Sinaloa

I wrote a poem about a week ago. I was inspired by a poetry site.
I was writing the poem- inspired by the understanding that came to me.
Later, I submitted it to a poetry forum online/blog about poets of Sinaloa.
They published the English version on their site, much to my surprise and pleasure.

Un poema en honor de my bisabuelo Enrique perez arce y mi abuelita laura aram.

SINALOA

QUE TIERRA DE COLIBRIS

QUIEN CONOCE TU GLORIA SECRETA

QUIEN HA CANTADO TU AMOR APASIONADO

QUIZAS LOS ANGELES EN MURMUROS ENSOMBRADOS

QUIZAS LAS PALOMITAS ETERNAMENTE ENAMORADAS

SABES QUE YO TE HE ESCUCHADO

QUE TE ESTOY ESCUCHANDO

CREYENDO EN TI CON CIEGA FE

ME ACERCO

LLEVAME POR LA MANO

A MI CON MI ABUELITA

DENTRO DE TU PARAISO

[ENRIQUE RENALDO’S LOOSE TRANSLATION OF A POEM WRITTEN BY HIS DAUGHTER GISELLA PEREZARCE]:

Sinaloa

A land of hummingbirds

Who has heard of your greatness?

Who has told of your love?

Is it the voice of Angels=

The voice of the turtledove?

I have heard-

Am hearing.

Believing.

Understood.

I am coming.

Take my hand.

My grandmother and I

Into your promised land.

01-11-08.

I miss Mexico. I've never been, really been.

I've been to the border towns of Mexicali, fell in love with the people.

I cried for a homeless boy one night who lived in the bushes and gave him my dinner.

I played ball with the children and sang in their churches.

I also left my heart with a disabled boy who wore diapers and came in an ambulance to the clinic.

I wanted to educate the people about disabilities so the children could be helped, but I never came.

I tried to return, with family, with friends. It didn't happen.

Maybe I can go to Posada in Guadalajara or Mexico City?

A fantasy to be painted by a Mexican painter appeared in my head tonight.

Where did it come from? Where have I been? I've been singing, Joni Mitchell's song about The Gallery

today. Maybe her subject's being painted was transformed into a desire of my own.

If dreams can be caught, can I catch one?

They go passing by so fleetingly and never land for very long.

Joni Mitchell sings in "Songs to aging children come",

"Fear is like a wilderland. Stepping stones or sinking sand."

I've been in fear's wilderland for a decade. I pray this day it becomes a stepping stone

for future land.