Kudos! your poetry works!

I caught a glimpse of morning in Peru
through someone else’s holiday account
and suddenly I climbed those slopes again
the steep and winding streets, the blocks of stone,
the mighty, rocky Andes, homes of gods.

He writes “Ollantaytambo” and I thrill
remembering the amphitheatre there
and how I lay full length on one flat stone
and opened to the sun, while somewhere close
an Indian man played softly on a flute.

Another tourist came and gawped at me.
“The sacrificial altar isn’t here,”
he said. “You’ve got it wrong.” I turned my head
and went on with my ritual, silently
communing with the Apu of that place.

In Aquas Calientes when we strolled
along the river path to those hot springs
in nothing but our swimsuits and our towels,
it was the locals gaped (at work below
breaking up the rocks to clear the stream).

At Machu Picchu only half a day,
I sat beside a spindly little tree
alongside one great boulder on the grass
and watched the climbers from the Inca Trail
descend into the ruins single file.

We’d been through fire-black areas at height
and looked across to Wiracocha’s face
emblazoned on the great peak opposite.
I, with my fear of heights, had almost pranced
around those paths and ledges, those deep drops.

The shaman whom we met was prophesied.
It’s nice to read he still has that same shop
where we sat down eleven years ago
to take our journey to the jaguar cave,
and afterwards we wept as we embraced.

Those boys we knew are men already now,
the orphans of the streets who helped us learn
the good cheap cafes where the locals ate
and how to not say “good” when we meant “well” –
their English better than our Español.

The Urubamba River frothed and seethed
beside the trainline for a certain way
and glaciers gleamed along the topmost peaks.
Inside stone walls now topless we could hear
the screaming victims of the sacrifice
loud in our heads, and clapped hands to our ears.

We talked with healers, three, just newly trained.
“Show us your way,” they said, “and witness ours.”
They stood and prayed. We joined them. Sparks of light
danced across their palms and ours too.
The older woman channelled messages.

“Return!” the angels said. “They love you here.”
And down in deepest jungle lies the skull
of amethyst, that Andrew is to guard.
But that is in another time, or else
his spirit guards it, being everywhere.

I tossed into the ocean one black stone
hollowed on the top, that I brought back –
a shallow dish perhaps, for catching blood.
At any rate, it seemed to make us ill
and once it left, so did our heaviness.

Eleven years. Jaguar, condor, snake
were my protectors there, guiding my steps,
and still would come, but now I seldom call.
We do return in dreams, but otherwise
Australia is home; this too is good

Let go

Let go of what you cannot control and
You will be happy or at least less sad
Learn to let go and you will be happy
Be what you can and want not ask not
And you realize that you can be happy.

Most silly verse is written in anapestic tetrameter… (12 beats, not 10)
The anapestic makes the poem feal funny, because most spoken prose is inherantly bi-polar, (pun -fully intended) bi-podal, meaning that the metrical feet have two beats, such as Iamb, or Trochee. Tetrameter makes it more lyrical, meaning easier to set to music, as most songs are tetrameter. This having to do with how music is constructed. So try re-writing it in anapestic tetrameter, and see how it works out. (this is no small task)

If you are re-writing it for children, consider changing the reference from wife to sister, if you want the sense of equality but feminine, or mom if you want the matronly feel. Children do not have wives or husband (at least in this country) and do not have personal experience with that relationship.

While you are at it, try to work in a little rhyme. Kids really like rhyme as well.
And they love alliteration and assonance.

Lastly, use only the 140 most common words in the language, and you will rival that great poet:: Dr. Suess!

homage homage to the great, the singular, the fantastic, Dr. Suess.
(you think I am joking? Take a poetic look at some of his works.)
Is his work trivial? He deals with such themes as being trustworthy, imagination, dreams, hopes, & goals, and does so in a way that reaches the youngest of readers.

Best of luck.
You can do it.

You could make a fortune writing disgusting verse for children. (The way that some children’s novelists have done, such as Andy Griffiths with “The Day My Bum Went Psycho” and its many sequels … also in times past poet Edward Lear, and poet and fiction writer Roald Dahl.)