Thursday, July 26, 2012

I dedicate these things to who I am

I dedicate these things to who I am;

A water fall and streams of tender beauty
emerging through the night, whisper's in silence
of rivers with naked hearts, 

Roses dancing with
the stars over their heads, and singing Rock
Bands with love songs,

A thousand chocolate kisses that melt
and turn to sweet hymns, and  little drops of heaven
more peace grows in my white footsteps,

Warm up a thousand
fur, fur that never stops caressing the night,
A nocturnal flower
waiting to be kissed,

I am the word Precious,
because precious cannot be ignored,

a placid lake and falling thin rain
bringing a gentle slow melody,
captivating each touch,

I am not these things
they just live in me.

12 Elena

Monday, July 23, 2012



He has the edge of me, the quill,
and the waves of prolong prose.
The hands move, they write with no
purpose but to disappear into death minds.

Meanings of grief
turning into dark stone, teardrop become
ice drops, reach the end, and break
into dry whispers of cry. 


Saturday, July 21, 2012

Bring me the autumn

Bring me the autumn

I remember you as you were in the
last autumn, The leaves adorned my
heart with your music. 

They were sounds
of your cadence voice that never left
the air like echoes in the wind, even
the birds sang like you. 

They had your tongue and throat, 

you were the artist
with no fame, your appearance your
voice were steady and calm.

They brought to me hymns and peace.
In your eyes the serenity of your soul
were like flames of light that never burned.

You were the white sheets of my bed,
always in peace and warm, The autumn
brought back your guitar your slow melody
like a breeze beneath my curtains,
and my house was then singing like
my heart.


You were so clever

You were so clever

You were so clever 
you diged into my world 

like ants looking for shelter,
I was empty like a tunnel,

You were vicious like a snake. 

Not while you needed 
my lips to quench your fire, 
I became vain in my desires,

When you weren't killing me 

you were charming, 
and when you were charming 
you were still a liar.

I never really knew you, 

you were silence with
many secrets hidden, and I was 

not with you.
I clinch to sadness and sadness 

so tenderly hold me back, 
I can smell the gardenia of 
your emptiness and it 
grabs my soul,
So sweet, yet so dead

with tears of pouring thin rain, 

they touched my bones 
and hurt me,

Beating my hopes, 

my words are more yours than mine, 
they climb up my body like flames
waiting for your return.

You are the blame for 

this cruel tone in my voice, 
before you, there was nothing 
but me, 
now you left a hole in me!
you hear me?


Ode to passion

Ode to passion

I say, too much passion in us poets, 
like a touch of a thousand
saccharine taste invading our veins, 
we cannot restrain, we
cannot condemned the only reason 
for our being, passion is what keeps us 
breathing, passion can make us see it all
different than others, not to cease, not to die
or give-up, passion grows in our soul, 
it reminds us it is there every minute of our day, 
when we need to count the hours
to get to him/her. 
Passion is the sedactive to our worst day.
The essential of reason, 
the way to a path, 
to rivers and streams that find our dreams, 
passion is a vessel making a net
reaching our heart our souls
keeping the beat louder and quieter in waves 
frequencies, passion is vigor, 
is a sparkle in our heart that continually 
beats violently and has no outcome.
Passion is un "Corazon salvaje".



Friday, July 20, 2012

The walls

The walls

Life, here in the surroundings of my white walls,
the walls that watch me while I pray, while I sing,
while I dance and work in my little room, while
I cry. These white walls they know my life, only
they cry with me, or sing or pray or dance, they give
my life the warm feelings of hands. 

The colors of my works the fabrics, the pen 
that move my hands, the architect of my bones, 
the father, the "I AM", they all live in me. 
Life, life is my big question! , life is the
I AM, and the I AM is life. 

I gather here in my room all of my works, 
the good, the bad and the worse,
they come alive with my help. 
Life in these white walls, pink I rather say;  
“I love pink!” 

My sink full of dishes waiting to 
be washed, the flowers on my table growing roots, 
the doors and windows always on guard, 
the lamps that never cease to give me light,
the sofa so exhausted of my exhausting body, 
the tree near my window poking at me, 
then the cry of a puppy I hear it all the time. 

My shop my objects they dream
and have their own mind, they wear the colors 
of life, they dress up and move my soul,
I love how they love me back.



The waving


The waving

I’m here , you are there,  
a vessel  waving in our veins,
the hours  that count my significant 
life, the constant image of  thee, 
you! you are the title of my book,
of my memento, how I seek 
thee in the little things I see
your  face  there in the body 
of a grasshopper, a  butterfly, 
a nectar flower,  any where 
I look I see the endless of your  
profound eyes, in the landscape 
of my deserted life.
Where do you go and where do I look,
it is not that I worship thee 
but  that I need to live. 
I’m dressed with the vision 
of the bride to be in vain,
who  told me I was his , 
I can lie all I want,
I can pretend all I want, 
"why are you so vivid"?
I know is all  an illusion, 
theres nothing real there.
You are gone and I am here 
trying to dismiss the fact
of your cruelness, the smell 
of your last day in my true,
in my illusion, the fantasy 
I created to replace the
pain that follows my aching body.





Betrayed is a canceled line with
an attachment of true lies- believing
it yourself, becomes your real truth.

Reality is awake- betrayed is not
a nightmare, but a prison
in your own flesh.


More poems, popular post ~~~~on the right side column

Thursday, July 19, 2012

My companion

My companion;

I don't know where I’ll be,
when who ever buys my book to read.
I was just writing the date on my new
notebook, and these thoughts came to my mind.

Sometimes when I'm going over some
writing I see the date on the paper,
and it brings me memories of
how I felt at the time when I
wrote those poems ,

Those notes, they have the flavor
of me. My intimate thoughts my most
saddest and happiest moments of
my existence.

My poems my notes my
stories and my hands, they are one,
one memory in all together.
The way my hands clinch my
writing my every move of prose.

I don't know who
Will want to read the writing coming
from a stranger a none-known poet.
From lonesome I, no one
knows who she is.

I cherish every letter,
word and phrase my hands have written.
Because all of this has been to me a wonderful
companion of my lonesome life of appetence to feed.


Wednesday, July 18, 2012

Ode to you

Ode to you;

It is not how you look, 
But how I see you, 
With chaste heart and pure eyes, 
I solemnize you, 

My beloved, 
I restraining my fervent blood, 
To be recognize not, 
I quietly awake, 

But you bed yourself in my lines, 
As in placid lakes, 
Or wave-foam

Earth music
Seas fragrance
In you, 

Nakedly clear, 
And beautiful to me, 
Whether it is your strong hands, 

On my breast, 
At a primal touch, 
Or your ultra thick lips, 

Like a musical instrument, 
The essentials of your skin, 
Color and redolence.

The deep landscape 
And meekness of your eyes.

You steal my breathe in a verse, 
And I keep writing to you my love.




Love is dormant when you 
Don't remember it, 
I do not want to think of it,
It makes me weep,
It gives me grief,

When I am settle and comfortable,
When I don't
Caress it,
It does not wake,

It does not keep me up at nights
When I don't see the beauty in
People that are in love,
In the birds that sing hymns of
Happines when they join
In their nest to make love.

If I see this tenderness,
If I gaze at them,
All it brings to me is lament, sadness,
For I do not want to think of love.

I want to be free,
Free of what doesn't even
Imprison me,
I do not want to hold love,

Love is like a golden nail
Thrust in my heart,
Love doesn't hold me,
It has no name, no future,
No bones or face,

Love has not just abandon me,
It laugh’s at me,
It hides from me,

I do not know where to find it,
It has no route to take me,
Not even a destiny to hold on to,
Love, love.

I don't know what to do anymore,
For love is not near me,
Love is a thing
That I rather not touch,

Because when I touch it- it burns
Like fire, it kills my hopes my peace ,
I cannot, and I do not want to think of love,

Love is not a feeling,
Is more like an ability,
That I refuse to activate,
And let it sink me away like a
Suffering slave.


Sunday, June 3, 2012

Poetic ache

Poetic ache;

As liquid evaporating,
my reflection vanishes
dust of bone drifted, 

And the quiddity of my 
soul collapses while it waits, 
hoping for a return, 

Like ships in the open sea, 
lingering for 
a placid voyage, 

I continue 
in the same wave, 
like branches I waggle 
vigorously in my aches, 

Trying to elude the reason, 
escaping from my own breath, 
and as I see the leaves of trees 

Each of them feel my pain, 
and I travel in my head to all 
of these places without 
taking a step, 

I dream with my eyes wide open, 
gazing at a fantasy frame, 
for my life becomes poetic
by the endlessness of my constant aches.