The Yarn Spinner
Carmen Ruggero's Fiction and Poetry
The Hourglass
“Will I see the rainbow after tomorrow?”
The poet plays with the notion
while jumping over the iridescent arc.
Sand sifts smoothly through the hourglass
half full, half empty at the birth of twilight
and an eerie notion stills his heart.
“What if, what if, the rainbow breaks in half?”
Sand has drifted in errant ways.
His path has steepened; he labors to climb.
Wind’s shifted north, he’s facing south
and pushing forth one inch at a time.
“Will I see the rainbow beyond tomorrow…?”
The poet knows it’s a wretched wish.
“I can’t see one grain of sand
past the one on which I stand.”
Doubts push and pull with equal force,
one step forward two steps back
until silence roars and the poet dreams no more.
Sand sifts quickly through the hourglass
half empty, half full at the birth of twilight
and a black moon darkens the sky.
Carmen Ruggero ©2008&2009
By The Shade of The Cottonwood
But I have promises to keep,
And miles to go before I sleep.”
Robert Frost 1875 - 1963
I stopped to rest a spell, having walked a mile or two,
and chose to sit by the shade of a cottonwood
and watch the leaves turn shades of yellow-blue,
flip-flopping, casting wavering light spots on the ground.
The lake appeared blessed by the sun that day
and offered its thanks in rippling waves of gold
as mallards paddled on their mindless way
and willows dipped nimble fingers as they swayed.
Perched high on a bough and almost inside a cloud
a robin whistled while happily feeding her young
and her song was cheerful, and sweet and proud
not trying to be boastful, but it was time for them to fly.
So distracted was I by the whistling and the singing,
and willows swaying, and mallards paddling –
I lost myself in the moment and beauty abounding;
it could’ve been seconds, or years – I couldn’t say.
And while I had not planned to spend the day,
I was still sitting there, under that cottonwood
not doing much but thinking, praying, being as it may
and soon the sun had gone; time to meet the moon.
Stubborn as I know I can be, I didn’t want to go;
not home, that place in which I hardly dwell
entrapped by rigid walls and snares I so well know.
It’s here I want to be, by the cottonwood where I’m free.
Where I’m blessed to hear dawn’s whispered prayer
and birds singing loving songs to their young
and after dark, wild beasts keep close to their lair
and I can sleep, and rest, and breathe at last.
But it was sadly clear home was where I still belonged;
it seems there were things yet left for me to finish
and many amends to extend to those I’d wronged
so sleep would have to wait until all those things are done.
From inside my walls and with all that fully understood
I know peace awaits me by the shade of the cottonwood.
Carmen Ruggero © 2005/2008/2009
Ceibo
They were peaceful. They were called the Guaraní
The Paraná Delta of Argentina – their native home.
It was theirs, theirs to rule, and theirs alone.
They lived from the fruit of harvest;
they were peaceful – the natives called Guaraní.
Amongst them lived a princess – her name was Anahí.
Strong bronzed limbs, piercing eyes, black as night,
courageous young woman, who in name only survived,
on a night when the river was silent – too silent indeed
as the Spanish fleet lurked in phantom ships
with bows pointed to evil ends, thus
in their sinister mission, the burglars crept
to shore that night without moon, or stars
and in the name of Spain and its lesser god
they would rape the women – make men their slaves.
Without warning, their savage blast fell
upon the peaceful and unsuspecting, Guaraní
when from the black they appeared flaring
crosses in the name of Spain and its church;
raising their torches and swards, they bellowed
orders to surrender, but the Guaraní fought.
Anahí leaped to her tribe’s defense – bronze, strong,
muscular limbs she fought as well as any man could.
From the shadows deep in the brush, she watched
and waited – eyes on the predators, nostrils flaring
muscles tensing and she jumped! Legs straddled
his waist, taught arm around his neck,
she buried her knife in the Spaniard’s chest.
Torches flaring, weapons drawn, crosses waving,
they took after her. She ran, she hid, and she fought
as well as any of them; she was strong, but
they were many, she was captured and condemned
to die – die Indian die by burning – die!
She endured with pride – no tears – no such,
as she was set aflame – on a black night,
one without moon or stars; she burned and
as heroes and legends do, she bled upon
a page of history some have forgotten, somehow.
Author’s Note:
This is fiction. But the attacks on our native population
were all too real. Men were enslaved and made to work,
women were captured and raped,
the result of which is the birth of the Mestizo – half native,
half white, children who the Spaniards later abandoned.
The obliteration of their race was complete.
The native population of Argentina is non existent.
Anahí was the legend and the legend says
that on the following morning,
a tree possessing her qualities grew in her memory.
It has strong, limbs, a soft interior, and red blooms.
In Spanish it called Ceibo, or Seibo – the Coral tree.
On the 24th day of November of 1942, the Ceibo
was declared the national flower of Argentina.
©Carmen Ruggero 2006/2008/2009
Peter Ruggiero 12/24/1914 – 02/08/09
Rusty Nails
Rusty nails in a cardboard box.
What did you see worth keeping?
I’d like to know.
I remember your hands – they shook
when holding old things as if mesmerized,
and I wonder
what treasures your mind created
out of rusty nails and old strings?
What poetic notion
What golden vision took you there?
I need to know…
a poetic legacy, words to a song…
oh, had I asked you then… I so need to know.
