A Collection of Poems

(in semi-syncopated flow) . Where are they? Where are they? Where are my old friends? Those from our little school and those from the univer...

Death ambushes at every corner and at times brute sentiment and rage  distend my heart  like a stretch sock. 

I saw a sprig of violets they sprouted tears

What solitude you have if you are asleep. What dreadful silence in the night. I peer into the mysterious abyss Where there is no light, or n...

To Roque, to Argueta, to Cea, to Quijada Urias In what station hotel will our shadows touch the lips of the abyss and stretched but on the i...

The night of my first political cell meeting it rained my way of dripping was celebrated by four or five characters straight out of a Goya p...

I was born in 1942 if for some reason my mother has not lost her memory.

And I dreamt that I was a tree and all my branches – leafy – were belovéd of the birds

I have freed myself at last it has been hard to break free near the end of the bridge I pause the water flows below

Dear Sir: I am writing this letter on my birthday. I received your present. I don’t like it.

For many years I couldn’t choose the land of my song. Two lands, throbbing within, were mystery and gift.

Every year the dictator makes a speech to the multitudes from his pragmatic throne – Peace Love Justice – (as if history were an expedient...

“Yet we want to return to the place we love. And if God lets us live, we’ll return to eat corn-on-the-cob fresh from the field, if we are gi...

He sat down in his chair after watching thirty thousand peasants die.

There is a still silence thinking me another flayed silence walking inside me

   My country you do not exist you’re my silhouette badly drawn that’s all a word that fooled the enemy

How will the return be? My parents won’t be there I won’t climb the volcano with them to gather orchids.