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Dreams, Faith, Family, Hope, Love, poetry

Art As Poetry

Amor A Todas Horas-Simon SIlva alvaradofrazier.com
Amor A Todas Horas-Simon SIlva alvaradofrazier.com

This painting, by Simon Silva, has been in my home for 15 years. I’ve passed by it hundreds of times. It wasn’t until last night that I sat down and recalled why I bought it in the first place.

The colors and curves caught my eye. As a mother of young children, the image spoke to a mother’s love, parenting, and family.

 But, it was the title “Amor A Todas Horas,” that caught my heart. 

All these years, the art piece has graced my home without me really looking at the details. Something I hadn’t noticed before caught my eye. There is a note on the small table next to the mother and child.

“Mi Amor para ti, es amor a todas horas.” 

“My Love for you, is a love for all time.”

From that one note, the art piece spoke to me in a different way. An entire scene played in my head. A poem surfaced:

Amor a Todas Horas

My love for you,

is a love for all time.

 

Remember this as the candle

casts shadows on the wall,

when the moon tests faith and 

you worry about an unknown fate.

 

And I will remember

the curve of your warmth,

your soft embrace,

against my dreams.

The glow of your love,

a blanket for our child,

a hope that warms

the both of us.

Wait for me 

when the moon rises

on your despair,

and sets on your sorrow.

Wait for me like the roses

beneath our window,

even when the petals fall,

and the bush grows thorny.

 

Remember this

my love,

through every sunrise,

and every sunset.

 

Mi amor para ti,

es amor a todas horas. ©

I’ll make it a point to go around my home and really listen to how the art speaks to me. I hope you do too.

For Simon Silva paintings please go to his site. 

Family, Latino culture, Parenting, poetry

Poetry as a Gift to Ourself

gettyimages-Fraser, Colorado
gettyimages-Fraser, Colorado

I’m really missing my kids who live in Colorado.

It’s hard to believe they are young adults making their own way, not only in another town, but another state. Sometimes I get comments about this fact, “How could you let them go so far…” For many Latino families this just isn’t done. But that’s another story, for another time.

A couple or three weeks ago, the “polar vortex” swept through Colorado. My flight was cancelled and I didn’t make it up there to celebrate my daughter’s birthday. That sucked, but better to be safe than sorry (my daughter’s words).

Last time I was there, in December, I experienced my first snowy Christmas. We took a walk. The air felt frigid, the snow crunchy, my toes had no feeling.

Inside was the best way for a Southern California resident to view the snowfall.

My journal captured some thoughts which I developed into a poem.

Outside My Window

Layers of snow cover

a multitude of sins,

which no longer hover

below the blanket of white.

Cold truths against the light,

making beautiful the wrongs to right,

softens the landscape

against the morning light,

see how things can be made right,

Cushions of snow,

light and fresh,

unmarked drifts of possibilities

to keep the wrongs right,

to begin anew,

erase the dark.

A canvas of white

illuminated against the daylight,

soon to be crushed by black stripes,

criss crossing

making sludge of white

I’m glad I recorded my thoughts. They take me back to sitting at the living room window early in the morning, looking out to the balcony and street below.

Snow layered itself over hedges, trees, and cars. Pretty soon cars started driving by, and the morning woke up.

I made the kids some vegan Mexican hot chocolate which we stirred with cinnamon sticks. The spicy fragrant drink and the heater in the apartment warmed us from the inside out.

Memories about one’s kids are one of the greatest gifts about being a parent.

Poetry is a gift to ourself.