panabaj
6-10-06

thirty-two revolutions around the sun and now i stand on the bumper of a truck with the morning air and smog rising to meet my lips as we enter Panabaj the soft land is covered is volcanic black dirt and i set foot on the scarred ruins of bodies buried somewhere deep in this mud that ravaged the homes and people.  it is morning and the wet clouds linger over what once once the top of volcano San Lucas i can now see the scars of broken earth that have tumbled into Panabaj.  we walk into the pueblo of numbered canvas shelters and tin roofs, a community of rows printed proudly with our slogan, "USAID, From the American People" perhaps so they will remember us or perhaps the cameras of the world with capture our kindness.  now babies are crying and the beans are soaking over all the fires smoke is asphyxiating the insides of the canvas covered dirt every child is playing amidst the mud with marbles and balls and a broken old toy or two and there is the sound of absolute innocent joy over the barren land and over the endless flies in the waste cans there is laughter and a warm "hola" from every direction from every single child there is warmth and life among these fires and singing that i hear about being in God's hands and a soccer game is played where houses once lived and games are played around the rows of shared outhouses and shower boxes.  i am invited in and my heart is heavy while Catarina feeds her child from her breast and i have privy to every single thing the own and have saved for their family of ten in this canvas box and the little girl brings me a picture of Jesus and lays it in my hands and i want to go and i want to stay in this push and pull and sea of flies and the little baby smiles at me with the purest of eyes and i listen and look and i feel the kindest love and their bonding soaring above and beyond all those Things, those things, and they GIVE me all this and i give each child a penny, From the American People, and they skip away in contented laughter to show their friends...

carretera

            6-22-06

on the tired roadside

old school bus leads us

to the heat cracked streets of Patulul

hazy sun rises over sugarcane

gears shift to the static of Reggaeton

the sleepy humid mist among us

choked by lingering exhaust

sombrero man flosses his silver-lined teeth with a rubberband

the scent of shampoo and breakfast fires

dodging bony wayside dogs

bucket of milk spilling from burning breaks

we pass impatiently around blind corners

yet the decal assures me that "Dios es nuestra guia"

and so my soul rests easily among the fields of manure

we all stare forward on the carretera

to where it is we go

to the place that we Are.

guineales

thoughts of who i am

intertwined in the wrinkled lines

and hardened weathered working hands

that accepted out of necessity

of hungry bellies and hard hot sun

the smell of wood smoking against the rusty pot

the sound of rain against corrugated tin roof

nieta running barefoot in the mud

sweet sweat of the day rising off the soil

you squint by the rising fire

sad eyes glazed with contented acceptance

of the being here.

of the now.

of the work to do.

of the work you'll do.

          your heart is so strong

you will not falter, sacred mother.

in the wrinkled lines

i see you seeing me

i see your living life force so utterly and completely

and i am humbled in the falling of incessant rain.

                                                MZM   6-6-06