Ser tuyo, quisiera

ser briza en la playa

besando tus labios, quisiera

ser sombra en la arena

siguiendo tus pasos, quisiera

ser luna en tus ojos

y en tu cielo estrellas, quisiera

un suspiro en tu boca,

y ser todo, quisiera-

Be yours, I would like

on the beach to be a breeze

and kiss your lips, I would like

to be a shadow on the sand

by your footsteps, I would like

to be a moon in your eyes

and the stars on your sky, I would like

to be a sigh in your mouth

and be all, I would like-


April 2019






Jealous how love

 found a way to your hand

with the shape of a stone

forging promises made

just when mine ran astray.

And I wish I was there

within dreams that you sown

in the lace of a dress

white and pure as your soul,

and be part of how love

found a way to your hand-

April 2019

“O, swear not by the moon, th’ inconstant moon,

That monthly changes in her circle orb,

Lest that thy love prove likewise variable.”

― William Shakespeare, Romeo and Juliet





Music has a way of shaking bones, old, frail

extensions for each note to create a movement.

You girl have a way of shaking dreams, old, stale

extensions of my soul in this rhythmic dance,

pelvis against pelvis in a breathtaking flow

of desires we never satisfied, only a glance

of things left behind once the music stopped.

And I pull you closer like we were before,

an euphoric mix of rum and lights

in a dizzying spell,

to easily awaking all wants

on the dance floor-


April 2019

“Dancing is a perpendicular expression of a horizontal desire.”

― George Bernard Shaw

Her Name


Her Name


Some names are like water,

fluid and refreshing around the tongue

evoking oceans and rivers and streams.

Others are hard to remember, like dreams

I recall in the morning but foggy and vague

leaving traces of something I crave.

Many I repeat late at night

like a prayer or wish under sheets

where alone for a name my heart beats

to the fantasies drawn

holding on in the dark until dawn.

But her name leaves me something I want

once I tasted the sweetest of sound

in the letters her name often found

to become part of verses I write,

is her name that I quietly recite

and forever in my heart tightly bound.


April 2019

“Then love knew it was called love.

And when I lifted my eyes to your name,

suddenly your heart showed me my way”

― Pablo Neruda

Her Rolling Hills

Courtesy of Pexels

Her Rolling Hills


I hang on hips of rolling hills,

a sway of wants around a waist

that plays the notes of island tunes

where on her skin fingers retraced

the blood of past from far away

of jungle greens and hot sand dunes.

I crave her lips of pomegranate

a taste for gods to shape like clay

and tempt weak men to quietly pray

for kisses made of sweet rose honey.

I crave her laugh and need her eyes

for cloudy days to make it sunny,

her sparking waves refresh my soul

with sounds of laugh to resonate

inside my heart where steady wants

still drive my dreams to softly hold

and hang on hips of rolling hills.


March 2019

“Love falls in love with love;

comes like an echo sounding back,

searches its mirrored shadow

within a look. ”

― Mocco Wollert

Sometimes I Forget


Sometimes I Forget


Sometimes I forget she belongs

to younger hands and whiskey nights

of inebriated laughs that’ll fade away.

And I dream a little in the eve of summer,

her skin warm kissed by the sun

on places I can’t, but wish I may

somehow be a part of her desires.

And how to turn off these fires

that every now and then burn inside,

when I forget she belongs

to younger hands and whiskey nights.


March 2019

“Do people always fall in love with things they can’t have?’

‘Always,’ Carol said, smiling, too.”

― Patricia Highsmith, The Price of Salt





How I miss a touch, that never was

but an ache brought to life,

forged in burning fires words ignited

and imagination kept alive.

Blinded, I could only feel my way

across your dreams, your skin

veiled with stars felt distant,

but you said, what is a destination

but a flowering elation,

and I fell into your universe

writing my love inside.

What remains now?

A memory if all,

bound to the feeling

of a touch that never was,

until your eyes closed

and never even knew,

I was not there-


April 2019

It is not light that we need, but fire; it is not the gentle shower, but thunder. We need the storm, the whirlwind, and the earthquake.

-Frederick Douglass