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I am only the reflection of the light
that flows from the bards of the world, and poet because I live in their vicinity Joseph Berolo
Repentism at sunset
Because in life
we
are travelers of the myth
and the mirage
and the oaks and the palms
in
the distant blue
all have hints of madness
and a bit of possible watchtowers-
Because we feel the scream
of
the flesh that yearns
for nails on a trembling cross
at 3 o'clock in the afternoon ..
Because we feel the river
and the foam and the fall
and
the spasm
of the rock and entrails ...
because being able
to
be we are not
and we are in the mere event.
Because at the end of the day ...
we are the fruit of Genesis,
and we are the orgasm
of eternal living
eternal creation.
Fullness
I live under the glare of a star
detached
from the short earthly path
attached to the love of true
life
in the mystical bed of eternity.
The hours
were of the time consumed,
lonely passage to worlds of
vain chimeras,
path already traced to foreseen destination
where tonight's rumba ends.
From vain prosaic ties free, the soul
his infinite journey without hesitation undertakes
beyond so much pain and so much death,
only seeks strength in the quietness of Peace
to be his carrier pigeon of good will
that somewhere in the world God awaits
. A most delightful journey
A song to
You, my nest to roost in ways I cannot reckon. A song to let the pen dispense sweet strokes and lines and rhythms for you
to feel like incense caressing the corners of your land. To let it be a journey of life through the fertile valley of your
skin divine. To let it devour the geography of your thoughts of mine akin. A poem to be for all a sacred temple, an angel
painted on its dome, a place to call the world to sermon, and yet, for me, alone to read. For in verse, I would become, by
a muse so gently tamed, my most glorious tale, for all who love, to hear and say.
A Candle Lit Upon The World Manhattan New York 911 2001
¡Pass the torch...! the trembling hand
stretched, my candle lit another candle and so a thousands more ignited at our services today.
For this little flame upon the melting wax, a message sent across the pews to all in pray, in our humble church of Bethlehem.
And it felt so mystic and celestial to pass the torch with love and faith, for in this land of ours, is the candle in our
hand today, the glowing light for all who perished in the skies above and those in deepest caves entombed. Pass the torch
my friend! Pass it well
beyond the temple of your faith,
for it is the candle lit upon the world today the last farewell to those who went to eternal rest and us all who must begin
to live again.
Just an instant
An instant was of light of summer dawn and blue of hope upon the sky...
and then no more but doom and fury of hell upon the land. A cloud of death for us all to walk the path of no return. The empire
is grieving, our souls in ashes drown, friends, brothers, soul's unknown, posthumous cry from far beyond a plight of rescue
call us all, to live again and roar with fury unleashed only God can hear us in our pain from the horror of today.
On to war
Do not rejoice in battle,
the
midst of fury unleashed,
Agfan in flames
or Taliban destroyed.
Marching
on today we must
not to seek revenge,
or match the reign of horror
launched on fateful day,
but to find
the way
to see the face of evil
in its cave of hell
and
feel the grip of death
and rescue life itself.
For the time has come
to
let the well
of our faith run beyond
the roots of Bin Laden.
To
kill the beast, we must,
for in the killing
the sword of justice thrust,
an eternal dawn
will come of light
for Islam and for us all.
A little time of wait
Mother to be
In
awe and hope, for the day has come when nothing matters but the angel growing in a bed of roses within your sacred womb.
Only you with faith to ignore a swollen limb, an exploding
brain, those awful morning sweats and days of heavy steps, can become the light you feed with joy- the brightest star to shine
upon your bosom and the endurance of your soul.
A rose has left my garden To my daughter Viviane - Kuwait-Iraq March 18, 2002 I dreamt of a garden blossoming in a
desert; of bells ringing in the modest tower of a church, above a pristine land of births and joy galore, and that nothing
was true of a war in lurk somewhere in the East beyond my lore. I dreamt of the busiest of all beehives, defiant little
bees building honeycombs, catching butterflies hanging from the sky- precocious quest of infantile abandonment. In sadness
lost, I saw depart impromptu from the happy cluster of my dreams, a silent bee wrapped in sighs and farewells. Her fate unknown
but seeming thorny, unknown dimension my soul is target until my honeybee returns in hurry. Upon the graves
Tender is the light and bright still the flame upon the Towers
gone today In sudden flash of death.
Land of souls alive.
their dreams remain above the graves
America remembers
pain unknown before a year ago in September. Embracing ways of hope, prepared for war, the land defends and fight the
shadows of the unknown. Alert we pray in vigil night and day and swear never to forget.
At dawn it was
911
When at
dawn in lazy path barely appearing, the morning filled with sorrow the dream was gone in darkness. ¡Cannot be! To
have loved so much the bridal nubile feel, a light so brief, turned a wreaked charm. So big a passion, the wind, the rain,
the blue beyond. ¡Oh! the abyss of age, the ringing of the bells in faulty towers of unearthed harvest, the dawns of
boiling veins, the whispers of ghostly diaries, the taste of roses dead in broken vases, the anguish of the Calvary, the longest
hour of the climb. ¡Cannot be! Abandoned breathing candles in the darkest clouds of the myth, delirium, painful sores...
the dark.
What is left
In the air, a soft, warm breeze. In the breeze, a gentle sound.
In the sound, a name of love. In the name, some profound, pure and sweet gift of grace, for all times remembered well. In
such a gift, an island sea of gracious hills and tropic dreams. A place to turn to, when far away, to ignore all pain in limpid
streams, its golden shores and sandy ways of luscious forest and palms of faith. Such the young tenacious land
born upon a time of tenderness. The brightest sun, the mountains touched that day
in endless song of light, and there were fountains of joy spilling life for long.
And God created Mom
Of all
times millenniums past of every year, month and day, from creations dawn, from all the journeys of mankind to this morning
of your reign. Mom! Without you, what other reason to live another day, to wear strength to wake and walk to war and pain?
Without you, Mom, all deeds are in vain. Here on earth, in blossom and ambrosia upon your human garden, or, beyond, in
heavens by glorious labor, You, Mom, inhabit the frontiers of never ending dreams for it is your light upon the altar
of our prayers for us, your homage to the Gods, in vigil guarding our days.
Days of Pain
And there was
sadness and so many cried in abyss of despair; our souls and lives knew of ghostly rain of death and of caves of doom so near,
so close the labyrinths of fear- the way we were one day, no more, no more. But not at Xmas time, Hanukkah o Ramadhan. Not
at home today under the greenest tree ever grown in all the land. For hope and greater deeds and blessed mistletoes adorn
the most sacred time of year-
the warm of all Kabbalah's
keep
alive the land of Israel...
-upon the tortured plains
of all Fagan,
hope resolve the darkness
of the land- armed in wait,
the hordes in Iraq
don't know night
or day-
yet the furies seem to die
of death itself-
and
in the darkness of the heart.
Time
it is for us all
To lit the candle of our
faith
in the midst of fury unleashed...
not to seek revenge,
or
match the reign of horror
launched upon the world-
it seems to last forever-
but to find the way
to see
the face of evil
in its cave of hell
and feel the grip of death
and
rescue life itself.
For the time has come
to let the well of our faith
drown the inferno
where evil lurks-
To kill the beast, we must,
for in the killing lies-
¡Ironic¡...
the Peace we seek.
-the sword of justice thrust,
an eternal dawn will come of light
to a world so cruel
and yet so good.
SUAVIDADES Por
Joseph Berolo
En
el aire, una brisa suave y cálida. En la brisa, un sonido suave. En el aire, un llamado de amor. En el
amor, un don de gracia profundo, puro y dulce, recordado. En el recuerdo, un bendito sueño, en el sueño, un verde
de esperanza , una isla de paz,un lugar para vivir, para refrescarse en cálidos arroyos de orillas doradas, por senderos
bordeados de Voces de Esperanza. El sol más brillante que nunca, las montañas se acercaron aún
más a las estrellas en interminable crecer de sus alturas , y hubo fuentes de alegría derramando vida
por mucho tiempo Mas
no nos dejemos cegar por la grandeza del momento cuando todo brilla, aún así, el "Fin de todo Bien"
parece amenazarnos. No corramos tan rápido, lo único que hace es mantenernos en el mismo lugar.
No hagamos múltiples tareas de repente. No pensemos en la Muerte porque la muerte "no es nada para nosotros, ya
que cuando somos, la muerte no ha llegado y cuando ha llegado la muerte, no somos" (Epicuro). Es cierto, hemos
llegado a la época del nanosegundo. Es el apogeo de la velocidad. Los centros de mando del Poder controlan nuestra
existencia. Apenas sabemos que estamos vivos, todo lo que sabemos es acerca de estar en modo de avance rápido, advanced
mode, fast track, el tiempo es esencial, nos sentimos apurados, incluso en medio
de la dicha. 20 años del nuevo siglo, un milenio, Y2K, la miseria del Virus, la Web, el correo electrónico,
la precisión de los nanosegundos, una milmillonésima parte de un segundo error significa un pie fuera
de la ruta a Marte,un sintonizar con precisión los anchos de banda, una puerta supersónica
de salida de las naves espaciales., botones de marcación rápida, centros de coordinación
a distancia, Detengamos por
un segundo normal de tiempo y pensemos en alguien a quien amar, en algo para dar, en una buena acción que hacer
más allá aqui y ahora porque no no tenemos tiempo, hasta que sepamos qué tiempo llenar. Pensemos
en como tener y vivir días menos agitados, cuando el tiempo vuelva a ser el regalo para dar y tener, para amar durante
mucho tiempo en sobre tiempo de amor, overtime of love , In the air, a soft, warm breeze. In the breeze, a gentle sound. In the sound, a
name of love, In the name, some profound, pure and sweet gift of grace, for all times remembered well. In such a gift, an
island green of hope and blessed dream. A place to live from far away. to freshen up in warm streams of golden shores, pathways
of green and palms of faith Such the young tenacious girl born upon a day of tenderness The brightest sun, the mountains
touched that day in endless song of light, and there were fountains of joy spilling life for long A Wish you upon the New Century: Let us not be blinded by the brevity of the moment.
Let us not be tormented by the "End of". Let us not run so fast, all it does is to keep us in the same place. Let
us not multitask for a moment. Let us not think of Death because death is "nothing to us, since when we are, death has
not come and when death has come, we are not" (Epicurus). It is true, we have reached the epoch of the nanosecond. This
is the heyday of speed. Command centers control our existence. We barely know we are alive, all we know is about being in
fast forward mode, time is of the essence, rushed we feel, even in the midst of bliss. A new century, a millennium, Y2K,
the misery of the Bug, the Web, e-mail, nanosecond precision, a billionth of a second error- one foot off track to Mars, precisely
tune bandwidths, supersonic gate to gate intercontinental shuttles, speed dial buttons, remote controls, 10 seconds wait-
an eternity- Drop Stuff life, it makes haste, compresses time into an infinite loop of queues, it gets there before what or
who? we don't know. It just gets there. Here it is my wish to you. Stop for a normal second of time and think of someone
to love, something to give, a good deed to do beyond the Master Clock for it cannot "tell our time of day, For What event
to pray, Because we have no time, because we have no time until we know what time to fill, why time is other than time was"
_W. A. Auden. See you in less hectic days, when time may be again the gift to give and have, to love for long in overtime
mode. January 1st. 2000
Dawn of a new day
Let the season of the smiles arrive
with its warm glow of new dawns
to
fill with lights, the existence and
of smooth breezes
the course of every day
Do not
forget to watch the yesterday that dies
in the pale reflection
of the things brought,
nor believe that nothing remains
in its path
or suggests return - all remains and nothing
remains of his era!
Relive everything
lived, nothing was in vain, thistles
perhaps- and the
memories- the breath of the flame,
the silence that overwhelmed
loneliness, the vain passing
of the bribery, the elusive
embrace of happiness.
Let the
day appear and the larks sing!
That if yesterday was
sad and filled with shadows,
Faith, dreams, life, its
offspring, its ardors,
everything IS and lives in this
dawn of love.
Julio 2020
Drawn Up Paths
2004-2005
Keeper of my poem
born
the instant deeply felt
of New Year's first beat of joy,
I travel newer paths
filled still with yesterdays.
Calmly marching with the past,
aboard
my ship of dreams
departed ones travel silently,
soundless wings carrying
fond
of walking memories,
the lighter load of all.
For they, God of Heavens,
guardian of my secrets,
what
they were, is the path
tracing my tomorrows;
their lives long gone,
grant
renewed faith and joy.
For all I am, to them I owe.
Their hugs and kisses last,
my heart to them, I live again.
Let it not be said
Let it
not be said that it dawns in twilight
the mind wrapped
in absurd wanderings
and the heart weakened by restless
nights
without wanting to beat again with ancient verve.
Let it not
be said that for being in quarantine
laziness has sat
in the living room of our house
and we share like with
and old companion
and without a thought allow the weeds
abound.
Let it not be said that
the imposed social distance
is to cast looks of absolute
mistrust
and that it is prudence not to hug
only that we have become sullen of bad upbringing.
Let it not be said that our neighbor is a stranger
that no longer even looks out on the us
and go back to the old manner of looking away
and grumble low and remain careless and oblivious.
Let it not be said that for having to be masked
our looks cannot be loaded with tenderness
or
in noble gesture respond with grace
and help the quest
of others for love and help
Let
it not be said that because the church is closed
we cannot
make our house a sacred temple
and classroom, and a warm
villa of our home
that can be called global in faith
and hope.
Let it not be said that we are not unhappy
for
not having a job and living on everything scarce
but
for not being able to run anxiously side by side
to tell
everyone that we learned to be a lot
(more human.
August 22.2020
TO YOU DEAR QUEEN Some poems with my request for correction of these translations
from the original in Spanish Thank you for your kindness. Joseph
I am only the reflection of the light that flows from the bards of the world, and poet because I live in
their vicinity
Repentism at sunset
Because in life
we
are travelers of the myth
and the mirage
and the oaks and the palms
in
the distant blue
all have hints of madness
and a bit of possible watchtowers-
Because we feel the scream
of
the flesh that yearns
for nails on a trembling cross
at 3 o'clock in the afternoon ..
Because we feel the river
and the foam and the fall
and
the spasm
of the rock and entrails ...
because being able
to
be we are not
and we are in the mere event.
Because at the end of the day ...
we are the fruit of Genesis,
and we are the orgasm
of eternal living
eternal creation.
Fullness
I live under the glare of a star
detached
from the short earthly path
attached to the love of true
life
in the mystical bed of eternity.
The hours
were of the time consumed,
lonely passage to worlds of
vain chimeras,
path already traced to foreseen destination
where tonight's rumba ends.
From vain prosaic ties free, the soul
his infinite journey without hesitation undertakes
beyond so much pain and so much death,
only seeks strength in the quietness of Peace
to be his carrier pigeon of good will
that somewhere in the world God awaits
. A most delightful journey
A song to
You, my nest to roost in ways I cannot reckon. A song to let the pen dispense sweet strokes and lines and rhythms for you
to feel like incense caressing the corners of your land. To let it be a journey of life through the fertile valley of your
skin divine. To let it devour the geography of your thoughts of mine akin. A poem to be for all a sacred temple, an angel
painted on its dome, a place to call the world to sermon, and yet, for me, alone to read. For in verse, I would become, by
a muse so gently tamed, my most glorious tale, for all who love, to hear and say.
A Candle Lit Upon The World Manhattan New York 911 2001
¡Pass the torch...! the trembling hand
stretched, my candle lit another candle and so a thousands more ignited at our services today.
For this little flame upon the melting wax, a message sent across the pews to all in pray, in our humble church of Bethlehem.
And it felt so mystic and celestial to pass the torch with love and faith, for in this land of ours, is the candle in our
hand today, the glowing light for all who perished in the skies above and those in deepest caves entombed. Pass the torch
my friend! Pass it well
beyond the temple of your faith,
for it is the candle lit upon the world today the last farewell to those who went to eternal rest and us all who must begin
to live again.
Just an instant
An instant was of light of summer dawn and blue of hope upon the sky...
and then no more but doom and fury of hell upon the land. A cloud of death for us all to walk the path of no return. The empire
is grieving, our souls in ashes drown, friends, brothers, soul's unknown, posthumous cry from far beyond a plight of rescue
call us all, to live again and roar with fury unleashed only God can hear us in our pain from the horror of today.
On to war
Do not rejoice in battle,
the
midst of fury unleashed,
Agfan in flames
or Taliban destroyed.
Marching
on today we must
not to seek revenge,
or match the reign of horror
launched on fateful day,
but to find
the way
to see the face of evil
in its cave of hell
and
feel the grip of death
and rescue life itself.
For the time has come
to
let the well
of our faith run beyond
the roots of Bin Laden.
To
kill the beast, we must,
for in the killing
the sword of justice thrust,
an eternal dawn
will come of light
for Islam and for us all.
A little time of wait
Mother to be
In
awe and hope, for the day has come when nothing matters but the angel growing in a bed of roses within your sacred womb.
Only you with faith to ignore a swollen limb, an exploding
brain, those awful morning sweats and days of heavy steps, can become the light you feed with joy- the brightest star to shine
upon your bosom and the endurance of your soul.
A rose has left my garden To my daughter Viviane - Kuwait-Iraq March 18, 2002 I dreamt of a garden blossoming in a
desert; of bells ringing in the modest tower of a church, above a pristine land of births and joy galore, and that nothing
was true of a war in lurk somewhere in the East beyond my lore. I dreamt of the busiest of all beehives, defiant little
bees building honeycombs, catching butterflies hanging from the sky- precocious quest of infantile abandonment. In sadness
lost, I saw depart impromptu from the happy cluster of my dreams, a silent bee wrapped in sighs and farewells. Her fate unknown
but seeming thorny, unknown dimension my soul is target until my honeybee returns in hurry. Upon the graves
Tender is the light and bright still the flame upon the Towers
gone today In sudden flash of death.
Land of souls alive.
their dreams remain above the graves
America remembers
pain unknown before a year ago in September. Embracing ways of hope, prepared for war, the land defends and fight the
shadows of the unknown. Alert we pray in vigil night and day and swear never to forget.
At dawn it was
911
When at
dawn in lazy path barely appearing, the morning filled with sorrow the dream was gone in darkness. ¡Cannot be! To
have loved so much the bridal nubile feel, a light so brief, turned a wreaked charm. So big a passion, the wind, the rain,
the blue beyond. ¡Oh! the abyss of age, the ringing of the bells in faulty towers of unearthed harvest, the dawns of
boiling veins, the whispers of ghostly diaries, the taste of roses dead in broken vases, the anguish of the Calvary, the longest
hour of the climb. ¡Cannot be! Abandoned breathing candles in the darkest clouds of the myth, delirium, painful sores...
the dark.
What is left
In the air, a soft, warm breeze. In the breeze, a gentle sound.
In the sound, a name of love. In the name, some profound, pure and sweet gift of grace, for all times remembered well. In
such a gift, an island sea of gracious hills and tropic dreams. A place to turn to, when far away, to ignore all pain in limpid
streams, its golden shores and sandy ways of luscious forest and palms of faith. Such the young tenacious land
born upon a time of tenderness. The brightest sun, the mountains touched that day
in endless song of light, and there were fountains of joy spilling life for long.
And God created Mom
Of all
times millenniums past of every year, month and day, from creations dawn, from all the journeys of mankind to this morning
of your reign. Mom! Without you, what other reason to live another day, to wear strength to wake and walk to war and pain?
Without you, Mom, all deeds are in vain. Here on earth, in blossom and ambrosia upon your human garden, or, beyond, in
heavens by glorious labor, You, Mom, inhabit the frontiers of never ending dreams for it is your light upon the altar
of our prayers for us, your homage to the Gods, in vigil guarding our days.
Days of Pain
And there was
sadness and so many cried in abyss of despair; our souls and lives knew of ghostly rain of death and of caves of doom so near,
so close the labyrinths of fear- the way we were one day, no more, no more. But not at Xmas time, Hanukkah o Ramadhan. Not
at home today under the greenest tree ever grown in all the land. For hope and greater deeds and blessed mistletoes adorn
the most sacred time of year-
the warm of all Kabbalah's
keep
alive the land of Israel...
-upon the tortured plains
of all Fagan,
hope resolve the darkness
of the land- armed in wait,
the hordes in Iraq
don't know night
or day-
yet the furies seem to die
of death itself-
and
in the darkness of the heart.
Time
it is for us all
To lit the candle of our
faith
in the midst of fury unleashed...
not to seek revenge,
or
match the reign of horror
launched upon the world-
it seems to last forever-
but to find the way
to see
the face of evil
in its cave of hell
and feel the grip of death
and
rescue life itself.
For the time has come
to let the well of our faith
drown the inferno
where evil lurks-
To kill the beast, we must,
for in the killing lies-
¡Ironic¡...
the Peace we seek.
-the sword of justice thrust,
an eternal dawn will come of light
to a world so cruel
and yet so good.
Dawn of a new day
Let
the season of the smiles arrive
with its warm glow of
new dawns
to fill with lights, the existence and
of smooth breezes the course of every day
Do not forget to watch the yesterday that dies
in the pale reflection of the things brought,
nor believe that nothing remains in its path
or suggests return - all remains and nothing remains of his era!
Relive everything lived, nothing was in vain, thistles
perhaps- and the memories- the breath of the flame,
the silence that overwhelmed loneliness, the vain passing
of the bribery, the elusive embrace of happiness.
Let the day appear and the larks sing!
That if yesterday was sad and filled with shadows,
Faith, dreams, life, its offspring, its ardors,
everything
IS and lives in this dawn of love.
Julio
2020
Drawn Up Paths
2004-2005
Keeper of my poem
born the instant deeply felt
of New Year's first beat of joy,
I travel newer paths
filled still with
yesterdays.
Calmly marching with
the past,
aboard my ship of dreams
departed ones travel silently,
soundless wings carrying
fond of walking
memories,
the lighter load of all.
For they, God of Heavens,
guardian of my secrets,
what
they were, is the path
tracing my tomorrows;
their lives long gone,
grant
renewed faith and joy.
For all I am, to them I owe.
Their hugs and kisses last,
my heart to them, I live again.
Let it not be said
Let it
not be said that it dawns in twilight
the mind wrapped
in absurd wanderings
and the heart weakened by restless
nights
without wanting to beat again with ancient verve.
Let it not
be said that for being in quarantine
laziness has sat
in the living room of our house
and we share like with
and old companion
and without a thought allow the weeds
abound.
Let it not be said that
the imposed social distance
is to cast looks of absolute
mistrust
and that it is prudence not to hug
only that we have become sullen of bad upbringing.
Let it not be said that our neighbor is a stranger
that no longer even looks out on the us
and go back to the old manner of looking away
and grumble low and remain careless and oblivious.
Let it not be said that for having to be masked
our looks cannot be loaded with tenderness
or
in noble gesture respond with grace
and help the quest
of others for love and help
Let
it not be said that because the church is closed
we cannot
make our house a sacred temple
and classroom, and a warm
villa of our home
that can be called global in faith
and hope.
Let it not be said that we are not unhappy
for
not having a job and living on everything scarce
but
for not being able to run anxiously side by side
to tell
everyone that we learned to be a lot
(more human.
August 22.2020
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