Exquisite Hands The Sunday Whirl #218

The windows remain open for
timely renewals and sighs.
I recall I am alive
when the music filters through my autumn sweater.

I look at the horizon
it exists and bends with
what I can no longer hold.
I am alone
only in one step,
only in one memory.

Then someone with his face visits and smiles,
he lies on the bed and I notice his exquisite hands.

This is what remains;
my uncertain nakedness lives imagined,
the premonition of not being accurate enough
in the last voices of an embroidery.

Vainly I point toward his body.
My best atmosphere to the heart.

The Intruder The Sunday Whirl #216

See me here with the moon
no less memorable than repeated time itself.
When I can feel my senses;
I am the lines, the words and the mirrors.

This is where you smile
beautiful and thoroughly flushed
listening to the night’s colors.
This is what you wear and
the rest is silence.

Morning — the sun,
the silhouettes and
a heart to birth the shore.

Saturday’s Mercy The Sunday Whirl #208

Breezes through open windows
filter a summer’s shawl.

Eleven o’clock at night
my smile staggers and tilts.

My arms forever lost and perpetual.
I lie in bed and the horizon closes
searching for what we have and
what we cannot hold onto.

My hands make circles; mercy and love.
A night astray with peaceful air —
passes naked.

Only love and pain can rest
their dust while burning.

Misty Petals The Sunday Whirl #207

Smiles repeated in time
say goodbye to winter.
Sudden spring is the hesitation of a man hunted
under the tenacity of the sun’s rays.
Life’s river:
Eyes light up cities with figures and fire
published as day,
yet the wind sleeps on streets alone at night.
When eternity is not the exact death we want
and dust is more like memory’s petals falling.
Before the mist descends on bodies branded.
Before the lump of heartbreak’s hesitation.

Process notes:
It’s good to be back. Thanks, Brenda.

PoMoSco Poetry Month Scouts


During National Poetry Month, April 2015, I was among 213 poets representing 43 states and 12 countries in The Found Poetry Review’s project PoMoSco (Poetry Month Scouts), working toward 30 found poetry merit badges. “These aren’t your childhood merit badges! PoMoSco participants had the chance to earn up to 30 badges in April by completing poetry challenges in five categories: remixing, erasure, out and about, conceptual and chance operations.”

Here are some I thought turned out well. It was a challenging month and I learnt many new techniques. Thanks. Jenni B. and company.

Pick and Mix:

Maestro of love
open my heart.
People feel affection;
your charms and manias.
My inkwell, the goose quill,
and languishing papers.

Source text: “Memories of My Melancholy Whores” by Gabriel Garcia Marquez.


Chance Operation
Shake it up:
“The Window Trick”

Everything doubtless,
good around,
circulated there.

Man-made streams
carefully place windows.

Planned behind all trick,
examining enough

They’d architect,
ride bridges
over-side primacy.

Source: Clancy, Tom. Rainbow Six. New York: Putnam, 1998. Print. p. 345


White Out:
“The Shape of a Wish”

The shape of a wish

Charles, Patrick. Ray Bradbury, Fahrenheit 451. Berlin: Cornelsen, 2006. Web. p. 80


First In Line:
“She is Standing on my Eyelids”

Easy and beautiful under,
the river I have
under my tongue.
She looks into me,
a few grains of dust,
more or less.

Source: Paul Eluard online collection at PoemHunter.com
“She Looks into Me”
“The River”
“Lady Love” (title)


“Dusk and Lions”

finished old man

Source: “The Old Man and The Sea” by Ernest Hemingway, p. 25


Out and About
“The Timid Always Say it’s Possible / A Project of Translation”

¿Como sueña?
Love in practice is a service for others,
take care of them,
in manifestations of faith
there is a natural body and a spritiual body.
Maintain emotional control,
let all things be done with charity,
like a cold mind with a boiling heart,
make an alliance.

Speakers: Padre Hugo Herrera Rosales SDB, Lic. Mercedes Marqués Maldonado and Alejandro Coronel Espinosa.
Title: Consejo Tecnico: Sistema Preventivo and Tipología de Alumnos.
Location and date: Instituto Juan Ponce de León, Puebla, Puebla. March 27th, 2015.
* the phrase “like a cold mind with a boiling heart” was said by Mr. Espinosa, it seemed odd at first, but somehow made sense. We are working with high school children who come from troubled homes in many cases, so we have to be kind yet firm.


Haiku Anew:
“James and Jack”

Stalk spring through the coast
how much of it is summer?
humidity is spring

At work in the early-
humming morning, bumblebees
work humming again

In the drenched thrashing
a bird among the the roses
a bath in the shower

Source: The first haiku is from James Brush’s two haiku in his collection, A Gnarled Oak, 2010, which I proudly own. Pages 8 & 15-spring and fall.
The second is from “Some Western Haikus” by Jack Kerouac
The final one is from Jack Kerouac’s American Haiku.


Picture It:
“My Mother Wore Heels in the Kitchen”

pic of art2

A smell like pickles from a jar,
parsley on the table,
like carnations
in the shallow tide of leaves —
Lakes of smelling and feeling
among the whispers.

“Fahrenheit 451″ by Ray Bradbury, p. 138


“My Cats by the Window”

No creature is more sensitive,
clever, clinging, standoffish.

A cat gives back
born different and similarly,
but withdrawing in dignified silence.

Individual themselves,
returning affection —

You have slept too late,
your cat will come and purr,
gentle open eyes —

Observing cats;
emotions, love, affection,
we share emotional apparatus with cats.

Who knew their cat will sit waiting for them?

Lessing, Doris. “About Cats.” Time Bites: Views and Reviews. New York: HarperCollins, 2005. N. pag. Print. pp.176-178


Open Book:
“Candles in Paris / Crows and Flowers”

Paris during the spring
my soul enkindled;
a perfect abandon.

At the first dawn
a couple of tapers strongly scented
amid wild lights and shadows.

The rivulet was flowing,
a few crows were circling the sky.
Humid fertile ground,
god of flowers,
miracle beneath the tree.

*First of all, I had so much fun with this exercise, that I wrote two.

Source l: “18 Best Stories by Edgar Allan Poe, The Murders in the Rue Morgue”, Doubleday Dell Publishing Group, Inc. Print 1965, pp. 104 and 105.
Source ll: “The Fifth Mountain by Paulo Coelho”, HarperCollins Publishers. P


Out and About
Off The Shelf:
“Ornaments on a String”

Harmonious relationship
of earth and man
roll up all under heaven like a mat.

Eloquent intricate schemes
inhabit forests and secluded valleys,
distant lands and climes.

At the end of summer
novelty — enthusiasm of its halo.

Precarious is death
falling back into the shadows.

Source books:
1.“The Prince Machiavelli by Niccoló Machiavelli”, pp. 31-34.
2.“The Communist Manifesto by Karl Marx and Friedrich Engels”, pp. 79-84.
3.“The Art of War by Sun Tzu”, pp. 20-25.
4.“Jihad vs. McWorld by Benjamin R. Barber”, pp. 23-28.
5.“The Zapatista Reader by Tom Hayden”, pp. 19-23.
These books came from my bookshelves. I wasn’t going to try to attempt this exercise with books from a local library, because they would have been in Spanish. Therefore, this doesn’t really fit the criterion for the badge, but I completed it to the best of my abilities.


Quiet on the Set:
“Separation: Spirit, Heart, Love”

In the spirit
things heaped
upon fantasy of being.

No separation in heart and love,
in touch — love binds.

The world is becoming
smaller and inward
invest in the technology
of the heart,
a paradox
wall to wall
to understand
one another
improve life.

Rejoice — aspects rise on the ground.

At the root of the tree,
a shift in hearts –
the root of happiness
a change
sincere seeping
into thinking.

Millions of breaths,
subtle, what happiness looks like.

Little changes.

Source: His Holiness, The Karmapa. “The Technology of the Heart.” Ted Talks.


Chance Operation
Spaced Out:
“A Tease Around the Eyes”

The morning is warm
and the cotton sheets nearly blue — sleeping.
His hair parted during the day,
and a warm fleshy smell to his skin
that would tease about.
Around the eyes
a sunburst of wrinkles — browned,
imagine him squinting.
The boat,
best place
to drop anchor.

Source; “Mrs. Hemingway by Naomi Wood” 1. ANTIBES, FRANCE. JUNE 1926.


Out and About
“Paper Time”

It reminds me of my childhood,
green, beautiful — perfect peace.
Birds, sun, clouds and boys playing.

Apples and leaves,
singing birds and animals.

Fruits for life
tall, beautiful and strong.

Dogs running,
how beautiful life is —
Music and calm and love.

Source: Class Activity with my prepa kids. School: Ponce de Leon. Word: Tree. I did this activity almost a month ago, and then I became ill. So, mucn so, I couldn’t sit at my computer for more than ten minutes at a time. I love my prepa kids.


This where I have been posting my found poems. There are a few familiar faces there. Please go read and see what others have done. While, I am not completely pleased with everything I have done so far, it has been fun.



“Daggers of Blasphemy” The Sunday Whirl #203

She may someday mourn
thy seed and the
loss of your highest trees
going away leaf by leaf;
rustling, filling baskets.

I don’t know about her
but I’ve seen the slow fall of
aurora over the world with
a sea’s deck drowning.

She could someday mourn
her offspring in areas reaching
smoke where beings
are planted in
not more than night with
a knotting of seagulls along the banks.

I don’t know about her.
I only know
her memories are kept in my hands.

The Toad’s Mouth The Sunday Whirl #202

These are tough times in the south.
Not in the trample of the country without
a world where the seasons change
and don’t change and winter
doesn’t occur at Christmas.

Hidden images are nations without
half the year in barbarian regions;  rock,
coiron and ice sting extensive plains
to terra of threshed string rosary
of islas. peaks of range, snowfall surrounding
the horizon far away.

Installed in silence here since the birth of
time and interrupted by the beginning sighs
of underground glaciers sliding slowly into the sea,

“How I Conjugate Life” The Sunday Whirl #200

The scar on my forehead conjugates when
I speak of you and
semaphore’s a bird perched with
discernment when it visits.

Can you hand me a passing, breathing day in
a ship that’s uncut?
A wave’s key says so much.

In cadence of hopeless dreams
I type like a cat fishing foil mice,
I’m upright and silent, ready to pounce.

Then you appear with smiles, so charming,
leaving me bare in a restaurant holding an umbrella
that says “Look at the scars on my wrist,
they’re my mother.”

To the in and out,
thoughtlessness doesn’t please,
nor does it say;
“Let’s go eat and be merry.”

We locked our nest
to be we
without God,
nothing of thickness in
the world,
just us.

In the golden area
it’s quiet. The river rustles
speaking of you and
everything falls into blue petals.

Five Hundred and Twenty Meters The Sunday Whirl #198

The delicate Cinnamon Rose leans against a sturdy Aloe plant.
Every time I act, I learn how to take an action even better.
This world emits hope, though it bursts with wounds,
I don’t want to worry through tumbles and sound,
I know I no longer live
five hundred and twenty meters
from Brooklyn.