Friday, September 1, 2023



Calendar Leaves


Today I have turned in, my beloved,

the leaves of my calendar

and let my fantasies fly

like tears of a rosary.


The hours have flown away,

dates have lost their motive,

just the singing birds remain

breathing memories in their nests.


I have seen the spring

with its rumors of a gentle breeze,

and in the hours of the sphere,

a vague flutter of birds.


They have departed in the blue

only leaves of old calendars

float on to the most remote

gardens of the south.


Only you, amazing muse

of enchanting candor, stay in time

suspended, sleeping in the cradle

of my arms.


Only you... in the passing of the hours

with their crisp sound of violins,

resounding in the leaves

of the muted calendar.


With Myself


Restless I go, these days, without knowing

the cause that affects my senses. I invoke

the muses of my time, to search in the herd

of things that inhabit me, the reason of my ways.


I've been touring the pages of my diary

with its many hours of ambitious journeys

by the wide space of my chores, the bounds

of my dreams, fields where my desires grow.


Could it be that I am dissatisfied with my failure

to see in the horizon the peace that I yearn for,

the destiny that we all want to have,

the assets lost already in the efforts?


¡Of course! That's what my anxiety is all about,

are the beach and the estuary, and the jungle

and the plains and the corners where the crowd sets the fire,

the reason for this feeling a little bitter.


At The Gate


A fleeting detachment of mine is this

from the agitated running of my arteries

to fly to the void of the nothing

that awaits my arrival.


I want to anticipate the dawn

when I undertake the announced trip

and unpack my disordered nakedness

before the guard at the gate.


It is necessary to anticipate the arrival

and the tribute due to the owner of the great abode

-little will be to cover the centuries of stay

enjoying the infinite world of true life.


Ambitions are mundane, the earthly fiefdoms,

they remain behind, that there in heaven,

the ethereal life of the star is prime

in abysmal blues without any interest

other than the divine will.



JOSEPH BEROLO was born in 1934, in Bogotá, Colombia. He lives in Chia, Colombia, a small town near Bogotá, place of residence of numerous poets and artists. Lived and worked in the USA, Europe, Afrique francophone, Latin-American, and the Caribbean. Education. BA La Salle Institute in Bogotá, Colombia. Advanced studies in Literature, Marketing, Economy, Computer Sciences, and Languages. Achievements Created the first web site of Latin American Literature, under the name 1990 Miami, Florida USA. Founding President of Naciones Unidas De Las Letras /Semillas De Juventud (United Nations of the Letters /Seeds of Youth) at the Colombian Academy of Language October 24, 2011: Peace for our time and the time our children and the children of their children through the planting of the Fine Arts in the gardens of their minds and hearts. His intellectual support to more than 5000 writers worldwide have resulted in 25 virtual volumes published over a period of 25 years: Founding President Editorial Ave Viajera, the title of his first book of poems. (Mexico 1970), created to promote his own books and the literary and artistic work of hundreds of poets and writers from around the world. Author of more than 30 books (Poetry and Literature in general) printed and/ or published in anthologies, newspapers, magazines, and or published in part.


No comments :

Post a Comment