The stroke of the sea upon my door is blue sensation between my toes, and your impetuous leap through my spirit is no less blue, an eternal birth. All the color of awakened aurora the sea and you swim to my encounter, and in the madness of loving me until the shipwreck you both go breaking the ports and the oars.
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If I just had a ship of seagulls, and could for an instant stop them, and shout my voice that they fight in a simple duel of mystery! That one in the other might find his own voice, interweave their dreams in the wind, bind stars in their eyes so that they give, united, their beams.
May there be a duel of music in the air the opened magnolias of their kisses, that the waves dress in passions and the passion dress in sailboats. All the color of awakened aurora may the sea and you expand it into a dream that it carry my ship of seagulls and leave me in the water of two skies. I wanted to be like men wanted me to be: an attempt at life; a game of hide and seek with my being. But I was made of nows, and my feet level on the promissory earth would not accept walking backwards and went forward, forward, mocking the ashes to reach the kiss of new paths.
At each advancing step on my route forward my back was ripped by the desperate flapping wings of the old guard. But the branch was unpinned forever, and at each new whiplash my look separated more and more and more from the distant familiar horizons; and my face took the expansion that came from within, the defined expression that hinted at a feeling of intimate liberation; a feeling that surged from the balance between my life and the truth of the kiss of the new paths. Already my course now set in the present, I felt myself a blossom of all the soils of the earth, of the soils without history, of the soils without a future, of the soil always soil without edges of all the men and all the epochs.
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And I was all in me as was life in me.. But I was made of nows; when the heralds announced me at the regal parade of the old guard, the desire to follow men warped in me, and the homage was left waiting for me. Nada turba mi ser, pero estoy triste. Nothing troubles my being, but I am sad. Something slow and dark strikes me, though just behind this agony, I have held the stars in my hand.
It must be the caress of the useless, the unending sadness of being a poet, of singing and singing, without breaking the greatest tragedy of existence. Forgive me, oh love, if I do not name you!
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Apart from your song I am dry wing. Death and I sleep together. Only when I sing to you, I awake. Azul, Moreno, Rojo. Llanto grande. Rio Grande de Loiza! Coil yourself upon my lips and let me drink you, to feel you mine for a brief moment, to hide you from the world and hide you in yourself, to hear astonished voices in the mouth of the wind.
Adolescence arrived. Life surprised me pinned to the widest part of your eternal voyage; and I was yours a thousand times, and in a beautiful romance you awoke my soul and kissed my body. Where did you take the waters that bathed my body in a sun blossom recently opened? Who knows on what remote Mediterranean shore some faun shall be possessing me!
Who knows in what rainfall of what far land I shall be spilling to open new furrows; or perhaps, tired of biting hearts I shall be freezing in icicles! Blue mirror, fallen piece of blue sky; naked white flesh that turns black each time the night enters your bed; red stripe of blood, when the rain falls in torrents and the hills vomit their mud. Man river, but man with the purity of river, because you give your blue soul when you give your blue kiss.
Most sovereign river mine. Man river. The only man who has kissed my soul upon kissing my body. Great flood of tears. Julia de Burgos page on Amazon. My mother, father, brother, and I Time went by and took each one of them away. I am a family of one; that is not a family at all. Simplemente se fue. Distilled by hearts spun inside out, a rainbow of emotion Collides with the gentle sting of redemption. We are one; we are many.
A human connection, a blended confection of color and creeds, of distrust and good deeds. We triumph. But in spite of it all we prevail—because we are many and yet we are one.
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Her hands cover me. The fabric has worn thin but the threads are still soft. I press my face into his shirt. It smells like home. Me gusta la lluvia. Me gusta la quietud de la nieve. Todas estas cosas me gustan. I return under a sunset blazing like a Jimi Hendrix anthem We're thirsty; we drink light slinks away into shadows we've earned the solace of darkness Nighttime caresses a blessing for tomorrow. The mischievous smile of a sister after a long day and a kiss on the cheek from father. The safety of a home and the comfort of a hug and everything is right in the world.
My granddaughter's six year-old chocolate hand. Enclosed fervently by my age-spotted vanilla hand. We walk skin to skin. We walk love to love. I'm dressed in black. Listening to her favorite church hymn. She's not in the casket. She's sitting in the vacant seat next to me, holding my hand and singing right along as He calls her home.
Twenty feet above ground, the cold wind bites my nose. Before me, a green field, like a golf course surrounded by trees. High in a tree, looking at the leaves falling.
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Smell of smoke from a campfire and laughs from my dad, brothers, and me. The smell of homemade mashed potatoes and gravy hit us as we walked in the door, The sounds of eating, talking, and laughing as we returned to the kitchen for more. Sand conducts better than asphalt As the twins rejuvenate Her memory in waves While Simon dreams of the sea And angelic calls to action.
It was a dark December night, warmed only by the fire in the living room. I was fourteen years old and the thought of never seeing grandma again tore me apart. My mother cradled my grown body as if I were an infant. I take one last gaze on the black and white cows on the grassy knoll.
It was late afternoon in August when I began to swing my golf club on hole nine. My phone rang. I begged her to tell me why she called. I could hear the denial, the hesitation.
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When mom and I make brownies, the aroma of chocolate fills the kitchen; I see the splatter of batter on the stove, I hear the buzz of the mixers beaters, and I taste the chocolate sweet to my tongue. Eggs, water, cake mix, and icing. A mouthful of strawberry pound cake, sweetened with my mother's breath. Wooden table, feet propped up, sticky, cake covered fingers, pink stained lips, crumb covered cheeks, and an enormous smile.
Hearing "ball game" with a winning score on the board, the slap of hands from high fives as we take another "W. In this moment, we've grasped family. The smell of the leather ball as my cousin and I play basketball on a cool fall day at our grandparents' house. The sound of the ball as it skips across the pavement and the rush of adrenaline that surges through us as the ball glides into the net. When my brothers and I play football, we don't hear the crowd roaring or the band playing. We don't even smell the freshly painted field.
We lose all senses, focusing only on our coach's strong voice as he tells us: "Keep fighting, boys. I remember your scent of roses and the chicken soup dinners on your green carpeted porch. I recall your cold hands in my warm palm, your ringing laughter, and your brown eyes. I wish these were more than just memories. When I think of family I think of the seasons My mother, her brown hair, the color of autumn My father, cool winter, harsh yet inviting My brother, bubbly summer, full of life All the same yet ever changing All different yet united, one. Evergreen branches and peppermint kisses dance under the noses of the cousins who shake boxes with paper and tight bows.
Like the instinct of a screeching halt on the road to protect an animal To be family is to be passed down. Tengo una gran familia. Mi casa es un poco loca. Pero la vida es buena.