Who Is She?

IMG_8107She is my sister, my mother, my friend
my body, my homie!
She is my true blood
my main squeeze.

She is the one who knows,
the one who understands, well…
at least she pretends
for a day, an hour, a minute, a second,
for weeks gone down.

With a full force of a speeding train,
a hurricane,
she marches in with a vengeance
at whatever and whenever,
and stays in
even if not invited.

She is my good friend
a sincere agent
day and night
without a price.

She does not judge but
listens intensively
and does not blame
just praises.

She does not interrupt but
is always there, ready, for the next round.
She does not instruct and never hangs up – the
phone, there is.
She always remembers
your address
your birthday
your celebrations.
She always stays in touch
is the first to arrive,
the last to leave
always there!

She is my sister, my mother, my friend
my partner, my cousin, my aunt, my grandma.
She is my body, my homie, my sista, my peeps,
my true blood and
true self.
She is a woman and a friend,
she is you!
Thank you for being you,
thank you for being a woman.
Happy International Women’s Day!

© 2009 Angela Aguiar

The Cell Phone

At your service

The dreadful gadget that people breathe
roaring into their tube,
professing undying passion
embracing carelessly
even at off hours
leeringly making love.
Menacing as a stalker,
the miniature canvas
in different shapes and forms
easily discarded
with a sound just short of annoyance
tingly design and colors.
Ignoring its treatment of them,
people joyfully dance to its groove.
The phone can be rented or owned
held between the palms
hung on the back pocket or belt.
Rain or shine, winter to summer,
this mercifully disrespectful
audaciously abusive
possessive thing,
clings adhesively to one like Cinderella’s stepmother.
An insatiating object that delights the oblivious world
forcefully pedaling gripped phone numbers
embroiling them in a chameleon chat.
I don’t get it!
What happened before its invention?
The world did not stop
or evolve around the encrypted tones.
Life did not stop living.
In the end, the gadget becomes a coexisting depleted argument
rapped around the corner, enfolding the neck,
satisfying conceited egos.
The gizmo is a freshly ambulatory phone booth,
a peddler rubbing against your private discussion
equally at fault for penetrating your eardrums.
It is the main ingredient of the culture craze
a nuisance to a few
but blessing to many
who has it attached to their hip.

©Raining In May

Second Chance, The Poem

Fantasy became reality before my eyes:
a soft flower piercing below my chin
a fly in my wing to a miracle reunion.
Pondering the journey
I walked perpendicular to the velvet hotel corridor.
Possessed by own fear
I pondered the outcome,
melting away anxiously
trying to find the courage to embrace the reunion
with the one who got away many lights before.
As I methodically counted each of the steps
consciously drifting away from the excitement,
I tried to block him out of mind
clenching my fist, mulling over the fortunate change I had
to reunite with the precious stone I genuinely loved.
Wanting to stop by a liquor store,
to throw away my fears,
I temporarily wavered back into a corner
swinging back and forth into memories –
a stingy steps from a plunge, the door.
The mailman delivered the exciting news that
my prayers had been answered:
my charming prince, my first great love was hear.
Breaking away in a sweat
I nervously reached for my scrambled spongy heart
unraveling whether the terrain was still sparkling.
Believing in love and romance,
I longed to summon up the puberty
the punishing desire carried in the ferocious first kiss.
Hunting for the perfect ending
we sized each other up.
He stared at me, I stared at him without a word, without a say
just us breathing.
With my knees quavering uncontrollably
I runt to him, he ran to me
tossing our arms around like dogs in heat.
Overwhelmed, I froze,
paralyzed.
His eyes looking straight at me
our lips locked in a tender juicy kiss
weakening my body, tossing me away like the wind.
We smiled gently striking the sun, not letting go
realigning our startling story,
I cried uncontrollably re-discovering love once more.

© Raining in May