In celebration of life and death, New York City wears her fanciest clouds. Silvery grays (with flashes of lightning) shroud the liveliest parts of Queens. In the Bronx, meteorologists can’t explain why snowflakes chant bachata music, or why a Wild Sister smirks and cackles at the sky while dancing, dancing… on swollen feet.
of a brother gone
storm and spill,
about the poem…
- tomorrow marks the sixth anniversary of my little brother’s passing. He was 27-years-old. Today, while leaving the hospital (after hours and hours with radiology, oncology, ophthalmology, and some other ologies), someone was playing bachata music in the parking lot. It was my little brother’s favorite, so I danced a bit… and almost fell on my butt. The silliness of it all had me cackling madly, and thinking, I hope you are watching and smirking with me. I bet he was. You are, aren’t you?
on writing and living…
- chemotherapy is officially over for now (no need for unnecessary jinxing, right?) and then comes radiation therapy. When it comes to immediate side effects, radiation is a lot easier than chemo. So, let the healing
- this Sunday, I start hosting Telling Tales with Magaly Guerrero: a Pantry of Prose, on Poets United. For the 1st prompt, I plan to give participants the choice of taking a poem they have published online or in a book and turning it into a short story of 313 words or fewer. For my own contribution, I will take suggestions from you. So, go ahead, my Wicked Luvs, tell me which of my poems you would like to see reborn as a short tale. Get your choice from my Instagram word-garden. Don’t feel like surfing? No worries. Choose one of these: “Dark Stories Glittering” or “I See Perfection in the Mirror” or “Garden of Ink” or “Love Is the Flame” or “Trust the Dark”. Tell me why you want that particular choice.
|yep, he is probably still smirking like a lunatic|