Bohemian Poesia Y 3D Arte

In memory of poet Charles Bukowski and EAch ONE of us who escaped AA meetings.

Un diablico con arte del pintor aleman Karls Schmidt-Rottluff adentro de la botella.

There’s a bluebird in my heart that wants to get out
But I’m too tough for him
I say, stay in there
I’m not going to let anybody see you
There’s a bluebird in my heart that wants to get out
But I pur whiskey on him and inhale cigarette smoke
And the whores and the bartenders and the grocery clerks
Never know that he’s in there.

There’s a bluebird in my heart that wants to get out
But I’m too tough for him
I say
Stay down, do you want to mess me up?
You want to screw up the works?
You want to blow my book sales in Europe?
There’s a bluebird in my heart that wants to get out
But I’m too clever, I only let him out at night sometimes
When everybody’s asleep
I say, I know that you’re there
So don’t be sad
Then I put him back
But he’s singing a little in there, I haven’t quite let him die
And we sleep together like that with our
Secret pact
And it’s nice enough to make a man
But I don’t weep
Do you? -Charles Bukowski

“El Torito Guapo de Anton” Festival that is celebrated in my town in the month of October. To know more about this festival and where I come from you can access (

In Plato’s Republic, the three Moiras sing in unison to the music of the mermaids. Laquesis sings the things that were, Clotho the things that are and Atropos the things that must be.

Inspired by the ladies of the regions that partly inhabit the Republic of Panama. Ngäbe-Bugle, Guna Yala, Embera-Wounaan. (Clotho, Laquesis, and Atropo
Flamingo teaches stand strong in the face of a storm.  Symbolism.
In Egypt, people associated flamingos with the sun god Ra, and people treated them with great care. Peruvian stories described them as sacred birds to various heroes or protectors of humanity. Flamingo is considered by many cultures to be an emblem of healing and love. The inspiration for this piece came from a friend that one time wrote me: Focus. 1:11

“There was a time when I wrote poetry, those times when the world was simpler and the direction was a straight line. When I grew up I lost all my writing and the lines turned like a tumbleweed. The city, its lights and its noise, it is impossible for me to maintain a single thought. Sometimes when silence reigns in insomnia, bohemian nights awaken and some poetry come to a piece.”

Mayra Moreno
Looking for Mother.(English)
Where wanders, Mother?
She wonders in rooms of a fragmented mind.
 She has lost the North,
the focus where the essential things are. 
On the couch, sleeps the dreams, strength, and life that she gives. 
The darkness is coming and
The vultures are lurking.
We need to get to  her,
 we will wake her from her slumber,
We will bring her to reality
Recuerda Matusagarati (Español)

A la memoria de los desmemoriados.
Y me dije ,
Esta cerca la hoguera!
Esta cerca la hoguera!
Y me pregunte,
Cómo será el atardecer en Pluto ?
Si hay memoria en los desmemoriados ?
Si pereceremos todos juntos?
O quizás el mañana es
el pasado que se pierde
en un futuro.
Y me pregunte,
En que tiempos estamos?
cómo sería vivir más allá del tiempo.

Remember Matusagarati (English)

To the memory of the forgetful.
And I said to myself,
The bonfire is near!
The bonfire is near!
And I asked myself,
what will the sunset be like in Pluto?
If there is memory in the forgetful?
Will we all perish together?
Or maybe tomorrow is
the past that is lost
in the future.
And I asked myself
What times are we in
And what it would be like to live beyond time.

10/4/2020 Quarantine Times Poetry
.Mayra Moreno

En mundos paralelos.

Autora: Mayra Moreno

Pedí a mis Dioses fuerzas para perdonarte

Dejar este odio que has despertado en mi.

Una fría mañana amanezco pensándote .

Qué tan triste infancia debiste de sufrir.

Ante mis ojos eras la niña mimada,

Con cabellos perfectos y zapatos de charol.

Tu desde pequeña fabricastes tu castillo

Poniendo a papi y mami como reyes del jorón.

Y así fuimos creciendo en mundo paralelos.

Eras soportable de Domingo en Domingo.

Pero, de tiempo en tiempo, compartimos tiempos

Viviendo bajo un solo Domingo.

La dictadura acariciaba nuestras vidas

Tu vivías tu infierno que desconocía

Camuflajeado en cuentos de princesas

Que hacían dudar de mi propia existencia.

Evitamos los roces, el cruce de miradas

En la cocina vacía por un duelo nacional

Tu tomando tu avena con sabor a caviar

Yo tragando la mía con sabor a realidad.

Imposible no chocarse con tu bipolaridad.

Así fuimos creciendo en mundos paralelos

Yo deseando que fueras a vivir a tu castillo

Donde eras la princesa de un reino inexistente

Que le habla a sus súbditos por necesidad.

Tus fantasías no conocieron la pobreza.

En tu mundo paralelo a la realidad.

Es insostenible tus alas de grandeza

Solo son comparables con tu vanidad.

Fuimos creciendo y cuentas me fui a dar

Que el rey acariciaba con golpes a la reina

Que tú castillo no era más que suspiros

Que cargas el peso del maltrato familiar.