Jorge era un feliz mexicano

Jorge was a happy Mexican
With the smile as bright
As Van Gogh's sunflowers
And Gauguin's exotic landscapes
Of Tahiti--
Immune to the anxiety disorders
And the psychotic episodes
Of his fellow bipolar gringos--

Jorge was a happy Mexican,
Wearing a poncho and a wide-brimmed
Sombrero with just a little bit dinero
And el corazon de oro,
That says defiantly ¡No hay problema!
While the stars seem to sing
In his head:
Para todo mal, mezcal,
Y para todo bien también.

Jorge was a happy Mexican
With the spirit of
Nuestra Señora de Guadalupe--
Drunk with life, drunk with the stars,
Drunk with the history of the Mayan ruins--


Jorge was a happy Mexican
With the rays of the sun in his hands
And the song of the wind in his heart--
Sí, era un feliz mexicano
Porque no tenía mucho,
Sino el espíritu lleno de amor.

February 13, 2012

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My father's Horse

My father rode his horse with a special feeling. He loved walking with his horse, enjoying the views of his field crops, feeling the breeze in his face, watching his ranch as he went by, relaxing at that large calmed place, beside his chestnut friend. My father would go riding whenever he could, whenever he was mad or stressed, whenever he felt happy and blessed, my father would scape to his ranch, and ride with his four legged friend. I liked it very much when he used to take me with him; I had a lot of fun with him and with his brownish horse. Riding beside him, he used to tell me stories about his youth, about his childhood, about his golden charreria days, and how good he was. We both rode together in that horse, while we both shared a happy peaceful time. While we talked and laughed, while I enjoyed what my father loved the most, in the same horse we rode. That horse was wonderful and loyal, the “Azteca” his name was, strong but short, fast but no for distance-long, he became my father’s best friend at work, and at every time he needed him. Every time my father was riding that horse, you could see him young, full of life, and free… looking like the real Charro he used to be. The “Azteca”, was part of the family. My father and his horse shared many moments together, they raced together, they competed in charrerias together, and they also learned from each other. My father thought him tricks and the horse thought him perseverance. My father taught him discipline and the horse to quickly stand up after you fall to the ground. My father even got married riding that horse; my mother was a little ashamed of course. Instead of a car taking the bride to church, it was the Azteca who brought her to the chapel’s front porch. Indeed, it was a very special horse. My family was very sad, when three years ago, it happened the worst; the poor old Azteca had a stroke. My father was very sad, but very thankful he also was. It was then, when I realized what that so very special horse meant. That horse belonged to my father’s brother, who died in a car accident 25 years ago. My dad used to tell me how close he was to him, to his brother. He was his best friend, just like the Azteca used to be.

Author's Notes/Comments: 

Based on real life.

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