Conquistadores Anachronistic
Out-of-sync summer-like day
in late October:
Because 8 is not 10
and it never will be . . . .
California countryside
Carry-on-as-usual peaceful vibe
beautifully broken
by sudden loud sounds on
Spanish ¡pop! radio
Sultry swinging rhythms
wash over the waves of hillside grapevines
Waking the bejeweled mermaid sculpture
and urging her — like a caring lover —
to dance off her pedestal
To run, swim, fly, flee
far away from the Conquistadores
painted on a mural
resurrected as deities, ominous
and lurking
behind the mermaid’s lithe back
The killers appear pious, on bended knee,
with their sharpened swords
as they pray for victory:
Death of the vilified
the truly undefiled
the demonized
Amongst monarch butterflies flitting about in freedom
the Conquistadores prey
and bring into reality
murderous memories
of their raping
pillaging, plundering . . . .
I scream:
Mermaid, flee!
Take the monarchs with you!
To the top of the hill
into the music of the trees
where you will be safe
in swelling harmonies
in pulsing beats
that suddenly bind with nature:
Like roots and leaves, vines and wine
protecting your propriety,
your self-possession,
and your connection to the sacred
Seen in the swaying grasses,
heard in birdsong,
felt in the wind,
and sensed in the wilderness of your soul
The Conquistadores
cannot touch your spirit,
however
hard
they
try
to break you
with their whips
to take you
with their ships
to make you
one of them, a usurper
No
You are your own
not a token, like the maids on tv.
You are free
while they coo and woo
the warriors of destruction
and say they are like you and me
It cannot be
Let us flee together
to the sky
to the sea
to the paradise
Where Conquistadores —
and their gold-digging
soul-stealing whores —
are long lost in some other treacherous time
A humanish sort
Singed for their hedonism
extinguished for
their willful ignorance
for their grinding death-cult schism
We wake yet again
and dream the heaven
the home of painless purity:
Heart and hearth of autonomy
And there
in that place
we are all pipers,
with no one to pay.
So we pound on drums
We pluck guitars
And we sing to the stars
Swinging our arms
We are rays of the Sun
performing our pièce de resistance:
Forever, the musical dance of life.
As always, thank you for reading.
Sharine.