To Mi Alma With Love

These eyes are Norwegian:
changing from green to blue
with the ocean tides in the fjords.
Hiding behind books like the fog
that wraps the cliffs at sunset.

this tongue is Swedish
catching words like fisherman’s nets
tangled and gasping with life.

These lips are French
as lusty and warm as the Riviera;
street cafes and cigarettes
easily getting full or loose
with wine and laughter.

This spirit is German
built back from ashes
not knowing that walls
dont mean strength
till all walls fall.

These hands are Irish
calloused from carrying
too many burdens
that were not my own.

A bloodline;
Norwegian, Swedish, French, German and Irish.

A Bloodline that
does not point to conquistadores, mestizos or maya.

But this soul, esta alma, born of the dust of the Andes;
It has been plundered like the foothill
Minas de oro by those that lust for quick capital.

It has burst its banks in the Amazon spring
carving valles with the tears of Gods
sacrificed and forgotten only to be uncovered again.

You would never know
los secretos I’ve hidden
just behind my ribs
letters from motherless children
memorias of singing to them
under a Mexican moon.

You would never know
the memory of rhythms
I carry en mi cadera
Unable to resistir the down
Beat of drums in salsa,
meregue and bachata
at times lento and sensual
then agile and electrico.

Thighs like united fruit trees
Swelling with heat and the cycles
Of la tierra.
Mouth up turned to the first
lluvia of the summer.

My heart bleeds la pasión
for justice like jungle guerrillas
desperately single-minded
loosing myself to the best intentions.

A skin that sweats the morning
dew on the cacao trees
knowing even the harvest can not
change bullets, stolen lands and unmarked graves.

At night my ears still hear
the victory cries of
Havana Revoluciones.

To my ladies....waiting is not a bad thing (sort of a rant).

This might not be a poem maybe just some thoughts. Maybe I am too comfortable being alone but I think that it is important for women now-a-days to not desire commitment at the sacrifice of self-discovery. The truth is there is no human that can complete you except for you. It is only in knowing loneliness and its beauty that you can understand what it means to be together with someone...not just romantically but in all relationships...cultivate the positivity associate with loneliness...make friends with it. Give yourself space.



The lake has finally frozen.
You stand at the edge and erase all memories
of the summer.

The trees are bare and
naked and shivering in shame.
A thin branch reaches towards you
as you hear the echo of the waves
and the fading symphony of the fallen leaves.

A suspended moment a quick breath
sacred reopened.

full.
It is your own.
In attic of your intimate ramblings
safe to run wild in the flesh of solitary grace.
It is your own...or him
that emptiness that brings full.

As the wind howls through
each molecule of crisp air
the layered eves of your hair
have begun to dance around your eyes.
You used to let it foxtrot the corn silk
of your school girl braids on your back.

Between the tomato plants and green beans
long ago
you were enough.

Between the rushes and the birch
right now
you are enough.

Between the seeding future and rooted past
you will be enough.

The vast silence of frozen water before
is not frightening.
The noiselessness perched in your head
is not restless.

It breaths you an elegy
Dear woman
Do not dread the mate of stillness.
Let its taste become your skin.
Find its hair on the pillow next to you.
Love him for all of his contradiction
the pain of alone and the pleasure of refuge.

He will leave his consistent
occupancy in the empty spaces
in your tooth brush holder
and vacant side of the bed.

For these few years he is yours

Only yours.

Let him know you.

Let him.

Know you.

Know.

Empty.
and
Full.