The Poet’s love


The Poet’s love

A Chapter by Coyote Poetry

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A new story

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                             The Poet’ love

The old Poet loved the country of Honduras. He had come here often in his life and he loved the Honduras coastline. Trujillo and Tela had been his safe haven for 30 years. He had lived his best and worst days near the Caribbean sea. Now he came back to die. He was at the American motel in Trujillo sitting with three old friend. They were enjoying the view of the Caribbean sea, drinking sweet red wine and discussing the Poet’s ending.

Paloma, a poet from Spain, she told him. You are drinking the Honduras rum as your pain killers. Slowly fading away my dear friend Johnnie. Johnnie told her. There are worst ways to die. I can slowly die drinking the Honduras rum and I have my three best friend near. Lawrence, a retired doctor from Honduras, told him, with sadness in his voice. You have been waiting for death. You treat death like a welcome guest. My old friend. Death is the end. I know of no-one who have seen heaven or hell.  Leo, a painter of the sea, women and the landscape whispered. Paloma and Lawrence. I left my home in Mexico with deadly cancer 10 years ago to die in Trujillo. Today I’m alive because of the kindness of kind Trujillo women and the fresh and clean air. If Johnnie want to die. With death. We do not decide. Better to lived a life, free of fear. Some comical god-like thing made man. Weak, foolish and dumb. Men don’t appreciate the gifts given. Just create havoc.

Johnnie smiled and he asked the group. Remember when we found each other in 1986. Paloma, you were the most beautiful woman I ever seen. We met at the nightly festival sponsored by the Doctor.  I saw you dancing and I was memorized by your long flowing auburn hair and your long perfect tanned legs. You awoke me with a sweet whisper. Your dark brown eyes made me weak and speechless. I still remember the whisper. You asked me. Was I in love or in lust? I told you. Both.  Leo smiled and laughed. He told them. I remember them days. Paloma was my first nude paintings. She was a dark skin goddess and I asked her to pose. She asked. Cloths or nude. I told her both. Paloma smiled and she told him. I have one of those paintings still. You made me perfect and feel wonderful and beautiful. I was a college girl seeking reasons to live. Johnnie taught me poetry and you taught me the beauty of the world. You never attempted to touch me. I learn years later. You loved another.

Lawrence smiled and laughed at the conversation. He told them. Those were the good days dear friends. I found Johnnie first in Tela. I was the village doctor and I loved to  speak English or French.  I saw Johnnie sitting alone drinking the Honduras rum and he was watching the water dance on the shore from the hotel tavern. I invited him to my table. We were joined by six Tela young women. Tropical beauties with wild eyes and who loved to dance. Me and Johnnie talked till dawn. I remember Johnnie was escaping a broken heart and I told him. We have six Honduras beauties near us. I believe men are not suppose to love one woman.   Woman are something to behold. Can’t hold too tightly and you can’t hold on too loosely. When the gift of love, embrace and kiss is given. Just be thankful. I remember when you met Rosa that night. She rested on your shoulder and she waited for you to see her. I remember you looked at her and you learned I was right. When a woman pay you attention. Be thankful.

Paloma smiled and she told them. Men rarely know what they want. Once, me and Johnnie were suppose to get marry. Johnnie left for some war and I went home.  I learn a Poet’s love. Male or female. Just addition to a journal to be locked away and re-read when needed. Johnnie, we tried three times and now I found you again. Are we destiny or just finding dead-end? Is our love real or just some fantasy for a poem or tale?

Johnnie took her hand and he told her. You were my first and you shall be my last love. I remember the night I met you. You stole my heart and my voice. We danced till the music was no-more. I still can see your Summer dress and how your eyes made the moon and stars seem so small. We stayed in the hotel for three days. Coming out for food and drink only.

Leo told them. No-more love stories today. Tonight the moon is full and I can hear the Trujillo songs by the beach. Me, Lawrence, you and dear Paloma will dance, drink and sing till we cannot no-more. Tonight is for living. Not for dying.

John Castellenas/Coyote

Category : poetry