ZULMA QUINONES SENATI

 

 

The Fire Tree

 

The branches surrounded

our little white house.

They were full of orange-red flowers  

like flames falling from the sky.

They would cover the yard

like the mouth of an erupting volcano.

I reveled in the touch of the petals

on my naked feet and my eyes filled

with the joyous and exuberant display of nature.

 

The sound of the water

in the nearby streams

created a sonorous and pleasing concert,

the perfect music for the children.

We could see the world

from our tiny house

through the open doors and windows,

the blue skies and the falling petals

of the flamboyant.

The flame tree lifted our spirits,

as it colored our lives.

 

I picture my memories

and see the matted soil,

that wonderful carpet of flames

covering the ground.

I soar over it

as if a magic rug were carrying me

to that wondrous world

of my childhood.

 

Busy Bee

 

My childhood is full of butterflies and birds.

It escapes at instances to the country side,

plays in the meadows and names the creatures

formed by the clouds, splashes in the rivers

slides on the lakes, smells all the flowers

like a busy bee or a fluttering butterfly.

 

It is a blooming tree smiling on every bud.

My infancy is a swing flying to the Sky,

My little hands touching cotton candy mist

piercing crystal bubbles floating in the air, 

chasing birds and dancing and humming

like the wild feathered creatures above

and singing their own songs.

 

It is the sound of laughter and cheers,

storytelling and lullabies ringing in my ears.

It is that awesome place called home

where all of us want to return.

 

Reminiscences

 

The scent of wild berries

travels in my mind.

It invades the thoughts

with showers of voices,

green scenery and flowers.

The images of grandma,

the matriarch great grandma,

uncles and aunts, cousins,

my brothers and sisters,

the smile of my mother

shining like a comet

crossing the open space

to land on my pillow.

There is no father figure.

But it does not matter.

Happiness encircles us

and the smell of homemade

soups and traditional food

impregnates the dreams

of the reminiscences,

awaking them in the night.

My childhood was not perfect,

but it carries me away

to watch the crops at nana`s

and happy poverty at momma`s

while merry raindrops fall

from my emotional eyes.

A guardian angel’s picture

decorated every living room

and, believe it or not,

it indeed did its job.

Memories are leaves

falling from old trees

even if it is not autumn

to remind us of the good moments

of our unforgettable childhood.

And although we think we outgrew it

it is still inside us.

Like a newborn,

we carry it with us!

 

ZULMA QUINONES SENATI

 

ZULMA QUIÑONES SENATI was born in Yauco, Puerto Rico. She studied at the Catholic University of Puerto Rico in Ponce, where she completed her Bachelor's Degree in Education in 1970. Has written De mariposa a crisálida (2001), La barca en el tiempo (2005), El rostro oculto (2008) in narrative and Este sendero conmigo (2013), Fragilidad de vidrio soplado (2018), Piel de almendra (2019) Alas de Colibrí (2020) Gemidos de fuego (2021) Senderos en el río de la infancia (2023) and No quiero que las flores sepan (2023) in poetry. Several of her stories and poems have been awarded in national and international competitions and published in Anthologies in Spain, Argentina, Greece, Puerto Rico and other countries. She has coordinated the International Festival of Poetry and Art Grito de Mujer in Puerto Rico for the last thirteen years.