Lulu Delacre

Here is the most wonderful kids book about vejigantes and the traditions surrounding how they are made and used. Please visit luludelacre.comvejiante+masquerader+book+by+lulu+delacre.jpg

JONSA Sims 4

Yes, some people might see this as a bit of an obsession! Thanks to those people who have been visiting WordPress to read “Finally”. I will eventually finish Married At First Sight Westerosi Style on AO3.

Jonsa in the hot tub AU……IMG_2356.jpg

Even the Lilies….

You brought me the lilies out of love. How could I tell you they made me sad. So beautiful. They’re perennials, you reminded. I know, I whispered. I know. Your lilies bloom for me every year. They taunt me in your absence. They smell of nothing. They smell of death.IMG_0421.jpg

Intro To Solstice 35 (comments appreciated – remember this is a snippet)

IMG_0402.pngYou are in the mind of the main character. (Please help me get the excitement to pound this out. It’s a sad, twisted but, necessary story.

I am a great artist and I know it. The reason I am great is because of all the suffering I have done. (Paul Gauguin)

Pieces, that’s all she had left. A million pieces of her life strewn everywhere. It was like breaking one of your favorite mugs and all of the shards were scattered across the floor. Some stayed beneath your feet for you to step on immediately, some hidden under the counters or random pieces of furniture for you to discover later. Some pieces just disappeared forever. Maybe they were pulverized by the impact against the tile or they were so obvious they were impossible to see. Later on, when you’d forgotten them, walking barefoot in the kitchen one morning making tea, you’d step on a sharp piece and it would go right through the bottom of you foot leaving a bloody gash.

Now, I’m going to put 35 of these pieces on display for all the world to read. I’m even going to read some of these poems tonight to give them voice in the universe. I keep telling myself this is art, meaningful writing. I wonder if it isn’t just my punishment. Do I really believe that great art comes from great pain and suffering like Gauguin? Or am I just a masochist? Or just plain fucked up and deserved all of this? Shit, all I know is that the writing is fucking fantastic.


Count Up: 133 Days after Hurricane Maria Made Landfall & 147 Days after Hurricane Irma Made Landfall in Puerto Rico.

Little Poem of Love

sheer morning in the dunes

flutes in the wind

play a sequence of notes

across the horizon

the ocean constant

the ocean ever changing

cathedral of song

my heart

a strange divinity


opaque night of the full moon

imagine your hands

surrounded by voices

gliding shivering the seagrass

holy its inclination

silence within the circle

coquí on the windowsill

i have a sense of loosing

myself to hold you


bells in the wind

flare and dissolve

empty rooms and

shadows on the walk

my garden green and astonishing

the patience of a clock

hours withheld

those given with an open hand

conjunction of ocean and prayer

Hurricane Dreams

100_1901 2.jpg

Hurricane Dreams



this evening as night

surrounds the bay like a familiar

stars describe the sky    luminous

the moon there is a sanctuary

in this dark where time is something

I can hold in my hand

wind takes the curtains

in a graceful gesture

silence sweeps the balcony

as I wait   clouds rush the beach




I am lost to the depth

of my need for you    your hands

the small of my back as we dance

ask anything    call my name

under your breath as you fuck me

hard against the white linen sheets


the fury raging tempest in her eyes

only a small confrontation

in comparison    with the hurricane

to come


there is no balance    no courting

a storm swift approaching

wind rips the palms now left

then right in its confusion


stucco buildings in sun

your smooth voice   your hands

come to me in summer   high

heat    slow arousal of the mind

an open window on the bay

the luxury of a balcony and

champagne at sunset

you in my life    slow

perpetual like roses bloom

in a sheltered garden


if the storm breaks free   if we

survive this length of night

she will disappear with her

cloud filled eyes and seaweed hair

the beach littered

with fragments of the past

dead things we can sweep away

like so much sand

on the blue kitchen tiles