Poems out of Peru

22) Peru’s Demise

War may be an evil sin (but not an elusion) “…but who cares?” —says the winner… (and who dares point fingers—after all is said and done? ((surely not the loser)):

thus, the weak get buried with the weeds..:! Never to be seen again.

Note by the author: “War and Peace with Peru’s neighbors will be based on its strength, not good will. When a lion shows his teeth (Chili), indeed he’s hungry.” Written 11-3-05, (in Lima, Peru) after watching Channel #2, the Cesar Hildebrandt Show (AM), concerning Peru and Chili. #910.

23) Laughing at: ‘Café La Favorita’

The old timers meet at the Café La Favorita: a piece of pie, a paper to read, a lit cigarette— an empty ashtray; a white haired old man, shakes hands with another as he gets up to leave: lattes, cappuccinos, espressos, wet on their lips (nine minutes to 11:00, AM); Thursday, November 4th, 2005; a chill is in the air, the traffic is heavy…

The two brothers, owners of the cafe, walk about, hands behind their backs; talking to folks, greeting, listening, as if their life was in it. Somehow life should be simple like this, yet somehow it isn’t; now I hear them laughing!…

#911, Lima, Peru, 11-3-05

24) The Old Man of Acopalca (A Poetic Tale)

Low browed, and soft spoken

His days now numbered

(at one time, he was a mountain man; and hunter. But time had taken the light from his eyes; now a rhymemaker of old age).

“I’m going to be a rich man!”

was the mind of the young lad.

It was his plight in life.

Above all, these were wings within his mind.

I will now tell the tale,

A tale long forgotten.

(I shall get no rewards for this;

the old man and lad of Acopalca)

Ricardo, of the Nevados del Huaytapallana, built him a home in the village of Acopalca, now an old man of Peruvian stock. Happiness seemed to fill his golden years; his needs were few and his warm-heart longed to satisfy. He loved this tiny village, and survived on a small pension: all was well for the old man of eighty-three. For the most part, leisure and rhyming was his flowers and doves in life: the winds and seas at night. He never fought with the sun or rain; it was all sweet to him.

Ah! Yes…this lad I mentioned before—Julio, lived nearby in an ancient house, built on the slopes of the Nevados—once only, I should call him seeker, pressed to give a reason, he proclaimed to the old rhymemaker, “I shall one day be the richest man in Peru!” He shut his eyes and smiled…. Yet, still the lad pressed the rhymemaker for his words of wisdom, “Say what!” He said, turning away his face. He broke the silence….” Well, here this…” and the rhymemaker said—such words as these: “Julio:

when this (wish) is in your hands, I shall be below these opal stones, that cover the pathways of the Nevados. But the real joke’s on you, for you will never know who your friends are, as they will try to nail you inside their tombs; for you and I, there is more to this than you’ve a notion of…”

Julio frowned and smiled, and smiled and frowned. But still his heart was in the riches the world had to offer and man willing to take them, so he said to the old man, “So old are you!...” (and hesitated to say another word). “Yes,” said the old man, “I am very old… (then added): Well, God speed your feet!”

There was no stopping him, and so the old man waited ten-years for his return.

It was a cool morning in October, there was a knocking on the kitchen door, and Maria who was near, threw back the catch, opening it.

How can I tell you what I saw? I sit mused. Slender she stood, and tall, beautiful, she was; an inch smaller than the young lad. Handsome face, dressed like a prince he was also. Dark-eyed and skin colored like the Nevados. “Come in;” she said at last, and swung the door wider, and he kissed her on her rosy cheek.

“Welcome, my father’s friend!” she cried, her eyes filled up with Ricardo’s. Three times she told him, how her father had died, the rhymemaker, whose bones he thought would never rot. He died at ninety-two, roaming the Nevados.

Strangeness crept within the shadows of their bones, as if they had known each other for a very short time. Said he, to Mary,

“Each turn in my life, early days and late nights, it was not natural, as this moment is to me.” She saw no innocence in is face, only sorrow and disgrace; dim uneasiness, unabridged irritation in his eyes, dark and feverish like black mosaic. She saw him in his hell…. He knew he knew quite well—for it must be said: of the cities riches he possessed, he was now powerless— yet content; ah! who can be with so much and lose as he?

She whispered: “You came to tell the old man ‘Look at me!’ he said you would. And here you stand; you flood the darkness with your pain.” Then he hissed back: “The rhymemaker never sleeps in his own house…!” And she answered, “Poor he was, at 92, now in his tomb: but thee, thee is poor at twenty-three.”

There was a pathway to the Laguna, of Huaytapallana, and as she took his hand, they walked it, her saying, “There is no more to fear, or need of a single tear,” and they walked to the edge—white-mountain over looking them. Thus,

mourned the villagers who never saw them again; said to have lost their way back in the descending mist of the mountains.

Note: #909; originally written on napkins at the ‘Café La Favorite’ in Lima, Peru, 11/2/2005. A Poetic Tale, of prose. I have walked this pathway to what is known in English as White Mountain, and in Spanish, as Huaytapallana, and once the fog descends over this valley, and covers the lake below, it is very easy to lose ones way back to the plateau, where the makeshift hotel and café is. My brother-in-law got lost once in this area and his wife had to have a rescue team go in and find him.