José Rosa


There is anger in poetry

in the intimacy of my dreams, ask myself

is there any wisdom blended in the passion of a poem?

is there any beauty that rages the animal instinct?


What does it mean?

don’t boots anger the ants in their shelter?

fires burn the heart of the soil

storms smooth the surface of mother earth

the wrath of rivers drags along sand and stones

Don’t they?

why not then my passion rooted in rage

the fury in the fiery trench of history

the companion living death of wars

blood tinting rivers and cities

skeletons of 500 years aerate my wisdom

Don’t they?

children knifed for the sake of few “good old days”

elders trapped by sweeping napalm bombs

butchering the purity of humans

crowded bullets uphold the conquerors laws

Of course

this poem is filled with rage

and wisdom

Isn’t every one?

Poem posted in this space: December 14, 2012

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