum early morning
haze in rainy city rivers
of thoughtless stares,
fatigue from the night
before. Before the sun
came up in the east,
before I came back,
crashed out in the living
room. Discussions on
history, literature, guerrilla
teatro trips to dramatize
the struggle. Visual meta-
lenguaje metaphors.
Revisiting a discussion we
originated in 2006 when
I was clueless, if only about
where I was going and
what I was writing. A
distant lifetime ago it seems.
Rainier beer random dialogue,
decidedly wiser, somewhat,
return to the original thought.
Sharing knowledge, conversing
with Frank about “El Movimiento”
UFW militant prose across the
Cascadian divide fusing rural
activist ethos with urban
Chicana/o student movement.
Back in the day of Brown Berets
barrio activity shadow-activist
presence, in solidarity with
Black Panther discourse. Need
for collecting the lost voices
of the moment. Porque we are
still ignored in the south y
historically marginalized en
el norte. Noting the words,
images I didn’t capture as a
young mocoso escritor, a
generation removed from the
original incarnation of ‘la causa.’
Sippin’ on some wine and
Tecate that Gonzo found on
the porch, his face lit up as
though he had discovered the
secrets of life. Chillaxed,
guitar strumming Frank singing
a movimiento song from the
early dias. Victor Jara and Inti
Illimani, embracing the complex
Inner vato loco-activist-intellectual-
nerd. Missing these discussions,
surprised that a project I wrote for
influenced others. Philosophically-
inclined, watching daylight turn
the sky brighter. Dark Rum
sleepless signs of a new day.



5 June 2009
O. Rosales Castañeda, C/S

Untitled

Minutemen(sos) mienten
through forked double-speak
their words falling
on the sacrificial stone of logic
lowering one's IQ simply by
acknowledging their very presence
discourse denies coherent ideas
as of course
one simply looks at their hypocrisy
emblematic of nonsensical resonance
crude hyper-nationalist imagery
showcase a past
presenting itself as reality
brown sources of light
dimmed by an icy glare
one that seeps throughout
bringing instant death by night
xenophobic machination by day
denying the human right
to grow upward from the soil
hacia el sol arriba
false pretense for war comes to pass
once again in a cycle of dystopic
blind stares from the very navel
of de-humanized machinery
tierras forever partitioned
into nation-states that
slice open the very heart of our souls
once again history hiccups
a new reality
reflecting an already existent
lie that that sears through
the dormant essence of our collective past
like it or not
our humanity will not be denied
Minute mentes no ven realidad
that we have always been here
in solemn rememberance of 500 years
colonial scars dig deep
even into our own psyches
tricked to believe
we must die in the act
negate a part of our selves
homeland insecurity proves
even our celebration of life
is deemed an act of war
warranting right-wing pendejadas
disinterring our presence by way
of military operation
forced relocation
yet we all come back
to the place of origin
place of new beginnings
any place where the mind
connects to the soil
intermingling with la esencia del arbol
comforted by the ominiscent energia
of the four directions
children of the moon
offspring of the sun
imagining un hogar sin fronteras
a composite of all
who struggle for what is just.

O. Rosales Castaneda, C/S

13 August 2008