international

Life on the go
like a Starbucks' cappuccino
to take away.
Watch out- it is hot!

Some jet setting,
from the Alps to the Andes,
from the Tatra mountains
to Pompei.

The Dolomites, to admire,
down the slopes,
in brand new skis:
zig,
and zag,
and more zig,
and a plaf.

Planes everywhere,
ferries to Calais,
then hoping from
island to island
on the Mediterranean.

Truly international,
nomad of today,
-let's keep in contact-
-let's see each other again-

Montreal on the Summer,
all souls in concordia
enjoying the jazz,
Havana in a postcard,
more music and fun to relax.

Sorrento,
gelatos,
the pasta,
New England in autumn,
foliage like risotto,
Old England in rain,
again and again.

Tsavo with elephants,
water holes, safaris,
the earth, with its cradle,
making you feel like an infant,
or an ant,
in front of all time

A journey due to love
and compassion,
that had a beginning
and will have an end

Educate yourself,
laugh at every instance,
and open you heart
like a self-cardiologist,
who marks his own pace,
who is not afraid.

Enjoy the ride,

while on the train,

it will certainly stop,

and it won't be with brakes.

change

the change of affairs
is a difficult thing to portrait,
change for the better,
for life
or for love,
for peace,
whose symbol
is a beautiful
white dove.

The suffragists were
fighting-
or trying to vote-
and then it all happened,
not just women,
not just men,
just persons
casting their choice.

there are no accidents,
the wise used to say,
life goes on,
day by day,
transforming
your world
and the illusions
that may.

(Suffragettes)

people watching

superstardom
with flashes and fans
at the Met
with a dress to admire,
sheer lace,
paparazzi,
and tons of flesh
to showcase.

haute couture
for the stars,
so much fabric
to have,
a show off
for the people,
and some cocktails
inside,
with petit fours
to savour
and some wine.

from Jacqueline,
to Marilyn,
from Twiggy
to Cindy,
the super life
of the super gals
on display
at the gala-
in the now,
and the then.

the giddy girls
emulate,
the older ladies
would like
to be them,
some glitter
some fun,
what is there to hate?

We disconnect,
read the magazines,
dream away,
and then,
we reconnect,
come back to our lives
feeling
like a Brando,
or a Pacino,
after shooting
Scarface,
with a grin on the face
for this watching
of beautiful people
and the rest.
it has become a hobby,
to get carried away
in a Mr. Big way.

technopoetry

I found
a new meaning,
in the verses I write.
They all come straight from my hand,
to the top of my lap,
or the notes of my iPhone,
or the iPad lying flat.
Sometimes a techno-tragedy,
or a bygone comedia
without
Bocaccio,
or Julieta,
just the bytes,
lots of taps
on the keys
on the piano
of a Mac.
My love affair
with the laptop
is of great connotation,
it is a techno-love,
with Madonna
on the headphones
or even some Bach,
that depends on the state
of my mind.
There are birds
singing on twitter,
trending topics
by the meter,
and on Facebook
fake happiness
abounds.
The muses with their
Social interaction
inspire the action
and stanzas are
weaved with a font
that is bold,
underlined,
that is cursive at times,
and expresses the truth
that I hold.
Helvetica,
verdana,
courier,
or arial,
I just type from my head,
and my heart
to the page.
A Techno-poet
I have become,
that speaks like a Jedi
and is green,
not of envy but of hope,
that in these techno-times,
not of discos,
but online,
all the poetry
can still entice
men and women
to love.

say cheese!

cheesy

like peccorino

on the pasta,

or the smile of 

Locasta, 

on the street.

cheesy, 

like your old kisses

or that face

on the photo

so kitsch.

nothing as cheesy

as yourself

singing an aria

on the shower.

well, 

more cheesy

and actually stinky

are the ten toes

on your feet

identity

the identity
with teeth for the chart,
with measurements.
Oh! The online identity,
with IP addresses,
and passwords,
and pseudonyms to mask
excesses,
the reputation,
stalkers,
security issues,
cold feet.
But how to show your message
of poetry,
change your world,
and that of thee?
The risks we take.
The issues we face.
A coming out of the closet
in the 21st century,
in a binary way!

state of the art

disenchantment in this era,
repossessions of skulls of houses
skeletons of nests,
bones of our belongings
in the backdrop
of a teardrop
barely sliding
like a prop,
in a silent movie
that Charlot
produced,
starred,
and wrote.

nostalgia for the bling,
and the old fling
with art,
Damien Hirst
with diamonds of death
to display
at the Tate?

genuine melancholy
missing the old masters,
blending sienna,
adding ocher,
to reveal
the Rembrandt chiaroscuros,
or goldsmiths kisses from
a son of the
Jugendstil,
or an american artist
splashing
like jackson,
under the moon dancing.

galleries
of emergent themes,
and markets,
locking all inside,
installations,
street art,
the futility of the passing
life.
objectifications,
desire,
the artistic creation of
pure marketing,
like a tide.

where are we going?
are we there yet?
a Dodo,
from Mauritius
asked again and again.

grateful

My gratefulness
for the kindness of the stranger
that smiles to the child with fever
and protects the elderly,
for the ones that still have
that sweet core,
that years of acid rain
have not destroyed,
for the beauty that pervades the air,
on a cold and windy day,
for all the reasons behind a new beginning,
when it seems like many of them
have all but disappeared,
for the healing,
after every wound,
for the hugs,
like a silver moon,
for your eyes,
even in despair,
for your silky hands,
and for each and every breath
you take.
for the million pieces of
bread on the table,
and the spoonful of soup
that takes away the coldness
of the winter inferno,
for the logs that are shelter
to the ones that love fire,
and  the snow that falls
outside,
if the weather requires it.
I am grateful
to the gods that might be,
and the mortals,
that exist in between.
I am grateful,
come what may,
because above all,
I have loved
and have been loved
in return.

some say...

Some say
he is nuts like a crazy fox,
and sweet like nutella,
with chocolate and
hazelnuts.

Some say
he is great,
a pleasure of sorts,
when his words are known,
a secret whispered to the world.

Some say
he is fine and dandy,
like a good old brandy,
to toast and taste,
after the dinner's dessert.

Some say
he is mine,
a perfect gentleman
a fantastic chef,
that makes poetry with soufflé

Some say
so many things,
but the truth
is only for him to tell.

charleston

The automatic teller machine
of stories and dreams
is pure magic,
I put my invisible card in the slot
and musical notes come out
in 20s and more,
like a Charleston
danced with low dresses,
with florals,
and feathers,
with tassels,
bright garters
and bows.
the legs up in the sky,
the sassiness,
the sideway steps,
I get my receipt
with the amount,
a jazzy withdrawal of sorts
I take the card back,
a transparent plastic
to have,
and sure on my way
just swinging the pearls,
I move on,
to pay all the bills
I owe to the board.

hk-break

fantasy, legends,
of leprechauns and fairies,
shining in the dark

mythical creatures,
in the middle of summer,
dancing on a bar

holidays for them,
workers of dreams and nightmares
deserving a break

the chosen

the chosen,
the one,
the elected,
the blessed,
must be hard,
I suppose,
but, is it great?

the Pope is quite safe,
the guards are there to protect,
dressed with blue and yellow bands,
and white and red accents,
muses of Michelangelo,
inspiration of Raffaello,
and yet,
it must be lonely,
the white duty,
the example.

the king and the queen,
inside the fish bowl,
bodyguards abound,
with sunglasses,
with class,
with suits and black ties,
and a stern look
in their glassy,
hidden eyes.

presidents,
C.E.Os,
masters of all trades,
surrounded by the masses,
Oh, the worries they must have,
the problems they must solve,
the grey on their temples,
the stare at every step.

Is it worthy?
I wonder,
the glory,
the fame.
Is it worthy?
I wonder,
when the cross
might await all
at the end.

haiku- world trekker's dream

travel with your feet,
with the backpack as a house,
hike, bike, climb and ski

you, can see the world,
a Galapagos turtle
with all needs behind

paint in your mind
the terracotta dune sea,
touching the blue sky

the desert music,
behind, like a lullaby,
making you sleepy

an aeroplane,
like a sweet bird flies away,
with you as pilot

the silver sailboat,
on the sea between two lands,
moves only by you

the wind of your lungs
comes out with force for the vessel,
which does not sink

steady it goes,
catamaran of your soul,
just navigating

take the Darjeeling,
and some chai on the toy train,
in the West Bengal

watch the stars at night,
and Vincent's starry night
in a single day

a red Montgolfier
can take you up, yet again,
to touch the full moon

dive then, from that place,
awaken among the clouds,
from this journey's dream.

bali

life in the community

makes for the feast, 

together in Bali

women bake and weave

teak chairs rock
at the rhythm of a flute, 

wooden dragons are made
out of manly hands, 

as well as nudes.

the sarong is worn

the hats are on heads

the smiles are perennial

I will never forget

the sea comes and goes

there are bargains to have,

the travellers go home 

with the sound on their ears

of the multiple gongs

so far away

and yet so close, 

an island, 

the sea, 

the people,

monsoons.

the temples to admire

and for them to worship, 

the volcanoes to see

and for them to fear,

the dances to enjoy

and for them to train for, 

a week to relax

and for them 

the passing 

of a beautiful
and simple life.

Clara Faromondo

Paca was the real deal, a beagle through and through. Her parents, grandparents, and great-grandparents were all champions. Her birth certificate came with the pompous name of Clara Faromondo, which embodied all that she was supposed to be, another aristocratic beagle that was destined to win as many trophies as possible.

However, her life turned out to be quite different from her ancestors. She was born on a beautiful morning during the beginning of spring in the outskirts of Warsaw, and developed into a playful puppy that was quite stubborn, biting everything that was within reach. All her siblings found new owners very soon, but she had been born with one eye darker than the other one and an extra nipple. It was obvious she did not have anything to do with championships and medals, instead she was looking for trouble and fun, and the Faromondo name was just too big for her.  When I met her one sunny afternoon in June, I immediately fell in love with her, and she looked more like a Paca to me, so the nickname stayed with her.

Paca lived each phase of my life as her own. She stood by me during those long Eastern European winter nights, when the sun sets at 4 p.m. and anyways spends all the waking ours playing hide and seek with the fog. She sat next to me while I was studying, and actually made me get out of the house to discover parks, mountains and forests to shoo away the blues. She also spent countless days soothing me with her presence, when I suffered from a bad cold or a  stomach flu. She always welcomed me back home, from my trips abroad, with tremendous canine parties, which usually included howls, barks, licks, and her tail wagging at one-thousand movements per minute. 

She never competed, but it did not prevent her from getting plenty of prizes, from bones, toys, road trips with her head out of the car window with her tongue out, enjoying the wind on her long ears, to plane journeys in humongous cages more appropriate for a German Shepard. She went to parties, to the mountains, to friend’s houses, to the sea, she played on the snow, on forests in the tundra, on the sand, on the pavement, on grass, on the wooden floor of my apartment. Today, I can still remember her sweet smell behind her ears, that smell of love and home, that smell of my Paquita.

She is gone now, but at the same time, she is still with me, on my photos and my memories. I can still see her running around, looking for treats, barking and bringing me her green tennis ball or smelling her leash, asking me with her eyes to take her for a walk, whispering that old secret that says that time flies, that life passes on a wink, and that we all need to live it to the fullest. Even now, she makes me want to whistle, calling her to my side.

l.l.ph

life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness- US. declaration of independence.

life
from the bottom
of the food chain,
to the savannahs
of the Serengeti,
life,
from the newborn
in the west,
to the stillborn
in a village with a pest.

liberty,
from the teens
screaming wildly
in a concert or a rave,
liberty,
of the slaves
with the abolition
just over a century
that went away.

All pursuing happiness,
and love,
that fleeting thing
of our desires,
All pursuing something
so intangible,
that not life nor liberty
entail.

at times alive and dead inside
and others free within the bars set by our lives
the moments pass,
and then we say,
I felt so happy then,
and did not know the way.

no brand

Desde que era una niña, me ha encantado el olor que tienen los libros acabados de comprar, esa sensación que uno experimenta cuando al abrir la primera pagina, uno se encuentra con las hojas nuevecitas, recién sacadas de la imprenta. También me encantaban los lápices coloridos con las gomas de borrar de capuchón color carne, o las otras gomas con olores a fresa o mango, o aquellas asiáticas que traían todo tipo de ilustraciones coquetas o delicadas, diseñadas especialmente para los niños. Con el tiempo mi predilección por estas cosas no ha mermado, al contrario, aun me detengo a observar los nuevos, o viejos, diseños de lápices, plumones, o agendas. Sin embargo, ahora me interesa mucho mas que los objetos de oficina sean simples, minimalistas o que usen materiales reciclables. Tal es el caso de MUJI, una compañía japonesa, cuyos bolígrafos me han acompañado durante mis años de universidad. Y aunque no me pagan ni un centavo por este post, siento que soy yo quien les debo, ya que mis tantos exámenes han sido acompañados por bolis transparentes de puntas de 0.5 mm, o por gomas de borrar genialmente diseñadas.
Y mientras escribo, tamborileando en mi laptop, ya voy sintiendo un poco de nostalgia, por el arte de escribir a puño y letra, algo que no hago quizás desde hace tanto.

MUJI

I have always loved the smell of newly purchased books, that lovely sensation of opening the book and facing brand new, white pages, that just came out of the oven. I also loved colourful pens and pencils as a child, beautiful ornamented stationery, or those Asian pencils with flesh coloured erasers as hats that resembled matches, or the strawberry scented erasers with pastel colours that were illustrated with cute designs to please children and adults alike.
As time has passed, my predilection for office products has not dwindled, on the contrary, I still spend countless hours perusing notebooks, pencils, pens, highlighters and the like, but now I try to focus on those that are simple, and follow minimalist lines, or those that use recyclable materials. And I usually find them on the MUJI store.
Muji is a Japanese company that sells the transparent gel ink pens that have been with me since the years of university. They do not pay me a single cent for this post, but I feel I owe them something, after all many of my good grades on exams and essays have been due in part to writing with a comfortable and beautiful pen that made the ideas and concepts fly on the page.
Muji represents for me, those writing accessories that make writing by hand, pure joy. A experience that might soon be obsolete - and I say this with certain nostalgia, typing on a laptop that does not require ink at all.

Greece Series: A Haiku Story

From the head of Zeus,
goddess Athena was born
for wisdom and war.

Hephaestus was there,
prudence was cut with an ax
the goddess was crowned

Athena's helmet,
spears, sandals, and aegis
for battles ready.

The dark evil eye
goes with the blue one away
in Hydra as well.

The wise jeweller
like an old owl gave me peace:
A present for me.

State of the art:
Antiquity dances with
this, my modernity.

Blue sky above,
Maritime landscaping
bars with long islands.

A Greek sequence,
a traveller's consequence
of all history.

Loveliness around,
nature and humanity,
are here intertwined.

They all touch their hearts
when grateful, with their right hand,
then, my eyes are bright.

Spring's poetry
arises from all death,
life is full of words.

The symbol of life,
and that of eternity
in silver bracelets.

Compliments for girls,
tsatsiki and hot pita
for all the others.

In the capital
Athena inspired me.
Oh! Thank you Goddess!

Fukushima haiku

In Fukushima,
within the invisible
still life exists.

the community
moves on cleaning and doing
their best on the worst.

silence and beauty
pervades the new spring air,
cherries blossom again.


*http://es.wikipedia.org/wiki/Haikus

simple life

She woke up at 9 am, on a grey morning, and as soon as she opened her eyes, she grabbed
her iPhone to listen to some tunes on YouTube. She decided to choose a relaxing video and typed: meditation with sea waves. The sound of the sea always calmed her like no other sound. 

She breathed deeply and immediately thought about the seven chakras from the Hindu and Tibetan cultures, and almost without intention, her subconscious started to turn the wheels along her body. Imaginary seagulls flew over a far off shore, clapped and said: Bravo, you are finally awaken, both literally and spiritually. Time to get up!

A quick bite, and a macrobiotic yoghurt for breakfast tricked the stomach into thinking of healthy eating. She dressed up, taking her time, splashed some water on her face and took her old, Dutch, rusted bike to run some errands. Outside it was raining, it was autumn, it did not matter.

Puddles of water were forming on the pavement, there were mirrors reflecting the different shades of grey of that sky that was falling piece by piece. Each drop hit the ground and in a happy movement was expanded in ephemeral circles. 

The bicycle's wheels were wet, as was her old Burberry coat from the old and better times, but she felt contented with the simple life she had now, full of errands, rain, puddles, mirrors, music, and imaginary seagulls.

Maria lived in a very small town of barely 2000 people. In a world of more than 7 billion humans, and many more millions of animals and bacteria, she fell she had found a pocket, like a modern day Thumbelina. There was a bakery to the left of the main road, with the delicious smell of warm bread and croissants, a post-office with a very grumpy old man that barely spoke, a corner store with sodas, ketchup and chips, the local library with a huge notice board with second-hand items written in capital helvetica that could be seen even from the comfortable seat of her bike, riding in the middle of the street, a few meters away. There was a small pharmacy that seemed to be almost always with the sign CLOSE on, and there were a few houses with their verandas, mostly empty, or with old looking rocking chairs and swings. Every morning there was the same routine: She woke up, took her bike, rode along the main street, and went to the river to jog.

The river’s current was extremely fast, she had never seen any ducks around, which was a pity, because all her stale bread had to go to waste. She had her iphone with her, the only luxury she allowed herself, now that she was unemployed, because it was also a matter of necessity. She saw it as a sort of orchestra, where all the instruments were integrated to play beautiful music. 
There was, for instance the saxo, which she saw as the phone; there was the clarinet, the Safari icon, to access the highway of information that is the world wide web; there was also the cello, with all the strings of emails; the percussion, with photos, notes, and calendars; the piano with the black and white keys of all the passwords she had to memorize; the harp with several apps for fun and pleasure that resonated with her . It was a technological symphony that allowed her to exist as both a lonely individual and an ultra connected one. But the most important thing was, that she could jog or bike, while listening to her favorite tracks.

She thought that life without music was just silence, sweat, and pain. Music made jogging a more tolerable mini-marathon. A song that lasted 4.31 mins, was exactly the distance between warming-up and reaching the most beautiful old oak tree on the river shore, and the notes of a cello playing Sarabande from the Bach Cello Suite no 6, was just a taste of haven at the end of the -oh, so tiring- jog, when walking and breathing was the only thing relevant in her world, a world made of little pieces of a puzzle destined only for her, for Maria, the one that liked to bike and jog, and listen to music, and enjoy the very simple things that a postmodern life had to offer at this particular moment, this year, this century. The life of a single human, living among 1999 others on that sleepy town, and 7 billion more on a not so sleepy planet* called Earth.

* planet: from the Greek word WANDERER