Tanto va el cántaro al agua o Ese querer arrancarse de raíz

Somewhere Between


The Hero's Journey

Anima (Mass Poetry, Poem of the Moment, 2018)

La huesera

Feathered Monks

Dark Woods


An Ancient Voice


Samsara (Soul-Lit, a journal of spiritual poetry, 2018)


My Last Day in Barranco

Don't Ask Me

Crimson, Indigo and Red

A Tribute to Cecil, the Lion


Tanto va el cántaro al agua o Ese querer arrancarse de raíz

Un mundo suspendido

en la madrugada del tiempo.

Una rutina de días.

Me escondo detrás de una palabra

me sacuden los vientos de marzo

y las lluvias de abril con sus augurios.

Vaivén de horas perdidas.




Ese querer ser y no ser.

Esas ansias de no volver.


Somewhere Between

Everyone runs.

I remain still, dazed.

Somewhere between the vast sea

and the blue sky,

In the land of dreams.

Fading away,

Filled with questions.

Mystery sinking into my skin.

Seeping, burning.

Still alone,

Still waiting.



Who by the water

remember the void,


Perhaps if you drink

not from the glass of oblivion

and stay

awake long enough.


But know:

the rain

is not the ocean,

the passing

of time

won’t make you

a sage.


Instead it will reveal

the silver threads,

the deep blue shadows,

like an impressionist painting

seen from far away


But if you stay long enough,

before words were spoken

and drink

from the other glass.





In the primal lands,

a shapeless shadow

of ancient archetypes.


I am the utterance

of my own name,

she claims.


She dwells inside a castle

in an island of mirrors,



I am the whore and the

holy one,

she says.


Through the mountains,

past the blood moon

under the flowing waves.


I am the honored one

and the scorned one,

she screams.


Named and unnamed,

in legends and tales

in music and myths.


I am the silence that is


she whispers.


Unknown to us all,

until the rain comes down

like thunder.


La huesera   (English translation)


mujer tardía


vives en tinieblas

esperando la muerte



mujer malentendida

no te avergüences

de tu sombra

una luna gibosa te llama

para fundirte con el plenilunio



mujer bruja

dentro de ti está lo que buscas.

Recoge tus huesos.

Enmienda tus alas.



mujer gitana

baila, baila,


para ahuyentar

a la muerte


The Hero’s Journey

Can you hear

the call to adventure?

Under the sycamore trees

and constellations

of ancient dust,

at the verge of light.


Can you hear

the river underground?

In the woods,

in the shadows,

at night:

when there’s no one

you can lie to.


Can you hear

the mourning doves?

Your cells aching

to go beyond

the threshold

of your unlived life

and fight the dragons

of your imagination

with alchemy.


Can you feel

the rising wind,

tearing up

your dead



Can you feel

the grey smoke

of past bonfires,

burning heresy?


To taste the wounds

of your strength,

with elation.


To learn the secrets

of the cicadas,

and turn acorns

into stars.


Until She comes,

the one with

no beginning

and no end,

let us drink

from the cup

of atonement.


Only then

we return




Feathered Monks


I put on my wings

went by the window

and flew to the wires

of Edgell and Rt. 9,


Aligned myself like a

musical note on a scale

concealing my identity

from the pigeons


I saw cars, many cars

faces, thousands of faces

rushing up and down Edgell Rd.

looking down at bright phones

looking sadly at dark skies

going where?


The pigeons loved the frenzy

of humans,

found it amusing,


until one starts the dance

and the others follow:

circles, spirals, waves

ellipses, up and down

acrobats in the air


Only to return

like feathered monks

to their hypnotic states:

quietly, perfectly aligned

like musical notes

on a scale.


Dark Woods


in the middle of

my life, one day,

I got lost.

Dark woods,

creatures I thought I knew

but didn’t,

rituals I seemed to imagine

but couldn’t,

I didn’t stay lost

for long,

the sun peeked out

too soon,

and then I saw the path

to nothingness.



Some days I want to be a wild bird

Or just turn invisible

And be free, really free.


Other days I just want not to be seen

by mortal eyes

And be ethereal, boneless.


Most days I feel the time is near

When I will be both

Free and ethereal.


An Ancient Voice

A plume, a stone, a broken seal.

A river of words to reveal

Why can’t I feel you?


A bird, a cup, an unmade bed

Another day that unfolds

What are you hiding?


A path, a wave, an opened door

Crossroads wherever I go

Where is your kingdom?


A tree, a hill, a quiet house

Nothing that time cannot heal

Why am I trembling?


A spell, an ankh, an ancient voice

Maybe I am finally awake

Or am I dreaming?



Lima, Perú, 1985


I was twelve, unripe

like a fruit not plump enough

to fall

on the ground



Tell me, the priest said

Did someone touch you?

No, but I lied to my mother,

stole coins from my father’s pocket.


But tell me, the priest insisted

Did someone touch you?

his American accent

cutting the silence

of the quiet chapel.


No, but I didn’t walk the dog

so he jumped

from the rooftop

and broke his rib.


He closed his eyes,

made the sign

of the cross and said

ten Padre Nuestros and

ten Ave Marias.

Be a good girl now.



I thought once about giving up.

A box of pills,

A bottle of rum.

Goodbye world.

But parents have six senses.

I was rushed to the ER

Where I grabbed the hand of a nurse

and asked her:

“Would you like to be my friend?”



I see them daily

I see them everywhere.

Even if I scream, they wouldn’t notice me

They wouldn’t hear me


Men and women walking

In the Garden of Good and Evil.

They think they know, they judge

But they don’t see past clouds.


Like sleepwalkers

Stepping on living creatures,

Careless, not seeing, not feeling

Just walking.


My Last Day in Barranco

A coastal town swept in fog,

A looming sense of sadness

Moon peeking above

Waves hitting the rocks.


Memories spent by the sea

arrived like burning waves.

Why if I never return

to this coastal town?


Abysmal thoughts of loneliness.

The icy air froze my tears

while I was saying goodbye

to my coastal town.


Inside, my head is spinning.

Instead, I drift away, alone

into an unknown world.


Don't Ask Me

Don’t let your first question be:

Where are you from?

The land that heard my first cry

Can’t tell much about me,



The secrets I hide,

Why I trust my wings,

The ghosts that I fight,

Why tears fill my eyes,

The songs I sing aloud when I know I’m alone


Don’t ask me where I’m from. No, don’t ask me that yet.

My face is a mirror reflecting your gaze

The answers you seek just won’t come that way

Don’t ask me about my land, my roots, my beginnings

If you want to know me, then ask better questions,



Do you dance in the rain?

Are you afraid of the unknown?

Do you have recurring dreams?

Have you unmasked the false prophets?

What stories do you tell in the dark of night?


Crimson, Indigo and Red

What should I tell the earth?

I still remember

your last summer night,

drinking from the moonlight

and the silent sky.

I was there the day

they pronounced your fate:

A cheap transaction,

a shake of hands.


What should I tell the earth?

I saw when they came

to measure you,

to take your pictures

I ran away when

the death machines arrived

then returned too soon

to see your limbs

neatly piled, tied with rope.

I smelled death

and senseless sacrifice.


What should I tell the earth?

which now holds your graves

where only last autumn, you-

a couple of majestic maples

stood, coloring the landscape

crimson, indigo and red.


A Tribute to Cecil, the Lion

Beyond the Zimbabwe canopies

A sunny day across the plains

Mane flowing like a halo in the air

You were majestic, running free.


That day a hunter came for you

Who wanted your hide and your mane

He needed to feel like a man.

He needed to feel like a lord.


He used bait to lure you away

The arrow struck. You had to crawl

Intense pain you had to bear

Far away from your two prides.


For forty hours you walked in pain

Crisp winter grass under your paws

Your golden coat stained with red

Wandering through the barren lands.


“Farewell my cubs, my lioness

Warm dusty African sunsets

Our magic dark glittery nights

It’s time to leave this savannah.”


A bullet struck; he took your life

The entire world heard your last roar

Within me a bellow grew

I am not the same

You made me strong.