George
Zamalea graduated
from La Habana University with degrees in Literature, Philosophy, &
History. Immigrated to the world. Lived in Spain, France, Italy, and Brazil.
Received a recipient of Creative Writing & Language & BA in USA.
Awards: First place of the 2011 International Latino Book Awards in the
category of Best Spiritual / New Age book in English with the Six Seasonal
Amendments, A Hispanic Inspiration.
Nominated third and fourth place in 2012 and 2013 respectively from the
International Latino Book Awards in the short story titled “I” and a novel
titled “Flowery of Evil”. Members:
Academy of American Poets, Society of Children's Book Writers &
Illustrators, Writing & Nonsense Club and American Hispanic in Journalism. Publications
and literary journals: The Screech Owl, Hermeneutic Chaos Literary Journal,
Spectrum, The Flesh Lit, Indiana Voice Journal, Ink Dot, Vasasvada,The Front Porch Publication. His
credits novels, mysteries, nonfiction and poetry. Lives in Rosamond, California.
BLACK
WHITE
I heard the Black White bird
Singing from the frame of the
window
That faced the deceiving patio
filled up
With weeds and old tires and all
kind unwanted things.
I failed to see beyond the veins
along
The blossoms flashing through
The
dying vegetables fields
That
connected the yellowish lake.
With the naked eyes
I could not see anything else,
and now,
I've
problems to hear the sounds
Breathing like a forbidden life
Blithering on the air at this
particular moment
Sitting on the top of hill.
I
turned finally
to
the hut with glacier
thought
without further care
into
my mind I thought
I was exposed to her now, back to
the hut,
Almost
trembling, perhaps frightening,
Stretching
these hands (quite old)
Either at both sides of her body,
Or there, where the Black White
breast
Of
her was dying.
Just as those who gaze an invisible
moment in the depth
Water
of the lake, I waited
If she were raising up her head
and looking
At
me against the deepen
Shadow
that's hallowing
beyond
my haunted head
behind
the late sunlight
facing
the bloody horizon;
perhaps,
she would joy
my
last howling tears.
But nothing happened, while I
watered
Meditatively the up and down
Of
her chest swallowing
The
cracking illusion of this life,
There! Pumping in & out like
a fountain
While I am still waiting her
dying.
I
knelt beside her
And turned her over and I caught
her eyes,
There!
Emerging from two upsetting
Whispers, motionless in a zone of
infinitude
Rage.
Suddenly, a hot air shaken her,
With speeding of a bullet
And
she held, concentrating now
In
this nasty but lusty hold.
A tear fallen itself reaching
Her feathered face: No reaction
Nor magic life or trick, which it
was heard
Beyond the sunset.
Now,
several days
Later, sitting with a puzzled
thought,
Of course I could not know,
I wondered why life has driven
her off
From
me, my little Black White bird,
Before
the drawn air that has taken
Her
into its arms.
I wondered, while I'm writing,
With
savage strokes or rage like her,
Why this accident has had too
much
Impact on me.
Is
it because there alone
In the simple thing her innocence
never has died?
Where
the awful answer
Took form like a plodded
moonlight's ring
In my head, I heard sound. I
turned
My head, and it's my mother who
was crying
There, yes, she was crying.
Perhaps,
it's the last message;
That was only our Black White
bird dead
Before
the sunset moved it away.
THE
OLD U.S. 66
It
tosses as if it were an old shoe
Washing with saliva and urinate
Ants
and leaves
Ordinary visitors like rabbits
and coyotes
Wish
to safe this historical spot
The
Old U.S. 66
But
there is nothing to preserve
To paint, to run, as the
activists
Patrolling
the edge
Like
a Mexican bull lying without any sense.
I
take picture
Away from the mean of tourists
Sending
them back via Internet to the world
To those friends anxiously to
take
A
glimpse of this wild side of American dream.
THE
BLACK COFFEE FROM MRS. D
Powered by heavy sacs below
The
active eyes,
Eyebrows like the double sharp of
a razor
Half
gray, half black,
As the vast world delivering that
sensory
Age,
healthful, remarkable alert
All around the face
Of
this extraordinary woman
Has
died yesterday in this new road:
I
was there past Christmas
Telling her how this New Mexico's
view has changed,
And
carefully details of the war emerged
I listened now, carefully, to the
real
Live
a woman --
I
listened too careful, to write down
By the reach of a click
Where
the bad things I keep for myself.
And
when the black coffee arrived,
I smiled. I chose to smile,
because
It
was choosing by the woman,
A
cultured kiss, a welcomed of living,
But
an ugly wooden box for a woman
Who
wrote just masterpieces?
~GEORGE ZAMALEA
