Tuesday, April 30, 2013


I saw that newscast today
It has been such a long time
She looks so old I may say
Six years?
The same old news on the tv
And wrinkles aging a face
So hard to see
How this time came to be
The scene moves in a flash
As the mirror reflects
Versions of me

Monday, April 29, 2013


Image: Old Lady threading by Ronaldo de Campos Fernandes

A gloomy old lady
With a hump.
Threading on the old spinning wheel
Bony fingers still dexterous
but slow
no hurries
signs of past times
From the window at the high tower she watches the clock
in constant oscillation
at each twang

The heart no longer accompanies the clock
It goes at it’s own pace
The wheel, the clock , memories
rotate with the earth
in a centrifugal universe

Those whom watch from the light won’t see her
She is mixed in the grim darkness
in yellowish earth tones
in the shadows of yesterday

The veil of cataract does not hide completely the light
As she gazes from the window the colors of extinct days

She is longing
since the womb longing before,
a constant gaze at yesterday
memories marked in a pendulum
of a constant time

The old lady glimpses memories,
where time is always present
she gazes from the darkness
A long absent yesterday
The mother scolds her scraped knee
The red ribbon
Felix,  the kitten buried in the backyard
Blushing yet the memory of a kiss
Ecstasy still the inebriating images of love

The thread falls from her hands
entangled to the possibilities
of what might have been
of that yarn reel

The old lady pulls chunks of cotton
insidiously turning the old spinning wheel
rotating forward
she weaves a reel
to be knitted into the little girl’s dress
a girl who still turns into the womb

The piercing squeak of the spinning wheel
follows the black hole
within her chest
swallowing to permanent darkness
the nebular spark
of a longing dwarf star

Monday, April 15, 2013

Boston’s saddest marathon

Flying flags united
At the finish line
Runners run
Their big run
Spring cradles
Happy smiles
Patriotic shouts
Of a city’s day out
Hearts pounce
Trying to reach
That finish line
Only to find at last
Just a blast
A globe of smoke
Colored white
And instantly
The colors
Flush away
From faces
By the monotone
Of sadness
Was not a medal
At that finish line
As we cry for Boston
As we cry for peace

Monday, April 8, 2013


It’s already too late
To wrap, to cuddle, to love,
To cradle
She was found on a lake
No cry
The silence screams
Wilting the new born flowers
She won’t ever bloom
She has crossed the gate,
The Iron doors of fate
No name
Floats on a lake
Why forsaken?
Where are you mom?
No sound, no womb
No happy birthday
Stranger’s arms
And hearts
Flowers spin fast paced
Knitting a blanket
Of petals
To warm cold hearts
To make life place
There will never be a date
Let it be silence
No debates
Little Ellie has emerged
Above in heaven
Let her memories be
Just petals
Aboard a lake