The Girl from La Perla

I remember her, the girl from La Perla. We fell in love and spent the summer together. Under beautiful sunshine, we swam in clear blue water. We ate mofongo and arroz con pollo after we danced to salsa. Yes, I remember her. She had black hair that fell past her shoulders. Her name was Julissa. Purple was her favorite color, and she was an excellent kisser. I admit that I miss her. I recall us holding hands and staring lovingly at each other. She was like no other. It was a joyous occasion the day that she introduced me to her mother. We spoke of marriage and being together forever. She still has my heart; still, I love her. The special girl from La Perla that I will always remember.

Intimate Memories

We used to venture to Café Intermezzo at 3AM for New York Cheesecake and expresso. I would hold you intimately at an inside table with a lit candle or on the patio. I would kiss you and tell you that I love you with the depths of me; sometimes we would change our selection from cheesecake and expressos, to old fashioned donuts and Irish Coffee. We used to sing together in the car on our late night drives on Peachtree. I may have failed, but I tried with all my heart to give you the best of me. Out of the blue, you pop up in my memories; In my mind’s gallery, I screenshot the images of you looking at me lovingly. Still, I hold you in my heart and contemplate your beauty. I wonder who now holds you. I wonder if you are married with a family. I wonder if sometimes you think of me. I wonder if you are happy.


The compositions of my life are arranged in three passionate movements.
The orchestra plays beautifully; the lead violinist weeps with tears,
Falling on the varnished wood and the strings of his instrument.
After the performance, in stillness the crowd sits,
And after a long pause, they stand and clap to break their silence.
Heaven’s Poet Laureate writes sonnets that tell of agony, love, and death;
And of how he turned his face and wept when she took her last breath.
It was three words she spoke before she left,
And a child went home and stood in the room where she slept,
To catch her aura, and to take a part of her to place in his heart,
Where until this day it is protected and kept.
The orchestra plays again; the first movement — a sonata.
At the end, the lead violinist bows with tears
And blows a kiss as he remembers her.

A Trip Down Memory Lane

I miss you. We had good times together. I remember when we took the 2 to Grand Concourse, and you noticed I was down and gave me words of encouragement
when I didn’t have any else to talk to. I remember when we rode our bikes to Yankee Stadium, but we didn’t have enough money to get in to watch the game, so we just hung out outside and listened to the announcer and the roars of the crowd. Remember the time we rode push scooters to Pelham Parkway and ended up at Pelham Bay Park? The week after, they stole the bike you had recently gotten for your birthday; I’m still angry about that. Ralph told me to let it go, but I looked up and down for it for weeks and never found it. I recall your favorite snack, two slices and a pineapple soda or a meat and cheese calzone if you felt like switching it up on any particular day. The pizza shop on Burke Ave, was a block favorite. You unknowingly gave me strength. So many memories; and now you rest with the angels. You are loved. You are remembered, always.

Sade – Maureen

Passionate twilight

The winds of stormy seas blow against my tears. I wildly dance in trance like state in the dusk of the twilight. The sand is cool beneath my feet. A fire is lit. Tonight I commune with the stars and the night’s sky. I will sup and make merry as if you were here with me. The memory of your beauty and smile elevate me in euphoric reminisce. The way you touched me and the length and scent of your hair lead to feelings inside me that cannot be expressed in words or writings even by the most eloquent of orator and writer. The most expressive works of literature could hardly grasp or capture, the feelings of you. 

My love, I am caught up in your rapture; in my flesh I am constrained to dwell here in this wilted existence and cold world without your warmth. Echo my name in dreams and reach for me. Illuminate me in your loving light and release me from my torment. For what is living or what is life without you? I live on in your memory. I love you. I will always love you. I hope you can hear me.

Eternal Strings

An old blind man sways as if in a trance as he plays the strings of the harpsichord. His skeletal frame like a thin pine tree in hurricane winds. Strands of thin grey hair swing from side to side; his frail hands show large discolored veins and expose protruding bone against thin skin. The iris and pupils of his eyes are cloudy white. His eyes transfixed. He plays the song of a story only he knows. The strings of the harpsichord haunt his memories and recall the days of sorrow and a love he once knew. He cannot cry because there are no tears left to be given. His torment are his memories; still he plays beautifully.  The ghostly eyes of the dark crow watch from the shadows.