Expectations

No more blind dates and no more forced chit chat;

No more rushed sentences hoping that I’ll bite back;

No more London blokes and no more blonde women;

No more action before meaningful reflection;

No more overstepping and no more indecision;

No more pedestals and slow walking pedestrians;

No more deep sighs across a deeper blue ocean;

No more leaving my fate to other’s expectations.

 

October 13th, 2019

Advertisements

Time, Reflected

The feelings I write,

the feelings I give

today I ponder time

and a clock strung with string

and the powerful men

of tomorrow

when I take a stake

in my own power,

honey,

when I sip tea and drink juice

(smoothies, preferably)

I feel mad at times,

and worried at times

past and future “tick” by

but present

molds,

holds,

unfolds

in the up-down motion of an eyelid,

the snowflake melting on your palm,

the silence when dad shows up

but not mom.

It is in these spaces that time was invented,

and dreams were had

where forgiveness was a portal

within a portal

and sand did not make the hour glass –

it was the ocean that made the glass,

the sea whispering home

as I recount

powerful men,

and the flipping of coins,

and the thrill of a poem

well ended.

 

inspired by the work I saw at chanorth art residency: https://www.instagram.com/chanorthartresidency/

cover art: https://www.instagram.com/dannibellandostudio/

 

July 29, 2019

Stories

Waves of story –

that is an emotional life…

trauma informed you have to mentally be still,

learn to see the busyness in your body, in your mind, practice

often, even though it isn’t fair you were born into a god damned

patriarchal, capitalistic, racist, classist, sexist, homophobic society

that favors my white Latina skin, that denies my queerness,
that pokes fun at my gender
every   single    day.

And stories- stories are life’s meaning that, in their fullest,
most fleshed out form, make us human.

I want this to be an ode to SBU; to HC;

an ode to Bruce,

my body, my breath;

an ode to my throat; an ode to my face;

an ode to my familia, my Kenny, my mother; an ode to my father,
brother, sister, to friends long lost;

an ode to America, to nationalism and Puerto Rico’s remains;

an ode to my pen;

an ode to emotional bodies laying dormant, untouched,

by a warmed soul lingering underneath,

pure animal energy

born in the womb of the Earth, returning to the universe

once I dare to turn each story around…

December 6, 2017

you are a ship

these feelings

of being stuck

seem to be unbearable–

it’s all connected

cyclical

dense

not me

what is me?

well,

it’s sitting under a tree,

maybe sipping some tea,

not minding the clouds

just letting all flow naturally–

see!

that’s me.

sitting in the shade,

not letting the day fade

you are here for one hour,

one year, one day at a time

in your mind

now you, my dear,

are a ship

and this house, my dear,

is your anchor.

you can sail freely,

without ever loosing your capacity

to come home.

 

October 23, 2016

at the ocean

my intention,

my desire,

my secret wish

is to simplify life.

 

many men

have tried It;

we heard about it.

 

It didn’t work.

 

many women

have tried It;

we didn’t hear about it.

 

(proof enough) It didn’t work.

 

we searched for It

in churches and mosques,

temples and tall, gray shopping malls.

 

we listened for It

at TED talks, college lecture halls

and sports stadiums with 80,000 seats.

 

when fate

grants you power,

what do you do with It?

 

men decided to seek It only in themselves,

simplicity and peace and glory

owned by one hand, one heart, one tear.

 

I ask: where does the tear come from?

Where does the water come from?

I’ll start by listening there.

 

March 18, 2016.

Anxiety

When you open up about it

I’m not promising it will be easy.

.

When the air becomes thick

like white cream cheese

and you can’t simply scrape off the edges

with a knife you wonder

who else is feeling this way?

.

I thought my mother did;

but she said, “What I’m feeling is physical,”

I thought the government did;

but they said, “She’s a terrorist

and he has a mental health problem,”

I thought a suicide every thirteen minutes

would be enough to prove

our grasp on this epidemic is not tight enough.

.

I want to say,

“This is physical,”

when it crashes over me

like a war-torn tide,

daily sabotage not unlike your migraine

I wish I could go swallow an Aspirin

but one pill in the middle of an ocean

will not magically make the water calmer.

.

It is when we realize that we are

the water,

the tide,

each speck of sand we trickle onto

they are sprinkled in our bones–

not unlike the stars

the heavens will always be there,

waiting.

.

For even at your worst,

peace is always flowing;

anxiety

is not you,

it is just a word

you may not feel it now

but feel your breath–

it has not left you yet

the beauty found in nature

is found in your own skin,

still waters under roaring currents

just as Love sits

under pain,

patiently.

.

When you open up about it

I’m not promising it will be easy.

.

I’m promising it will be worth it.

.

December 20th, 2015

spread some love today and speak your truth– you are worth it

The Return

The

extraordinary

powers

of letting go,

magic

of feeling pen

on paper skin–

we are all

cut out dolls

made with razor sharp scissors

let me

let go

and make my art the way I want to.

 

I will whisper away

those sad navy blues

and caress them with specks of gold

found only at the bottom of the ocean–

a place

where all artists can drop their ink

and return

home.

 

December 4, 2015