Sunday, November 1, 2020






Your eyes see beyond

blue and violet horizons

or rainbows of fierce fire.

You glimpse the wings

of the unwinged creatures.

The restless, forgetful sea

watches a miracle unveil.


The waves and the sand

listen to the humming

of Naiads and undines.


A smile hits the waters

And the beach is joyful

that winter morning.

The manes of the waves

dance in the fluffy seafoam

while watching your ashes advance

hand in hand with the wind.





Africa Under My Skin


Africa remains hidden under my skin

like a big eternal tattoo.

The mark of slavery in your body

lives in my genes too.


Alika lived centuries ago

but her story hunts me in my dreams.

She taps in my soul and thoughts

like a bug that stings.


The wind dried her eyes

on the unwanted trip at dawn

Her heart broke to pieces

but her memories live long.


The moon was the witness

shooting stars ran away

lightning and thunder struck

as heaven cried in the rain.


The sound of the drum beats

pierced her spirit and soul

telling her never to forget

the place where she came from.


I feel her pain in my heart

the terror that slashed her bones

in that night of bitterness

when all the stars were gone.


Her fast feet like gazelles

were imprisoned between chains

hurt and sore they would never

bring her back to her home again.


I dream of your nightmares

the hopelessness and cruelty

that broke your emotions

with disdain and nudity.


The rhythm, the beats of the drums

telling your story while you dance.

They revive your awful journey

the awakening and the trance.


Your sorrow sails in my blood

where your stigma still lives

that red-hot burning iron

like the mark of a beast.


Your memory lives in my hips

no matter the color of my skin

be brunette, red, black or white

live in Gambia or in this remote site.


The drum is already calling me

and my feet dance the dance

they travel between the verses

touching your timeless arms.


I carry your memoirs in my mind

in the blood that makes us family

in the awareness of everyone

that share with us the unique ties.


The drum is now beating

chanting hopelessness in the night.

My feet keep dancing and dancing

for under my skin Africa burns bright.





Behind The Clock Glass


Trapped in the crystal


I count the seconds

while falling like sand

from one prison to another.


My desires are in an upheaval.

Hidden inside the clock, lies my fate.

Sorrow grows as the waves

can't reach me, can’t feel them.


Sometimes the glass touches me,

that wall of fake reflections.

Transparent, hard, insensitive.


I miss your roar so much

your onslaught, your melting pot of colors!

My rebellion does not traverse clarity!


This glass cage is still a cage!




ZULMA QUIÑONES SENATI was born in Yauco, Puerto Rico. She graduated from the Catholic University of Puerto Rico in Ponce with a Degree in Education in 1970. She has published six books and has received several awards for her outstanding works in some of her short stories and poems. She coordinates in Puerto Rico the Festival de Poesía y Arte Grito de Mujer since 2011.

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