A la Pobreza Infantil 

Esta es una colaboración con una escritora talentosa, poeta española, y muy humilde Rocío Molina @rohnammu. Aquí le hacemos un homenaje a la pobreza infantil. La foto también es de su autoría. ¡Es un honor!

Si vienes, encontrarás
a una niña recomponiendo sus pedazos, hambrienta por conocer
almas puras verdaderas
y corazones sensibles fortalecidos
por los derrumbes de la vida,
construyendo palacios de sueños
sobre escombros y cristales rotos,
rearmando una vida que jamás
jugó a favor, aunque quiso creer que si,
y todo era para mejor,
con la esperanza rescatada
como último suspiro, antes de morir
en aquel inhóspito escondrijo,
que le hicieron creer ser
su hogar merecido…

Rocio Molina @rohnammu

En el mismo sitio me he quedado 
es la vida que anda bailando
de falda en falda
Me encuentra 
donde me deja
En el mismo puesto estoy,
es el infierno donde viven los pobres con dinero
que esta desierto
Yo soy millonario de viento
Yo vivo
donde los callos de corrupción no llegan 
donde se acuesta la llanura de la humildad 
donde se deja soñar para no pensar
El sol es mi aliado
abrazamos la cordillera del norte,
nos inventamos castillos de cambio,
nadie, nadie, puede eso quitarme.

Mujer con Voz



This a collaboration with the artists and writer @Masproblemas. This is one of his illustrations. 
You see heart breaks, I just see new material to write about.

I will immortalize you with my words even if you don’t deserve it.


Is that your new hobby to break damn good hearts and then going around shallowing your pride?
Mark the lines of this poem with
another piece of your phosphorescent lies
I’ll make sure you regret it
I’ll make sure you won’t survive
I’ll show you what a real woman is like
making you full
reminding you where you came from,
the same tunnel you are running away from.

F.P. @Mujerconvozpoetry

Distancia con Olor a Cellphone

Esta es una colaboración con la poeta y escritora dominicana, Karolyn Castro. 

Ese celular inteligente no traerá tus mordidas de viento.
Ese bruto, inútil, pedazo de hierro
que intenta remplazar el sol en tu piel
cuando nunca se podrá comparar,
a él, a ese aparato “complex“,
se monta de gratis en el bolsillo,
también un espacio en mi ear ocupa,
es la única manera de que la luz se derrita por el screen empañado, y entres,
aunque el mar se abra…más profundo.

F.P. @Mujerconvoz_poetry

Despierto al brillo y al sonido de la alarma
Esa que guarda cada alba
Los besos mañaneros que las millas
Han robado a mi boca y a mi alma
Sonrío, me desperezo, algo mojada
Pensando en las posibilidades que pierdo
Ante esta fría pantalla
Que burlona se jacta
De ser dueña de nosotros por culpa de la distancia.

Karolyn Castro ©


Esta es una colaboración con la escritora Melissa Arévalo de Galápagos, Ecuador.

Arropando el piso, su cuerpo.
De frente su boca, al suelo.
Pares ojos con espejo no
empañado, cubriéndolos.
En papeles con imprimidas letras…
su cabellera indígena
– un relámpago sereno –
rondando por el margen
de páginas.
La observan afuera…
movimiento de labios esos
pronunciando sílabas
de quienes escribieron,
en su momentos débiles.
Débiles nosotros…
reencarnamos en lengua de ella
según lee algo,
según lee algo que no,
según lee algo que no eres tú…
ya es mía, ya fue mía, ya será mía
a lejos, a lo cerca,
en ese libro.

—F.P. @Mujerconvoz_poetry

Espero además hacer algo con esa ansiedad, hundirme en los abismos de tus lunares,desaparecer de ti por fin, crearme nuevos mundos con los trozos que dejaste en mí, dejar de tratar desesperadamente de conjugarme contigo, que vivas por primera vez por mí,en mí y para mi, espero enseñarte que la mejor forma de vivir en mí es en el olvido, que a veces por muy egoísta que suene debes dejarme ir, debes dejarme ser viento, mar, poesía. Espero hacer algo aunque sea por una vez, dejar de huir para comenzar, espero poder terminar lo que no pude concluir, este poema por ejemplo, espero por lo menos que me dejes extrañar a mi vieja amiga soledad que me acompañaba en las noches de Julio, solas, entre botellas de vino
espero al menos comenzar a escribir.

—Melissa Arévalo @meliare99


[A second collaboration with a teacher and writer @unclewalts]

I want to follow the stars
with her until we have been
to places unknown and
tasted foods and fresh air
in every clime, until time
seems to stand still and
we become one, together
in a strange land, until
we finally unite and bind
our souls as one.

— m r @Unclewalt2

I want to find you in the
mold of the bathroom floor
(with pastel colors and dramatic lines),
que tú braid the uncontrollable
chaotic hair of mine,
and then I can react to the
smell of your pensamiento 
– kind of in Inglés – which
is traveling from the vocals
of the siren in the autopistas 
of the world, but only coming
to salvarme a mí, rescue me.

— F.P. @Mujerconvoz_poetry


This is a collaboration with a talented and special writer from Hawaii @Christy.Passion. This photo was taken by yours truly to a special woman and her kid.

They want us to remember
the afternoon glow through
muslim curtains over the kitchen sink,
where they gently lowered
out tiny newborn bodies
into warm sudsy water
humming, always humming;
hoping we remember our
weightlessness and quenched
Could we forget their gaze,
little birds pegged on our
fingers and toes,
lifting their downy masterpieces
preparing us for flight.

— @Christy.Passion

Mothers. Woman. Nature .
The ones who are always looking through the clutter of toys for an “everything is all right” filled with dirty fingernails,and
Registering. Insisting. Pacifying. Consenting.Loving in all the ways you can imagine,the bodies of their birds bloom since we too were feathers in their arms.They always keep a moment between their white stretch marks.They do not want the wind to grow.
Still, they turn up the melody,dancing in the kitchen, letting her creatures free outside the room of her own belly.

—F.P. @Mujerconvoz_poetry

Poem X

(This poem was co-written with a talented Dominican writer)

The flames of the axes from Earth are stationed in his eyebrows.
He kisses with his feet the unconscious mind.
I’ve seem him in the foam of the wind, naked as a hurricane.
He is one, inside of millions of thoughts.
The mirror is his age without
a flesh tissue from an orgasm with an expiration date. I want to hug him…
unnamed in the tentative curves of his existence.
Him — unreachable and fleeting, without a body and a breath from the universe.
One who lives in a jail inside the abdomen of the horizon.
He would be the intense desire
until he stops being what he will never be.

— F.P. @mujerconvozpoetry

And perhaps it never will be.
But in his attempt, he has given me everything that can be given.
Torrents of stroking caress down the
backbone of the Galaxy.
Illusions of having his sight embodied
in my horizon, and let the sea foam alone embrace our bodies.
Merge into one.
And wake up in the gusting arms of the wind,
which encompasses with the rapidly beating of our beats.
While the crystal clear reflection of his eyes shows me the infinite tortuous
pleasure that lurks in the womb of desire.
He — volatile as the wind, faceless
name among millions of thoughts.
Meanwhile,he offers me the world
without being.
And maybe, it will never be.

— D.C.M.F. @dcmf3

Photo by Oliver Gonzalez-Santos

Latina and More

imageCuando dos latinas se unen en la escritura, esto sucede. When two latinas unite in writing, this happens.

a duality of identity in my mirror
not enough…
I wanted a long raven mane
and a Spanish sounding name
I wanted caramel satin skin
and to match so much to fit
and a closer place to sit
I wanted Selena curves and hips
plump and red sinful lips
I wasn’t Latina and too white
not enough in their sight
not to me in another’s gaze
their judgment left me dazed
a duality of identity in the
never enough…
an Irish last name and a Spanish
ivory skin and a Latina soul
I am me
and I am enough.

-C.Dougherty @Poetry_goddess88

a match in the mirror
of my skin…
incarnated in the gaze of society
pleading for more
I’m not abundant with just
Latin arcs emerging from my
elogated Afro Caribbean hair
an exotic name attesting the remints
of the Age of Exploration
A brain that is starving for insight
it is not sufficient for them
I am traitor of my land
when I departed to improve my life
I am not complete
I am not an authentic
since I decided
to hide my behind with my character
adapted to a new soil
fixing cracked gates with culture
I am not one of them
I am not one of the others either
in this margin of the sphere
an accent cutbacks the dignity
a brown skin & Spanish name
decreases my odds
In the mist,
I live in match of dual worlds
when I am only one
I am
blending in a cup with oil and vinegar
without losing

-F.P. @mujerconvozpoetry

Teachers of Everywhere

Its echo enrages a movement
of youth waves.
Ears are easily shifted by
gestures of hands.
Its wisdom recharges when twenty
something eager eyes beg for learning.
All crave to be as this odd voice,
they are lying if they
call you tight-fisted.
They’re just pretending.
At home they articulate with
your murmur,
moving their hands
becoming the parallel image of yourself
placing the head inside a book.
The positive door you opened
led them. It was all
worth the pain.

—F.P. @mujerconvoz_poetry

We go through life passing on
knowledge, dreams, and hopes
to those who come after, even
those who can’t see the value
in our experiences. We go
on hoping we save them hurt
and pain, but they push away
finding paths known only to them.
The experiences must be their
own, their life lived, and their
victories and defeats owned.
The pain and beauty when they
leave returns tenfold in love
and pride when they return.

—M R @unclewalt2