April 4, 2015


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.


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
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.

             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.


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?


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