I rise,

From my knees, from my bondage,

I rise,

Tall and mighty,

I rise,

Like the lark in the morning,

The nightingale at night,

Singing my song,

I rise.

Poor, lonely, even ugly,

I rise,

Oppressed, broken, destroyed,

I rise

And become the sun and the stars

And every flower that ever bloomed,

Bloomed first in my heart,

For I held on to my dreams when

The darkness kicked and bit me, I

Held them tight.

And now I rise.

To a new day that has my name,

My face, my still timid smile.

My day.

And on this day I give out my hand

To you my sister, and tell you,

Let’s rise.

Tall and high.




Valles de Aragua


I like the colour green,

The fresh, bright green of the

Hills I grew up in,

A spring green, the green of baby

Lambs jumping in the meadows,

The green of dreams, impossible,

As the sea green edging the blue

Ocean before the land claims

The space -the natural

Homes of mermaids, some

Would say, or playground,

Where they would sit and sing

Dressed in green algae and

Silvery-green fish tails -but I digress.

I like the colour green,

Coconut green as the hills

I grew up in.

They are black and red today, those hills.

Black by fire, red by death.

No ancient house stands to tell

My story and games; the garlands

I made for the Spring festival; the

Green ones I weaved to crown

My hair, as I pretended to be the

Sea green princess sitting by

The greenish pond.

It is brown, now, the pond.

No one jumps into it anymore.

My house had a green door,

Emerald green, decorated with studs.

They broke it. They burned down the house.

They broke us.

And left dark colours in their wake.

And for a time that felt like years,

We just lingered by, phantoms over the wrecked land.

And then the green came back.

Timid, shyly, unsure if we had enough soul in

Us to welcome it; to work with it; to make it grow.

and expand. The top of the hills is tar and scarlet still,

But the foot is covered in apple green, and rice green,

And lettuce green and avocado green and life green,

And the houses are being erected again, rebuilt, and

In our new home the door is green,

Like a jewel on a queen, outlined with studs,

And we are afraid no more.

Protected by the fresh promise of green,

Of these hills. in which I grew up.



Caribbean Nights

mother daughter brushing hair


My mother used to hum when she

Brushed my hair, even sing sometimes.

On balmy Caribbean nights she

Would do it on the white wooden veranda,

The echoing sea serenading us with a lullaby

Of singing mermaids and dancing starfish.

She was calm on those nights, my mother.

Her face would relax to a beautiful smoothness

And I would see the girl she had once been.

She could love me fully at times like this.

Just as I was.

She would forget about rules and the “have tos”

That chained her during the day, and turned

Her into a nagging loom of dos and don’ts.

The wind was salty and fresh and soft,

On those Caribbean nights.

She would sit on a rocking chair, I on the floor,

And she would brush gently the nest of my hair,

Turning each wiry string into spun silk.

She would talk about days past, about games,

Her first kiss. She would be silent at times,

The only sounds being the wind, the sea, her hum,

The drumming of my heart at peace, wishing

Sunrise would never come and the night,

To be endless, my contentment to last forever.

She is gone now, my mother.

Our love affair was a rollercoaster of

Bitter sweet feelings and demands.

But I have those nights, in our big

White house, resembling a hen dowsing

By the sea, to remind me, that with

All her shadows and mine, she loved me,

The best way she knew how.

And I loved her right back.




So I must die young,

So young I can almost fit in a cupped hand.

So young my eyes cannot understand the light,

For all I known if the balmy, pinkish dark.

And I’m not good enough for a chance,

To prove myself, to rise, high,

And touch the stars forbade to me

Because I will not be born a man.

I am just dust, dirt, a girl.

No silken cot will welcome me,

No warm bosom, no soft breath

Over my head, as I stretch my hand

And tangle a lock of hair with my tiny fingers.

And I must be sacrificed to give

A boy a chance to take what is mine,

Denied by those who ought to love me

Because, no matter how perfect I may be,

I won’t grow to be a man.

So I am to die, young,

So young, mum, you could

Have cupped the whole of me in your hands.






She is ready to take off,

I know it. Her wings have been

Unfolding like a rose in the summer,

As she dreams of adventures

Far away. From me. Soon the invitation

Will arrive and she’ll scream with joy,

Ready to stand tall and take flight.

She’s ready to eat the world;

To tango with life; to champion

Her cause; to go into the sea of existence

And sail to her own enchanted isles;

Slay her personal monsters;

Get lost in the eyes of a lover

And float in the sense

Of uniqueness of those who

Taste freedom for the first time.

Yet, all I can think of is that

From scratched knees,

She will eventually graduate to a broken heart,

To kicks and burns from the friend she thinks

Life will always be. And I may not be there

To kiss the bruise, the cut, the tear,

She laughs at my fears,

Her laughter like a crystal chandelier

Touched by the wind. She’s packed, she’s ready

And she needs no silliness from me.

So I hug her and let her go, out into the world,

Her new wings expanding wide.

And without the slightest hesitation,

My innocent brave girl bids good-bye and flies.


Number One



So this is how it is,

How you cut the pie,

How you eat the cake,

How you play the game.

You refuse to be satisfied.

You don’t accept crumbs,

Second best, plan B, option two.

You are in it to be number one.

Adored, cherished, respected,

The reason he gets up every morning,

The last thought he has every night.

If not, it’s good-bye. As simple as that.

Never, ever be satisfied with less,

Nor accept a thoughtless caress,

A frosty kiss, a sharp word,

A mindless farewell. Never,

Ever accept a stony look, an

Accidental push, an acidic comment

About your waist. If you are not

His goddess, find another temple

In which to shine, even if the only

One who lights candles is yourself.

For a goddess is never satisfied with

Less than complete adoration, where

All that she is it’s behold in

the perfection bestowed

By the eyes of love.







Roar, oh child, born in the night

Of oppression and bondage.

Roar high, yelling out your pain,

As you wiggle and scar your

Wrists against the heavy chains

Place upon you. because of your gender,

A danger for some, so afraid of your

Greatness that they build boxes to lock

You in in, bend you in, break you in,

Make you small and twisted, half of what

You could be, so they can stand tall

And be no afraid of all you would be,

Had you been born free.

So roar, child, high and might,

And awaken the uncaring and the ignorant

The fearful and the mad.

Give them no peace, no truce,

No quiet place where they can forget

The abuse of you. Embed yourself in their

Eyes, in their ears, in their mind, your

Roar demanding more than a passing nod,

Claiming a breaking of the endless night,

A dawn without chains where you

Are free to choose, to decide,

To fully embody the wonder of

Yourself with all your possibilities.


A Kiss

Kiss HD wallpaper 2013 (4)

It starts with an ethereal wisp,

A warm breath exhaled from lips

Close enough to share the same air.

Then there is the touch,

Light and soft. And the taste:

A brief visit by the tongue,

A wet stroke over the silky inside.

Then there is the entwine,

The wrestling, the lapping,

The fusing, the fire, the rocking,

Side to side, the stretching of

Mouths, the sliding over throats,

Hairs tangling over fingers, lashes

Brushing against each other,

Cheeks hollowing in, glistening

Faces, slightly puffing, gasping for air,

The hot skin turning as red as the lips

That started it all, bringing down the heavens

Into the deep, with a wisp, a taste, a touch.

A kiss


Under the Azure Sky


Summer is over,

Yet, here, flowers still bloom,

The birds, refusing to fly south,

Defy the incoming cold.

We have undanced dances in our feet,

And sun rays flowing in our bones,

And we care not about the chilly

Breeze skipping over the green leaves,

Curling them, ever so slightly,

Drying them at the tips.

Summer is over,

But no for you and I.

We have no packed camp, here at the beach.

We are going on strike, against

The dictatorship of time.

Our hearts are not going back

To our towns, back to our lives.

We are not saying good-bye.

We shall be summer’ children, even

In the ice. We shall shine in the grey

Autumn skies and warm the snow

Until it melts. And in this place

Of our minds, summer shall reign, forever,

You and I, wild hair and wide grins, until

Our story ends, no matter what,

How or where our bodies are,

You and I shall always be in

Front of the sea, guitar at hand,

Indifferent to red leaves and bared trees,

And the passing of the years, and

All the other summers that will be over

And fade, for this summer, yours and mine,

Shall not die, and here the best of us shall

Stay, in an eternal loop of delight.

So let summer be over the land,

Over those too afraid dissent and rather accept,

With no objection, the venerability of the years.

We, the mutineers, shall remain here,

On our deck chairs, eating cheese, drinking wine,

In front of the caravan, under the azure sky.



sad woman

He said he loved her as her flesh received the first hit,

The slap in her ears making the world ring

And shriek -or maybe it was her, screaming,

As he kicked, repeatedly, against her soft womb,

Her stomach, her spleen, her arms and legs, he kicked,

Whilst she screamed and swallowed the blood from

Her absent teeth, push out in one single blow from

His fist -the fist that loved her to death and was

About to prove it.