RECYCLED WATER
by Blanca Datuin
They say this is water from the sewer.
waste from the world's wanton usage,
feces emitted from toxic humans,
dissolved in bogy ground, fluid from
bodies relieving the excesses of the system.
Is this the quagmire of my soul
begging recycling? Agua de Dios, what have
they done to you? Where is the water of my river
that flowed in my veins when rain was pure,
luxuriated flowers of a softened sun?
Where the brook water that flowed endless,
when birds flew without fear, fishes swam
without the venom of man? Rid it of man's
waste were that likely. Bleach it to a gleaming
white. Slake the wilted soul.
Easter, 2009
TO BE HUMAN
By Blanca Datuin
The thing hoods his head and shrouds his face
Scared to let others know the real him.
Would he let us see the contour of his soul?
Beloved earthling, why do you hide behind
a black shade? Is your face so accursed
it glowers beyond my nightmare?
What kind of god tells you to behead
One who touched not a single strand
Of your hair?
What power sets your mind to mangle
a world so lovingly shaped by the one
true God, then rend yourself to pieces?
What vileness breaks your fragile brain
And turns your humanness into a chimera?
Oh, that you would wake up ,
Look to the sun and not be blinded,
Shake off the shackles and taste
The heroic, wresting lives from the dragon.
Breathe in the fresh scent of flowers,
Cradle a baby, nurse a wounded soldier.
See, the sky bends to kiss the sea.
Sun gleams resplendent if you let it in.
See the you that is human and beautiful
With all the fullness of your splendor.
- 2009
.
END OF THE VIRGIN
By Blanca Datuin
A wonder of creation was she,
Standing so pristine,
untouched by human hand,
birthing the fruits of heaven
from the crown of her head
bejeweled with green
down to her feet clothed with
more green.
None but nature tended to her,
quenching her thirst, feeding,
husbanding, with nothing but
drops of rain from heaven.
This was she, of my universe,
standing so serene and beautiful,
before the wanderer hid under
her skirts and violated her thighs,
before the ax man cut her down
to make way for the new highs.
The soul's anguish cuts deeply through these poems. While fraught with angst, they promise a light at the end of the proverbial tunnel --- a true Christian outlook. The fetid water turns into nurturing liquid yet. The terror in the jihadist can still mellow into compassion. Even the violator of nature's bounty may yet find Virgin forests too virginal to violate. These are poems for the heart. Bravo, Blanca.
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