Foto por Natalia Alonzo
Voy a ser un pedazo de sueño en el
bolsillo,entre la oscuridad…
y un aerosol a la calma,
cuando el perfume barato se
trague la chemba roja.
I will be a piece of a dream in the pocket,
between darkness…
and a spray to the calmness,
when the cheap perfume
swallows the red lips.
(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
Cuando 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
mirror
never enough…
an Irish last name and a Spanish
toungue
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
behind
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
plenty
enough
water
blending in a cup with oil and vinegar
without losing
myself.
-F.P. @mujerconvozpoetry
Acostado el sueño
también el dueño
en una cama astuta
con fechas pálidas
Temblando el piso se parte
en pedazos cortos
Y un vampiro cualquiera
se tragó el sol con las venas
Quiso despertar
Quiso alimentar
Quiso, quiso no tanto queriendo
En un sueño se acostó
Acostado con párpados afueras
Muestra sus heridas acostado
Acostado debió estar en otro sitió.
—F.P.
“Los platos ma’ bueno’ son los de tu espaldarazo
Los platos ma’ bueno’ son a las 12PM
cuando el sol se prende en fogón
Los platos ma’ bueno’ son
bueno ese arroz
moros y cristianos
y esa lengua que la bautiza
cuando tiene la frente sudando
a repollo
lejos de su tierra.”
“The best dishes are the ones from your
backing
The best dishes are at 12PM
when the sun catches on fire
The best dishes are the good ones
that good rice
Moors and Christians
and that tongue that baptizes
when the forehead is sweating
cabbage
far from home.”
—F.P.
Photo by Oliver González Santos
Let your voice sound, not to be forgotten.
The throat should transfer filled with laughter.
Clear – like the ego of your jokes,
just like the light beam that got dressed
to enter the window.
Make your voice an echo: endless.
— F.P.
Photo by José A. Silva
Where did I leave my feet?
They’re no longer free
Divided
instead of walking up the path
they are frozen with the anticipation
On which side should I place the lung
at the foot of the road?
It’s killing me slowly
I do not know if my insides want to fly
or the one I once was.
By F.P.
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
carefully,
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
Embriagada de tiempo y por África,
embotellada a un granito de arena
en el núcleo del camino al sol.
Dormido infinitamente
en la hebra,
en la trigueña,
en la ciguapa,
el marrón asfixiao’de ti anda
—consintiendo la cadera de un peine barato
risas que se tragan los rizos.
Desnudando miradas caminas
en rolo de proporcionados con
pinchos tímidos sin dueño
de camino al colmado y a la sombra.
Podrás agachar la loma de donde viene la palma,
pero jamás desmembrar la raíz del trópico a donde nacen estas
damas.
—F.P.
Moon
eating herself.
Asabache.
Emty spaces
seducing two X-rays.
Forgetting the
tongue is
a temple
and
a sin.
Mujer con Voz Poetry 