In my suffering I have found my strength.
-
With tears in her eyes she dusts off her old satin ballet slippers.
In darkness she gracefully dances once more;
Pointed toes grace finely polished wooden floors.She is not broken;
She is not too old;
She is not cast away.If she had danced in front of an audience they would have cried.
She composes a wonderful poem with her movements;
Her ballad is beautiful; my god, it’s beautiful.In silence, only her movements can be heard;
She dances to the song in her heart.
Fluid movement; She flows … she is a river.The twinkling stars give thunderous applause.
-
In the winter you hurt me deeply, but it was in the summer that I wept.
The high potency of passion mixed with anguish is a painful purge.
The process is slow and deliberate; it cannot be rushed.
Lingering essence of you stalks and torments.
In the lonely hours I drink the cup of sweet reminisce; Intoxication is immediate.
In a lover’s cafe a sad pianist plays the keys of a Steinway beautifully.Memories of love and endless ecstasy while tears fall is beautiful melancholy.
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Act 1: He is born into the world with the pain and screams of his mother. After the agony of labor, sweat and tears, a smile is garnered. A soft blanket. The warmth of a mother’s love. A soft kiss.
Act 2: His pain is immeasurable; his suffering endless. Rough drafts of his epitaphs are written in blood. Hemoglobin is bright red in his fiery veins; life is in him, but more and more he craves the perceived stillness and peace of death.
Act 3: He is reborn as his constant screams reverberate under a blood moon and a darkened sky. He is reborn with tears streaming and in stark nakedness. The grey wolves hear his piercing cries; they howl. The earth is shaken. The gods turn their heads and weep.
-
I remember the words you spoke to me;
Many nights you cried.
The pain of your weeping vividly echoes.
Your smile and laughter I also reminisce.
You were everything to me; Still you are.
If I could, I would collect your teardrops
And turn them into diamonds.
Your blood runs in me grandmother,
For you were both mother and father.
There are some things I must tell you.
In your last agonies you told me I was a good son;
I turned my head; tears streamed.
A woman of love; of generosity.
A beautiful angel you are, Constancia.My abuela Constancia,
In my mind you ride on golden chariots
Drawn by one thousand Arabian horses;
Your Adornment in white is the fabric of the gods.
The rarest of diamonds grace your neck,
Earlobes and wrists.I love you.
-
Beauty lies in a wooden box
Flowing hair rests on top of fuchsia silk
Gold bracelets adorn the wristsPrecious tears fall on white gardenias
The orchestra plays a melancholic song
Why every time does the rain fall?
gods cry –
-
Outstretched arms reach for warmth in cold darkness.
The days of desolation are long;
Love is sought through pursed lips and listless whimpers.
Nights of passion are reminisced, lamented and wept over.
Intimate Compositions 