Somos en escrito The Latino Literary Online Magazine
On the road from Valparaíso to Santiago
Two Excerpts from Gone To War, a collection of poetry
By Gonzalo Adolfo
the pull of the road
The land was dry yet green, mountainous and heavy with vineyards. From a mere look I awoke and my thoughts were pulled open which had remained closed for so long. For what I saw, I never did rest. The road from Valparaíso to Santiago, beautiful and peaceful—a calming magnificence…
pebbled bridge
ridged like a wall,
connecting mountainside
to mountainside
––
a lane by the
highway to itself,
a horse pulling a
wagon carrying bags
stuffed and a hatted man
––
dusty hilly,
a shack town in
the range and trees
––
standing to stretch to touch
their toes alongside the road,
a couple guy ramblers
study their options,
burn dry in the open sun
––
flying as if
two wings,
the speed of the motorcycle
two wheels
––
a bus on the shoulder,
backside open and
luggage tossed and
flipped and sorted
––
making the hilltop taller,
the posture of pines
points to and is the sky
––
a lone cow on
the hill range slant,
a black spot in
the green of bush
and brown of dust
––
strolling a stroller and risky,
a woman push baby
down highway middle
––
the eyes at
her car unhappy,
the hood up
the engine smoking
––
mountains rocky become
mountains green,
the change through
the tunnel pass
––
the valley of vineyards,
straight line and many file
and endless patch and around
a mountain circle hugs
––
a house flat on
a mountain summit,
built to survey to impress
––
clear sky to the south,
cloud thick to the north
mountains grow taller,
tops grow fainter
––
four walls no roof of
a shack halfway down
a sloping hill slide,
privileged view and abandoned
––
the big blue in the valley,
a lagoon waters rows of
identical but colorful
planned homes and towns
––
the might of the snowy
andes pokes through the
santiago thrown up smog
over the distance
≈≈≈≈≈≈≈≈≈
light in a shroud of fog
’Tis a sea change...know I not
to what sea to what change...
passing through the alley, a pretty
vine covered house and a sun low
morning, crisp air wakes
––
collapsed over the moor brick tangled
in weeds a lavender blossom among
lavender wilting, a bush passes its season
––
a brief wind, quivering the
trumpet vine drops its extant bloom to
the pavement, rose sallow skin
––
bobbing in the sea in
shimmers, city light in
evening, swallows in fog
––
tidy in bed of hills
blanket of clouds, morning
city white in flat waters
––
fresh lemonade and brownies,
a first day of work for
three young girls, sunday smiles
I woke naturally at an hour earlier than custom. The dimness evaporating into lightness, I was helpless. I am a man of my day and affected by a recent encounter…
in a chilly haze hovering,
coming on a dim light
rising, the morning a wing
––
a face to the over bay sun adrift
into mist alone on the rooftop
a flower full in bloom, others anon
––
a pale blue sky over a flood
rich earth, a light fine white
sun passing, rain clouds clearing
––
on tiptoes on rooftop in window
peeking, wee bird a chirp and
bright morning sun yonder
––
a tree sawn bare, branch once
rested on roof rested on earth,
torn leaves wither
––
sun in a fog setting,
clouds charcoal and withering
sky blooms, blasts magenta
––
the autumn sun leaves
waves of rose tint
evanescent, a memory lingers
The weeks of ending autumn and the leaves of the tree had changed to a sunbeam yellow. A pool of leaves lay crisp and clean at the wind of the alley below. I reached down and grabbed some like gold. The gold slipped from my hand back to the pool. It made the walk down to the bottom of the hill inviting…
beneath a ginkgo bearing
gifts golden leaf collects,
a pool of sun afoot
––
in brisk pierce of winter
sweet tingling scent, spring
to bloom lavender bud
––
a spray of rain, atop
a bump of a hill,
a snow of pink blossom
––
a cloud soft couch on a sunny day,
was fogged over as I crossed
the hill to the day off café
 |
Author posing at an odd water fountain in Barcelona, España |
Gonzalo Adolfo, an American of Bolivian descent, the author of the short novels, No Rush For Gold and Golden Rushes, has published several volumes of photographic portraits of his travels; Cuchi Cuchi Time: a Portrait of Los Cabos is the most recent. He can be found in and around Berkeley, California, where he lives, sketching with graphite and other materials and dabbling in music–pairing the harmonica with the Bolivian charango is his current favorite diversion. Gone To War, his first volume of poetry, and his other works are available in hardcover and e-book on his website, www.bumhew.com.