Louie Madrid Calleja, BFA (York), MA (York)
Composer, Conductor, Scholar

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Twenty-Eight Years
Twenty-eight years I've lived
And Twenty-eight years I've died
Five of those years were innocent
Years without care
Of the slowly revolving
Another five suffering
from the shock
Of conscious realization
that the world is such an ugly
Of spaces
And masked faces;
And dreams
That most of the time never grow
To become reality.
A world where the blood of many are spilled;
Where the blood of many are chilled
And drank at the sacrificial table -
Gall-juice from the injured lamb
Still crying,
Still trying;
Still alive.
Five years listening
To the scorn of children
Who call themselves friends.
Children who are the
Of the cruelty
That become acceptable in adulthood.
We laugh at the children we once were
The Children who never grew up -
Just richer
They're all the same.
Only a "Sir" or "Madam" precedes their name.
I'm getting tired of this game . . .
"Tag! You're it!"
A slap on the back;
A sliced throat - serrated blade,
A bullet through the head
After the rape of a maid.
"Tag! You're it!"
Another five years
Learning to love
And learning to leave,
Learning to live
And learning to grieve
For the memories
Forever etched
In the heart
In the mind
In the soul.
Five years
Of learning (or churning)
the person
that lives within
Only to be ripped out by a fair-skinned, slender hand
(I recall she wanted a big-diamond engagement band)
Called a Lie
A Delusion
An Illusion
A Dream
The remaining years that follow
Spent staring at the hollow
- A tree carved by maggots -
"I will take care of you . . ."
"I will always love you," she said.
Left to fester
The dream molester
was here.
Reflections of a Troubled Soul
As Bartok plows through the atmosphere
of an otherwise cold morning
I equate my life to such a work.
The potential for beauty amidst a
cold and dissonant field
of sound and soundlessness
of decisions and indecisions
of hope and hopelessness.
I have in the past couple of days
hoped that the reaper of souls
would finally come to end this agony
called Life.
This agony plaguing the recesses
of my brain since my time's existence.
I am in a cold war:
I am at war with Love -
that diabolical force which brings
souls to the highest heavens
only to be led to the darkest abyss
without the courtesy of a warning . . .
Dark abyssals, that is what I call it
for I have fallen and cannot get up.
Why should I get up?
Yes, this is a good day to die . . .
this is a very good day to die . . .
Decision and indecisions
Remissions and revisions
Revisions and remissions
Shall I campare thee to a summer's day?
No!!! I cannot . . .
For there are no more summer days in my eyes . . .
Winter cold has grabbed all hope leading
my soul to a disembowelling sacrificial mound.
I have become the Guinea pig of the gods
and Life holds no meaning anymore.
The music plays but no one listens.
No one dares to listen.
The wind doth blow today my love
In few small drops of rain.
I never had but one true love
In cold grave she is lain.
Hope is now my enemy.
Hope is the agony factory
Churning and turning
in a Dizzying array of sparks to accompany
such cacophony of emotions.
Conscience makes cowards of us all.
This is the human equation
Before all things wanted are said and done,
the Reaper creeps with the cold North Wind
deleting us completely.
Tonight is a good night to die . . .
Tonight is a good night to die . . .
The day is done and gone is the sun . . .
There are no real days anymore;
Hope has taken it away to serve to Love -
his eternal master.
Darkness is the light and I sit
in this light contemplating
the meaning of an otherwise
prolonged agony.
I wonder, who wrote the book of Love?
Lies, they're all lies!!!
My love is as a fever longing still
For that which longer nurseth the disease . . .
Slow and painful is the way of Love
Fueled by the fire that burns in the bosom
of every human being ruined and decayed
by the war-jailer of eternal bliss.
For Love is like a rose . . .
A rose, a rose with petals red
Empty canvasses thy colours fed.
Distinct in colour and in hue,
What troubled heart canst thou not woo?
Tonight is a good night to die . . .
Tonight is a good night to die . . .
Two Sonnets
(ca. 1995)
As Time's unbending seconds pass me by
I ponder on events that could have been
As thunderclouds sailed past a darkened sky
And North Wind mocks all nature with a grin.
Regrets I have by far a few to note,
And most concern the words I never said
To maidens - I have love and learned to dote -
That vanished like the clouds that North Wind bled.
"Oh Clouds! Thou never stay'st the way thou art;"
Cold North Wind will delete without concern:
So one must say what one feels in their heart
For Present, like a star will cease and burn.
So savour passing moments like your last,
For words unsaid will stay hid in the past.
Distraught I write these lines so eyes may see
How Life has treated me with such disdain
Confusion, Rage are those who tear in me
Yet I must take the blows and face the pain.
Oh cruel Eyes how falsely you have judged;
For masks present to see what souls don't wear.
Yet Soul is pushed away lest he be smudged
With hid'ous Dirt contained with grave despair.
Oh hid'ous Dirt what slanders you conceal -
You great tormentor of my saddened soul.
With sword in hand I stab so you may feel
My pain as hard as stone, as black as coal.
For Raged Eyes curse that they do not see
The Soul that houses true Identity.

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Last updated August 3, 2015