Time to bid 2012 Farewell...

photos & poem © Jesús Montero

Time for the tail winds

Of planes

To embrace the Earth

Like cobwebs.

Time to pack our cases,

To take us

No matter where.

To mix clove, 

Cinnamon and orange zest.

Time to bid

2012

Farewell.

photos & poem © Jesús Montero

A pile of dead infants. On a road to nowhere...

(Planet Earth, seen from 37,000 feet)

photo & poem © Jesús Montero

If you strip the Human Race

From her costumes or

From what to, she’s variably accustomed...

If you see her, naked,

Reduced to

Blood, bones and flesh.

No heart.

If you forget about the brain.

And see no lands.

No borders.

No road maps...

If you gaze at her, uncrippled

By politics, beliefs or religion...

And think

Of Syria, Palestine and Israel.

All in one phrase.

And ride the storm 

Through

The roar of drones,

The shots of snipers.

Her removed heart

Will ache.

Her motherhood, maimed.

By the worst sight of all.

A pile of dead infants.

On a road to nowhere.

photo & poem © Jesús Montero

I like the word Volatile...

photo & poem © Jesús Montero

I like the word Volatile

Because it sounds

Like a butterfly that flaps her wings.

I like the word Xocolatl

Because of Mexico

And the days, that there, I lived.

I like the word Cocktail

Because it’s dressed

In sequence, dazzle and gleam.

Or the word Conquistador

Because it lives

In jungles, adventures and dreams.

photo & poem © Jesús Montero

As I wake up, Walking along The canal...

photo & poem © Jesús Montero

Bruges, Belgium. 14th October 2012

As I wake up,

Walking along

The canal, I see

The lady who

Feeds the ducks,

Perhaps married

To a man

Who drinks a

Beer called Kwak.

As I wake up,

Walking along

The canal, engulfed

In Flemish whispers

That to me,

Sound like Dutch.

photo & poem © Jesús Montero

I love cobwebs And whispers...

photo & poem © Jesús Montero

I love cobwebs

And whispers,

Cobblestones and how

Roasted peppers, blister.

I love the Spring

And Winter,

A good Summer song

Or how Fall-leaves, twister.

I love the words

Bloom, gloom, how

Fireworks go ba-boom,

How nuns are called, sisters.

I love being called 

Herr, monsieur, 

Sir, though the Brit in 

Me, much prefers Mister. 

photo & poem © Jesús Montero

If I could live...

photo ('Dancer' sculpture by Jesús Montero, Phillips Academy)  

& poem © Jesús Montero

If I could live

Forever in a day

Or swim the oceans

In one breath.

If I could spare

The sorrows

And the pain,

Life’s hiccups, glitches,

Bad memories

Caught in the rain.

If I could fly

Above the Andes,

Like a condor

Flies his nest.

Or dance,

In high leaps,

Like that chap, Vasiliev.

If I could live

Forever,

Forever in a day.

photo ('Dancer' sculpture by Jesús Montero, Phillips Academy)  

& poem © Jesús Montero

I love how the Abbey Wakes up in the morrow...

Dunfermline Abbey, Scotland

photo & poem © Jesús Montero

I love how the Abbey

Wakes up in the morrow,

In a mist of hope,

Rid of yesterday’s sorrow.

I love how the sun

pats the gravestones on the back

Sending to the ground their shadows.

I love how old Dunfermline Town

Welcomes me back, each time

With cuddles, chatter and laughs,

To celebrate that better than today,

There must always be a tomorrow.

photo & poem © Jesús Montero

I saw a leaf From a tree, Fall...

photo & poem © Jesús Montero

I saw a leaf

From a tree, Fall,

Like centuries

Shed years,

Months 

And days.

I saw a leaf

From a tree, Fall,

Like the tides 

Of the Moon,

Cycling

Without rest.

I saw a leaf

From a tree, Fall,

Like the lines

Of this verse

Come

Off the page.

photo & poem © Jesús Montero

Flamingos in the marshlands...

photo & poem © Jesús Montero

Flamingos in the marshlands,

Sandpipers in the low tides.

Sipping through the sea-salt.

Feeding on the mud.

Two sides of mother nature.

Pockets of paradise.

photo & poem © Jesús Montero

I am nothing But a bit of drift wood...

photo & poem © Jesús Montero

I am nothing

But a bit of drift wood.

That in valleys and forests,

Once grew.

I am nothing

But a bit of drift wood.

Knocked about,

Through deserts, jungles, sea waters,

In a constant battle

For eventual good.

photo & poem © Jesús Montero