Realizing that I am small,
Every day I choose to grow…
Always striving to move ahead…
Learning, I walk towards my goal.



Guest Poet:José Ángel Buesa


La gracia de tu rama verdecida


Árbol, buen árbol, que tras la borrasca
te erguiste en desnudez y desaliento,
sobre una gran alfombra de hojarasca
que removía indiferente el viento…

Hoy he visto en tus ramas la primera
hoja verde, mojada de rocío,
como un regalo de la primavera,
buen árbol del estío.

Y en esa verde punta
que está brotando en ti de no sé dónde,
hay algo que en silencio me pregunta
o silenciosamente me responde.

Sí, buen árbol; ya he visto como truecas
el fango en flor, y sé lo que me dices;
ya sé que con tus propias hojas secas
se han nutrido de nuevo tus raíces.

Y así también un día,
este amor que murió calladamente,
renacerá de mi melancolía
en otro amor, igual y diferente.

No; tu augurio risueño,
tu instinto vegetal no se equivoca:
Soñaré en otra almohada el mismo sueño,
y daré el mismo beso en otra boca.

Y, en cordial semejanza,
buen árbol, quizá pronto te recuerde,
cuando brote en mi vida una esperanza
que se parezca un poco a tu hoja verde…

-José Ángel Buesa



These things I feel many days.
Riding the waves,
I surf through opposing worldviews,
And cultural change.
Some I encounter have never,
Worked to understand a new culture,
Despite living abroad for years.
All change is a crucible,
Like a cross.
How will you overcome, in spite of loss?
When cliques surround,
And people seem to overlook you?

Will you  wait for the favor?

An excerpt from a Poem..

Here’s an excerpt from a poem that I wrote for my love. To you, my love…You are the most honorable man and champion I know.

…Your skin is a bit weather-beaten,
But despite the scars,
It is soft and exhilarating.
Your tattoos are fun to trace with a finger,
Just like your scars…
And they all tell stories.

Your chest is the place,
Where my head likes to lie…
And your heartbeat
Is a solace.
Why do I keep talking about your strength?
It is all over you…
Not just physically,
But spiritually too…

Hope you enjoyed that excerpt…


Intimacy and Privacy

The idea of privacy in this connected world,
Is so highly valued, but definitely not possible,
Unless you live as a hermit with no technology
And are 100% self-sustained…
Why is it that some cultures value it highly?
And others could care less?
Why do some people feel this individualistic pull,
And others value their family and friends?
Why do some try to go it alone,
And others value their families above all?
With technology, true privacy is now nearly impossible,
But that is where we can learn to be authentic.
If we can’t hide, why not be truthful?
Why not be honest?
Why not allow ourselves to trust and become intimate?
Will we let past wounds call us to retreat into our boxes?
Or will we heal and learn to love?
Can we have intimacy without violence and brutality?
Honorable trust and love?
And friendship?
Or will we allow ourselves to sink into the gloom?


You want all my love,
No… I can’t resist you.
You have all my love,
No I can’t resist you.

You say to my heart..
Trust in my ability
To bring you forth in love.
Trust in my ability
To bring you forth in love.
I am bringing your mature love,
Out for the world to see.

You want all my love,
No I can’t resist you.
You have all my love,
No I can’t resist you.

You want to lead me,
I receive it.
You want to know me,
I give myself to you.
You want all of my trust,
I give it to you.

You want all my love,
No I can’t resist you.
You have all my love,
No I can’t resist you.

You are relentless in pursuit,
I love the way you lead.
I love the way you protect,
And I love the way you
Choose to love me..


Guest Poet: Robert Browning

Today, I’m pleased to share a poem by one of my favorite poets of all time, Robert Browning.

Home-Thoughts, from Abroad

Oh, to be in England
Now that April’s there,
And whoever wakes in England
Sees, some morning, unaware,
That the lowest boughs and the brushwood sheaf
Round the elm-tree bole are in tiny leaf,
While the chaffinch sings on the orchard bough
In England—now!

And after April, when May follows,
And the whitethroat builds, and all the swallows!
Hark, where my blossomed pear-tree in the hedge
Leans to the field and scatters on the clover
Blossoms and dewdrops—at the bent spray’s edge—
That’s the wise thrush; he sings each song twice over,
Lest you should think he never could recapture
The first fine careless rapture!
And though the fields look rough with hoary dew,
All will be gay when noontide wakes anew
The buttercups, the little children’s dower
—Far brighter than this gaudy melon-flower!

-Robert Browning