Serum

Leave a comment

 

Photo by Joelle Santos @azuquita.prieta

 

Amo el tiempo, porque a pesar de ser lento como un suero en hospital público en Santo Domingo, lo arregla todo si se tiene paciencia.

Y mi estructuras favoritas son las arrugas
Y no hay cosas más linda que alguien
que no le tiene miedo a las canas
Y quién engendra paciencia en los costados
es èl (el tiempo), que se asfixia de esta
gente
y lo endulza todo
y la paciencia se sienta a deleitar.
I love the time, because despite being as slow as a public hospital in Santo Domingo, it fixes everything if you have patience.

And my favorite structures are wrinkles
And the cutest thing is someone
that is not afraid of grey hair
And who begets patience on the sides
It is him (the time), who falls in love with
these people
and sweetens all
and patience sits to feel delight.

—F.P. @Mujerconvoz_poetry

Mitad

Leave a comment

Photo by yours truly.

De medias me canse en lo cotidiano. Mitad felicidad/amargura media.
Yo que todo lo entrego me harte de reducir la espera con migajas.
Si vas a querer,  un pino siémbrame. Intenso. Sé intenso como el sol cuando se despoja de los pantalones en la madrugada
si así no…con el veneno quédate. Ofrezco yo con toda intensidad del universo lo que soy, y la mitad rehuso…
no quiero tu medias naranjas que nunca serán pares.

Escape

Leave a comment

[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

Cafécito Colado

Leave a comment

Photo by the author F.P.

 
                                                     A Karolyn Castro

Cada cosita tiene un sabor a ti.
Cada cosa.
Te dejo ir volando
a un árbol de almohadas blandas y
ramas bailarinas azules pálidas con maméis.
Antes de irte,
tu cafécito con nuez moscada de la tarde en la mesa ya está respirando.
Cuando lo apruebo…
estas metida como arena en
el cristal —en esas cositas que se manifiestan en grande y que hablan solas.
En cafécito esta colado en tus ojos,
y en mi ADN
aunque anden tus pies flotando…
en el ruido del amanecer.

Cuentos del Salón 

Leave a comment

Salomé, solo quiero
que me sueltes los moños.
Domingo es hoy.
Quiero verme entera;
entera, enterísima, entérate…
yo te pago lo demás

tú,

tú,

tú …
con t mayúscula.
Salomé,
suéltame los rolos.
Yo quiero soltar la vida.
Yo quiero soltarlo todo.
(No sé lo digas a nadie.
Entre tú y yo, na’ más.)

Don’t Date Women with Stretch Marks

Leave a comment

Don’t date women with stretch marks.
Do yourself a favor… and run.
¡Corre! ¡Corre! Run far
away from them, like
you’re in a marathon to
a black hole, you’re not
going back to Earth.
Ellas son la Tierra,
swallowing your memory,all
up to the moment
you see her.
They know how to
use their white lines
against you.
They know what it’s
like to be stretched
all the way… into a poem
pull all the way back
like Afro-Caribbean hair,
pull back like a metáfora
and still be glorious
and still be alive
having a permanent mark
on you.
You would be missing…
under her curvy smile,
you, will be
like an empty black
and gray wall
in lower Manhathan
on a lower backstreet
finally…
finally…
full of colorful graffiti.

—F.P.

Madres

1 Comment


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
thirst.
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
fatigue.
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

Sobrina

Leave a comment

“El hecho simple de que toques con esos ojos pares estrellados mi rinconcito de niña, ya paralizó el mundo, y lo mismo me da tragarme la sal con lagrimas de todos al frente. Ellos son adultos y olvidaron su inocencia. Poco entenderían lo diminutas que son tus azabache pestañas, el huracán que dejas en las pupilas del que se te acerca y como opacas con tu ausencia las casas.”