The post Revelación del título de Ascensión Divina 3 appeared first on .

Durante la tarde del día de ayer tuve la oportunidad de compartir con Cynthia Souchet propietaria de Entre Páginas Bookshop. Cynthia me realizó una entrevista por Instagram Live donde hablamos sobre la creación del mundo de Ascensión Divina, de los personajes, de cómo surgió todo, entre otras cositas que incluyen el podcast y ser bilingüe. Aquí te voy a dejar el enlace a la entrevista para que la disfrutes. Si tienes alguna pregunta, me la dejas en los comentarios que pronto la respondo y entablamos una amena conversación.

The post Entrevista en Monday Muse por Entre Páginas Bookshop appeared first on .

Alexandra

Todos los derechos reservados a Alexandra Román 2020

The post Un minuto de silencio appeared first on .

This post was inspired by Photo Challenge: Symbol

Happy writings

The post Symbol appeared first on .

Thresholds to new beginnings,
to an end, to the unexpected.
Structures stating the limits.
Architectural moving compositions.
Square, round, top arched.
Red, blue, black…
Wooden, Metal, Crystal…
Hybrids like our hearts.
Our entrances, our exits.

This post was inspired by The Photo Challenge by The Daily Post: Door.

Happy writings!

A.R. Román

The post Doors appeared first on .

On page 15 of the Writer’s Digest from May/June 2010, I found a poetic challenge based on a sestina. I’ve never heard of this type of poetic form. That only meant one thing, Research! Love doing research, is like an adventure for the mind.

So on to the internet world I went.

A bit of history from the cyber world

The archives of the cyber world Poetry Foundation, defines the sestina as “A complex French verse form, usually unrhymed, consisting of six stanzas of six lines each and a three-line envoy. The end words of the first stanza are repeated in a different order as end words in each of the subsequent five stanzas; the closing envoy contains all six words, two per line, placed in the middle and at the end of the three lines. The patterns of word repetition are as follows, with each number representing the final word of a line, and each row of numbers representing a stanza:

1 2 3 4 5 6
6 1 5 2 4 3
3 6 4 1 2 5
5 3 2 6 1 4
4 5 1 3 6 2
2 4 6 5 3 1
(6 2) (1 4) (5 3)

At The American Scholar, the archives state it dates “back to the Middle Ages”. While the book “A History of French Versification”, page 282, indicates that “the sestina was imported into France in the sixteenth century from Italy were it had been cultivated by Dante, Petrarch, Firenzoula, Sannazaro, Tasso and other poets.” But the first French to try it was Portus de Tyrant.

On the other hand, the essay Sestina making reference to “The Making of a Poem”, states “the inventor of the sestina, Arnaut Daniel, belonged to a group of twelfth-century poets–the troubadours” who appeared “in southern France in the twelfth century. Their name is most certainly extracted from the verb trobar–meaning “to invent or compose verse”. They sang–their poems.” The “difficult complex style was called the trobar clus. The sestina was part of the trobar clus.  It was the form for a master troubadour.”

Now we know, let’s read an example

Sestina by Elizabeth Bishop (taken from Poem Hunter)

September rain falls on the house.
In the failing light, the old grandmother
sits in the kitchen with the child
beside the Little Marvel Stove,
reading the jokes from the almanac,
laughing and talking to hide her tears.

She thinks that her equinoctial tears
and the rain that beats on the roof of the house
were both foretold by the almanac,
but only known to a grandmother.
The iron kettle sings on the stove.
She cuts some bread and says to the child,

It’s time for tea now; but the child
is watching the teakettle’s small hard tears
dance like mad on the hot black stove,
the way the rain must dance on the house.
Tidying up, the old grandmother
hangs up the clever almanac

on its string. Birdlike, the almanac
hovers half open above the child,
hovers above the old grandmother
and her teacup full of dark brown tears.
She shivers and says she thinks the house
feels chilly, and puts more wood in the stove.

It was to be, says the Marvel Stove.
I know what I know, says the almanac.
With crayons the child draws a rigid house
and a winding pathway. Then the child
puts in a man with buttons like tears
and shows it proudly to the grandmother.

But secretly, while the grandmother
busies herself about the stove,
the little moons fall down like tears
from between the pages of the almanac
into the flower bed the child
has carefully placed in the front of the house.

Time to plant tears, says the almanac.
The grandmother sings to the marvelous stove
and the child draws another inscrutable house.

My other favorite is the poem “The Painter” by Jonh Ashbery, which you can read at the Poetry Foundation.

Here’s my rendition

Taking upon the scary task has been long and arduous (a three day endeavor), but exciting. Here are my chosen words, which I got from Sestinas: browse or built your own in order not to go crazy in choosing ones:

1 forest
2 rain
3 people
4 river
5 animal
6 branch

Remember the stanza?

1 2 3 4 5 6
6 1 5 2 4 3
3 6 4 1 2 5
5 3 2 6 1 4
4 5 1 3 6 2
2 4 6 5 3 1
(6 2) (1 4) (5 3)

My Sestina: 

The animal of the forest

The air, heavy with humidity, smelled fresh in the forest.
We were engulfed by walls of green wet by morning rain.
Scattered, stood leisure pavilions for people.
Flowing elegantly and inviting was the river,
the artery that feeds life to every single plant and animal.
A bird of gray plumage sang from a distant branch.

What would I give to stay in placid state on that branch!
To explore the beating heart that is this forest
to my country. Must I become an animal
of its fauna A leaf to be caressed by rain?
A drop of water in its major vein, the river?
Oh, but I can’t change my nature, being part of the people!

Enjoy the smell, the peace and beauty, my people!
The shadow upon you created by every single branch.
The clear refreshing liquid of the river
that calls you to bathe as an hypnotic chant of the forest.
Dance an areyto like the Taino did under the rain.
Sleep underneath the black canopy as would an animal.

It is not a keeper, the animal,
but a resident. So it comes to us, the people,
who enjoy the richness of every drop of rain,
who should become an extended branch
in the world beyond this majestic living forest,
who should bestow life, as life is bestow upon it by the river.

Do you hear the hypotonic chant of the river?
Don’t you feel the peace of the animal
of gray plumage as it sings proudly to the forest?
Close your eyes and breathe it in, my people!
Climb the trunk and stand on the branch.
Be reborn by the blessed waters of the rain.

Your selfishness watched away by the rain
have flowed down the currents of the river.
The shadow, look, now you’re part of the branch.
You’re no longer an inhuman, an animal.
Enjoy the smell, the peace and beauty, my people!
Be engulfed by the green walls of the forest.

On a distant branch wet by rain;
in a forest that lived for a river;
there was an animal, who was part of the people.

Your turn

It’s a bit daunting the task of composing a Sestina, but a challenge you should take upon. Why For the fun of it, for the love of creating, for the love of writing… But mainly for passion. We must embark at times in untraveled waters to help our creativity grow and expand. Is an adventure where we step away from our comfort zone. Chose your six words and create a sestina. Happy writings!

The post Sestina, a poetic form appeared first on .

It is anguish.
    It is hope.
        Is desire gone in a thought…

Invisibility,
    wonder,
                  day dream…

The separating thin line.
      An unknown stare.
          Unread words that drown…

It is a none believer.
    A hyprocrite’s care.
          The constant avoidance.

Journey through stormy neurons.
     Clinging, wanting,
          empty handed…

It is the toxicity of a cigarette.
    Inhale, not filtered.
          Exhale, not solidified.

The next step.
      The might be.
           The paralyzing sting.

It is not to expect.
      Let go, embrace.
            Knowingly dive in!

A.R.Román

The post Poem Complicated for #HoySeEscribe appeared first on .

Lotería Nacional, España, 14-08-2004 (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

La ilusión

“Cuando me pegue, me compraré…,” con ojos llenitos de ilusión, enumeró afanadamente los anhelos materiales con los que llenaría su vida. Le seguían los viajes turísticos, esos que ha hecho miles de veces en su mente, que revive al mirar las fotos y leer los artículos en las revistas de viaje. El cotejo del billete con los números ganadores le hace exclamar, “¡No me pegué! Será pa’la próxima.” Sus ojos aún guardan un diminuto destello de ilusión.

***********************************************************

El premio

Lotería, la grande,

pa’salir del hoyo.

Esperanza numérica.

Cotejo. Un rostro sombrío,

manos frías, un suspiro.

El filo corta y la esencia

de la vida fluye.

****************************************************

Desesperanza

“Juega la loto.” La frase como navaja de doble filo asesinó la esperanza anidada en su corazón. El deseo de una futura vivencia de un sueño trazado, donde la sonrisa juvenil de su progenie venía envuelta en exaltación.

¡Le enseñaré el mundo! Letra a letra se desvaneció la frase de orgullo maternal y despertó el oscuro sentimiento al lado del fraternal.

The post Sueños al azar appeared first on .

Se dejan entre la tierra fertilizada,
las hormigas carmesí extranjeras
y las semillas, el amor enterrado
junto con la nostalgia
de lo que pudo ser.
El producto del lagrimar
y el dolor sentido moran
en el subsuelo de la fortificacion.
Se dejó allí con la esperanza
de la educación aprendida
a golpe psicológico
y las inciciones hechas
por el bisturí del egoismo.
Se dejan germimar,
el fruto envenenado,
el futuro manchado.
Se deja atrás la vana idea
de lo que pudo ser y fue.
Y entre las aguas benditas
y las fortificaciones sagradas
se entregan los anhelos
para que el futuro
no se manche de pena.
Si se solidifican los anhelos,
que sea por designio del destino
no por la obsesion.

The post Poema: Dejar appeared first on .

The post Poem: The sun, the storm appeared first on .

The post October OSCURO presenta Poeta Alexandra Román, y su poema Entierro | condormusings appeared first on .

       Lo que haces, es un poema inspirado en un suceso que ocurrió de improviso y me lanzó a expresarme en versos para sacar de adentro lo que sentía. Palabras mudas que no podían ser habladas en aquel instante, pero que me atrevo a dar a conocer ahora. Es tan solo un desahogo interior, tan solo eso.

      Si no he estado con ustedes un poco más a menudo, y espero que hayan disfrutado de la primera parte de ‘Los hijos de Oshmdwa’, es por trabajo. No, no me he incorporado al mundo laboral al que pertenecen muchos, incluyendo a mi amado Honey, sino al de la literatura. Recibí una grata noticia sobre el libro en el que estos momentos estoy trabajando y me he puesto una meta: Terminar el libro en treinta días (según Writers Digest es posible siguiendo unos trucos). Pensé comenzar el reto hace una semana y media atrás, pero hay prioridades en la vida como mis hijos. ¡Así que el reto comenzó en el día de ayer! Tal vez se haga hoy y los proximos días un poco tedioso por el mero hecho que tendré a mis hijos conmigo estos cuatro días a todas horas; días feriados y libres (contando el fin de semana) que lamentablemente son parte de la vida diaria. Mi hija está súper contenta con ellos. Bueno, pónganme en sus oraciones y envíen deseos positivos en mi camino para lograr lo que categorizo como un reto que me quemará las neuronas y me mantendrá caminando en las nubes.

Lo que haces

Naufraga mi alma en tus enfermizos
sentimientos con los que flagelas mi paz mental.
Esos que arrebatan la serenidad de la tuya
y encienden la hoguera de tu exasperación.
 

Mi anatomía se siente fría, en sequedad.
Inerte ante tu partida, doy quejas en las ondas
sonoras que se internan en el canal auditivo
de aquellos simpatizantes de mis emociones.
 

Cambias como los tiempos, pero a todo galope.
Impulsiva como la marea, tauro indomable.
Castigas sin compasión y te duele el castigo.
Azotas con dura lengua, más no aguantas al recibir.
 

Te llevo en el corazón clavada con lo bueno
y con las penas que has traído a mi existencia.
Rozándote como a la seda, así es nuestra unión.
Soñando con la sonrisa en tu rostro moreno.
 

¿Dónde estás ¿No sabes que me asesinas cada
segundo que fluye de éste presente que a carne viva
me impones en vivir Dama perfumada de egoísmo,
¡no me bañes de tu esencia para hacerme sufrir!
 

Apacigua tu interior, derrama torrentes en la
soledad que anhelas, pero vuelve. Repasa
los estudios pasados de tu voz a mis neuronas,
a mi espíritu, y halla en ellos el consuelo.

        What you do is a poem inspired by an incident which occurred suddenly and threw me to express myself in poetry, to draw from within what I felt. Silent words that could not be spoken at that moment, but I dare to make them known now. It’s just an inside relief, just that.

       If I have not been with you a more often, and I hope you enjoyed the first part of ‘Oshmdwa’s Children’ is because of work. No, I have not joined the working world many of you belong to including my beloved Honey, but that of literature. I received great news about the book in which I am currently working and I have set a goal: Finish the book in thirty days (according to Writers Digest is possible by following a few tricks). I started the challenge a week and a half ago, but there are priorities in life like my children. So I began the challenge yesterday! Maybe today and the next days will be a little tedious by the mere fact that I will have my children with me full time, these next four days, holidays and a free day (including the weekend) are unfortunately part of everyday life. My daughter is extremely happy with them. Well, put me in your prayers and send my way positive wishes to get, what I categorize as a challenge that will burn my neurons and send me walking amongst the clouds.

What you do

My soul sinks in your sickly
feelings that flagella my peace of mind.
Those who snatch the serenity of your own
and light the fire of your exasperation.

My anatomy feels cold, dry.
Inert before your departure, I complain to the waves
sound that go into the ear canal
of those supporters of my emotions.

You change as the time, but at full gallop.
Impulsive like the tide, indomitable Taurus.
You punish without mercy, but punishment hurts you.
Your tongue whips with hard words, still cannot withstand to receive.

I have you nailed in my heart with the good
and the sorrows that you brought to my existence.
I struck you as silk, this is our relation.
Dreaming of a smile on your light dark face.

Where are you Don’t you know kill me with each
second that flows of this present that raw skin
you impose me to live Lady perfumed in selfishness,
don’t bathe me in your essence to make me suffer!

Appease your inner self, pour torrents of
solitude that you crave, but return. Review the
past lessons of your voice that linger in my neurons,
my spirit, and find in them comfort.

The post Lo que haces appeared first on .

I just enjoyed reading this poem by William Thomas, it is deep and touches the core of the soul. Enjoy and hope you think in this season of love of those who spend it in solitude.

A Frozen Tear

By William Thomas©

Winter in Kodiak, a time of little light.
The snow brightens the ground and the stars light up the night.
A cluster of Spruce sag deep, a drift in front of my car.
My heart weighs heavy. Thoughts of relatives afar.
A blustery wind blows, north then south.
A cold winter thirst, warm java for my mouth.
A homeless man sleeps, all bundled in clothes.
His heart deep with thoughts of past Christmas woes.
A handshake, a smile, a sip of my coffee.
A friend in waiting, I became to he.
Some food from the shelter, a warm place to rest.
His life for the moment, felt happy and blessed.
He told me the stories of days long ago.
My full attention, he required, to him I happily bestowed.
A veteran of the war, a father of four.
A long distance call seemed to matter no more.
The blanket of stars and the snow under his feet,
only brought back memories of a scar so deep.
A story from my life, I understood his loss.
To spend Christmas without family, there’s no greater cost.
One more handshake. A “man-hug” goodbye.
His face looked of worry, wondered if I would be back tonight.
A job in Kodiak sometimes is so rare.
But I am happy to tell you, where I work is here.
A smile, a thought, the lending of an ear.
A thousand times more helpful than a frozen tear.

The post “A frozen tear” appeared first on .

Just before Christmas, an honest politician, a generous lawyer and Santa Claus got into the lift (elevator) at the Ritz Hotel in London. As the lift travelled from the 5th floor down to the ground level, one-by-one they noticed a £50 note lying on the lift’s floor.

Which one picked up the £50 note, and handed it in at reception?

Santa of course, the other two don’t actually exist!

Christmas is for love

Author unknown

Christmas is for love. It is for joy, for giving and sharing, for laughter, for reuniting with family and friends, for tinsel and brightly decorated packages. But mostly, Christmas is for love. I had not believed this until a small elf-like student with wide-eyed innocent eyes and soft rosy cheeks gave me a wondrous gift one Christmas.

Mark was an 11 year old orphan who lived with his aunt, a bitter middle aged woman greatly annoyed with the burden of caring for her dead sister’s son. She never failed to remind young Mark, if it hadn’t been for her generosity, he would be a vagrant, homeless waif. Still, with all the scolding and chilliness at home, he was a sweet and gentle child.

I had not noticed Mark particularly until he began staying after class each day (at the risk of arousing his aunt’s anger, I later found) to help me straighten up the room. We did this quietly and comfortably, not speaking much, but enjoying the solitude of that hour of the day. When we did talk, Mark spoke mostly of his mother. Though he was quite small when she died, he remembered a kind, gentle, loving woman, who always spent much time with him.

As Christmas drew near however, Mark failed to stay after school each day. I looked forward to his coming, and when the days passed and he continued to scamper hurriedly from the room after class, I stopped him one afternoon and asked why he no longer helped me in the room. I told him how I had missed him, and his large gray eyes lit up eagerly as he replied, “Did you really miss me#8221;

I explained how he had been my best helper. “I was making you a surprise,” he whispered confidentially. “It’s for Christmas.” With that, he became embarrassed and dashed from the room. He didn’t stay after school any more after that.

Finally came the last school day before Christmas. Mark crept slowly into the room late that afternoon with his hands concealing something behind his back. “I have your present,” he said timidly when I looked up. “I hope you like it.” He held out his hands, and there lying in his small palms was a tiny wooden box.

“Its beautiful, Mark. Is there something in it#8221; I asked opening the top to look inside. ”

“Oh you can’t see what’s in it,” He replied, “and you can’t touch it, or taste it or feel it, but mother always said it makes you feel good all the time, warm on cold nights, and safe when you’re all alone.”

I gazed into the empty box. “What is it Mark,” I asked gently, “that will make me feel so good#8221; “It’s love,” he whispered softly, “and mother always said it’s best when you give it away.” And he turned and quietly left the room.

So now I keep a small box crudely made of scraps of wood on the piano in my living room and only smile as inquiring friends raise quizzical eyebrows when I explain to them that there is love in it.

Yes, Christmas is for gaiety, mirth and song, for good and wondrous gifts. But mostly, Christmas is for love.

The “W” in Christmas                                                      
                                                                           
Last December, I vowed to make Christmas a calm and peaceful experience.   I had cut back on nonessential obligations – extensive card writing, endless baking, decorating, and even overspending. Yet still, I found myself exhausted, unable to appreciate the precious family moments, and of course, the true meaning of Christmas.       
     
My son, Nicholas, was in kindergarten that year. It was an exciting season for a six year old. For weeks, he’d been memorizing songs for his school’s “Winter Pageant.”  I didn’t have the heart to tell him I’d be working the night of the production. Unwilling to miss his shining moment, I spoke with his teacher.  She assured me there’d be a dress rehearsal the morning of the presentation.  All parents unable to attend that evening were welcome to come then.  Fortunately, Nicholas seemed happy with the compromise. 
                 
So, the morning of the dress rehearsal, I filed in ten minutes early,  found a spot on the cafeteria floor and sat down. Around the room, I saw  several other parents quietly scampering to their seats. As I waited, students were led into the room. Each class, accompanied by their teacher, sat cross-legged on the floor. Then, each group, one by one, rose to perform their song. Because the public school system had long stopped referring to the holiday as “Christmas,” I didn’t expect anything other than fun, commercial    entertainment – songs of reindeer, Santa Claus, snowflakes and good cheer.

So, when my son’s class rose to sing, “Christmas Love,” I was slightly taken aback by its bold title. Nicholas was aglow, as were all of his classmates, adorned in fuzzy mittens, red sweaters, and bright snowcaps upon their heads.  Those in the front row- center stage – held up large letters, one by one, to spell out the title of the song. As the class would sing “C is for Christmas,” a child would hold up the  letter C. Then, “H is for Happy,” and on and on, until each child holding up his portion had presented the complete message, “Christmas Love.” 

The performance was going smoothly, until suddenly, we noticed her; a small, quiet, girl in the front row holding the letter “M” upside down –  totally unaware her letter “M” appeared as a “W”.  The audience of 1st through 6th graders snickered at this little one’s mistake. But she had no idea they were laughing at her, so she stood tall, proudly holding her “W”.  Although many teachers tried to shush the children, the laughter continued until the last letter was raised, and we all saw it together.  A hush came over the audience and eyes began to widen. In that instant, we understood the reason we were there, why we celebrated the holiday in the first place, why even in the chaos, there was a purpose for our  festivities. For when the last letter was held high, the message read loud and clear: 

The post Stories, one of fun and the other of love appeared first on .

THE GOLD WRAPPING PAPER – An Inspiring Christmas Story

Once upon a time, a man punished his five-year-old daughter for using up the family’s only roll of expensive gold wrapping paper before Christmas.

Money was tight, so he became even more upset when on Christmas Eve, he saw that the child had used the expensive gold paper to decorate a large shoebox she had put under the Christmas tree.

Nevertheless, the next morning the little girl, filled with excitement, brought the gift box to her father and said, “This is for you, Daddy!”

As he opened the box, the father was embarrassed by his earlier overreaction, now regretting how he had punished her.

But when he opened the shoebox, he found it was empty and again his anger flared. “Don’t you know, young lady,” he said harshly, “when you give someone a present there’s supposed to be something inside the package!”

The little girl looked up at him with sad tears rolling from her eyes and whispered: “Daddy, it’s not empty. I blew kisses into it until it was all full.”

The father was crushed. He fell on his knees and put his arms around his precious little girl. He begged her to forgive him for his unnecessary anger.

An accident took the life of the child only a short time later. It is told that the father kept this little gold box by his bed for all the years of his life. Whenever he was discouraged or faced difficult problems, he would open the box, take out an imaginary kiss, and remember the love of this beautiful child who had put it there.

In a very real sense, each of us as human beings have been given an invisible golden box filled with unconditional love and kisses from our children, family, friends and God.

There is no more precious possession anyone could hold

The post “The wrapping paper” appeared first on .

Suave y sedosa, bañada en sombras
hechas por los cocoteros que de
tus entrañas nacen. Te alargas en
una simple línea costanera.
Penetras el regazo líquido
que te acaricia con su blancura,
toque dactilar espumoso que es
en sí un recuerdo de su posesión.

Espectros de luz dorada tibian
tu frío ser, te despiertan a la
melancolía de unos ojos que
se enamoran de ti en cada alba, un
alma que bendice tu existencia,
te graba en letras que no te hacen
justicia. Mi belleza decadente,
terrenal, eternamente tuya.

The post Manto playero appeared first on .

Trazos curvos expuestos a los elementos
encuentran su morada sobre la dureza de
los minerales manipulados en rigidez,
transformados por la necesidad homosapiens.
Entre tus curvaturas se esconde el sentimiento,
la historia presente, la visión.
Eres narración fría unidimensional.
En color estallas a tu medio ambiente
y cambias con tu toque a la planicie en relieve.
Algunos te llaman vandalismo,
Otros te conocen como expresión.

Expresión

Curve strokes exposed to the elements
you find your lair on the hard of the
manipulated rigid minerals, transformed
by the necessity of the homosapiens.
Between your curves is hidden the sentiment,
the present history, the vision.
You are cold one-dimensional narration.
In color you explode to your environment
and changes with your touch
the plane into relief.
Some call you vandalism,
Others know you as expression.

The post Expresión / Expression appeared first on .

Apolo despierta, envuelve mi ser
Con su fuerte cálido abrazo y allí
a mi lado está tu silueta. Eres una obscura
visión magnifica. Lo que pude ser, pero
que soy en ti. Un cambiante de mi alma;
delgada, alta, pequeña, casi invisible en
un lugar tenue. Nunca inesperada, prosperas
a mi lado, a mis espalda, en mi frente. Compañera
silenciosa que acaricias lo que a mis pies está,
en ti confío la oscuridad en mí. Utilízala en tu piel de
Ónix, mi recuerdo de lo que puedo ser en un futuro.

The post …of myself / …de mi misma appeared first on .

Gray and dense,
stands tall like a column
of smoke crowning the
town with its presence.

Ghost from the past,
rises where once one stood.
Haunting from the sky
those that lay unprotected
below, in a moment still
fresh like rain drops
alive in the womb of
the gray and dense cloud.

Small and insignificant,
compare to the one from the
time of old, still a presence
of authority profuse from
its cloudy shape as if to
worn not to forget.

The post A cloud appeared first on .