When silent time stills
As fix as rend
Lilting embrace
In want
Havana's seventh sorrows
Shantee in brail
Jerome John Garcia
was into smoking reefer
as a guitarist his music was in his head
so he formed The Grateful Dead
Doris's cause of death will probably be:
Dementia, at age 100
~ Character Cause of Death Profile ~
Death
Probable age of death 100
Probably cause of death Dementia
Other likely causes Cerebrovascular Disease
Chronic Lower Respiratory Disease
Lung Cancer
Noteworthy funeral attendees Anthony Maya Garcia, aged 101 - husband
Basic Information
Name: Doris Read Well Garcia
Nickname: Old Doris
Reason for nickname: Descriptive
Date of birth: Tuesday, 23rd Jan 1934 (Age 88)
Star sign: Aquarius
Nationality: American
Ethnicity: Caucasian
Social class: Middle class
Religion: Christian
Education: Some college
Course: Sports science
Political views: Far right
Relationship status: Married to Anthony Maya Garcia
Career path: Athletic
4/14/22
Written words by James Edward Lee Sr. 2022©
Gay Blade Garcia was a very angry non-accomplished cat.
He lived a lie for a life, and it kept him mad and fat.
His mother kept telling him she loved him and his preferences did not matter.
He was a general in the army, but still mad as a teapot hatter.
Just have the life you want, his grandmother cat told him with guff.
He had ribbons on his breastplate, but it simply was not enough.
He had a partner, Jake, that he wanted to tell about to the world.
But in Cat City, this news would be like grim reaper being unfurled.
So he stormed into battle with his sword and his badges, killing people.
Burning down buildings, slathering blood around, toppling church steeples.
Gay Blade Garcia spent much of his life showing how manly he was.
When actually inside he was sobbing, a warm sweet bit of fuzz.
His partner Jake eventually wandered off on his own, disconnected.
He could not take his partner being so sad, and horribly sad affected.
Gay Blade Garcia was the saddest general in the army of Cat City.
He was sad the rest of his life because not being yourself is not pretty.
Breast with me,
beating like a bird.
In our moment
all hope soared
with a fragrant moon
and kissing
was the mixing of culture.
At these depths
I felt what tore
at the threads
of your music.
I met the guns
of El Salvador.
I touched the pallid
flesh of your dead
riveted friends.
I hosted your nightmare
of butchers.
Your fingers are refined
for the making of music.
Your thumbs
are peasants,
ready for revolution.
Published Black Buzzard Press - 1982
Political- personification
Today I heard you pass
Those words RIP
Broke my heart
There was nothing much I could have said,
Except rest in peace my dear friend.
I wish, I could have held your hand
I would have liked to say farewell
But I could not get to you in time
So with these words I write
Farewell my loving friend.
Phil’s caveman look is very weird
He really should shave off his beard
His mother is right
He looks a strange sight
The Neanderthal look’s to be feared!
Since December Phil’s been hirsute
He needs to give his beard a boot
He’ll cut it off in the sink
But his mum won’t cause a stink
Cos without it he looks real cute!
Poem Posted with Kind permission of Phillip Garcia
To understand the poem please read my comments on Phillip's poem
https://www.poetrysoup.com/poem/3443_or_t_minus_44_880105
02~26~17
A Love Poem for Federico Garcia Lorca
Last night, I dreamed of you,
my raven-haired gitano.
Dreamt of your succulent mouth,
Rich and full,
like the black grapes from the vineyards,
near the unmarked place where you lie.
“Te amo mi amor” you tenderly whisper in my ear.
Your kisses, sweeter than the wine of the valley,
Which I drank ages ago.
I could melt in your arms,
drift down to where you lie—
with your white bones,
buried beneath the thick, rich earth,
stained with your blood.
“Tu eres mi carino,” I whisper.
Federico, you have been dead for so long—
Your voice silenced by Franco’s fascist bullets.
And today, in my country,
Freedom is on tenuous ground.
Will bullets silence my voice too?
I don’t know the answer
to this question.
So, all I can do is write
live my life, think of you, and say,
“El gente unidas, jamas estan vincidas.”
Her poetry was conceived
'round fancy pants scraps,
inclined to reverberate wrangles
'tween an I reckon ma'am
and well versed jazzy visuals,
paid no mind to cowboy's
bumbling foolishness &
lumbered foreign gibberish
knowing full well it was
a lone star disposition,
merely a Texan head trip
See y'all next time...
Written in response to him calling out my words as 'fancy pants'...all in good fun.
"Well yessum we surely do. Y'all fancy type just lasso circles 'round us with yer fancy pants words."
I’m guaranteed to get an N/A
If I write a poem on Coldplay
So I’ll pen the odd line
On a band so divine…
Then I’ll make Phillip Garcia’s day
Posted with kind permission from Phillip Garcia (who didn't want a poem about Coldplay submitted to his contest)
17th August 2016
God must have spilled stars liquid
on His brooding Gabriel Marquez Garcia…
weaving, crushing and shaping words
lacquered with magical realism. But this
is not his only primal appeal; his Latin veins
spread a scenic collage of life pierced by decades
profound…meaningless then meaningful like
a glue of patience in ‘Love in Time of Cholera’,
the alchemy of serendipity flowing
oh so slowly along eternity’s belt and hanging
angel dreams on a wax, as if his pages bleed with
quivering fingers that speak of growing old when
men stop loving and serenading the moon…and
God spills me with stars climbing inside my bones;
my sacramental eyes collapse on Garcia’s hands
tasting his need for cities to become one family,
transcending more than ‘One Hundred Years of Solitude’.
................................
Your Favorite Artist Contest of Anthony Slausen
*A dedication to Nobel Laureate Gabriel M. Garcia
who passed away last April 17, 2014. He wrote
'Love In the Time of Cholera' and 'One Hundred Years of Solitude',
among others.
4/20/14
When they murdered him,they went everywhere
To cemeteries,to caffees, to churches
But they didn`t find him! No! He wasn`t there!
They never found him!
The trees cried when he died
The trees from the garden of forbidden desires
The roses cried when he died
The roses of sad poet`s garden
Now he stands in Plaza de Santa Ana
And a secret voice of hidden love whispers-
It whispers to the tourists:Green! I love you greenly!
Only the wind, the sun, the moon,the stars,
The flowers, the gypsies and the poets
Hear his words of blood and gold