Forbidden running - for OSI

forbidden running

we stand under the dintel

the final waiting

(inspired on the earthquake we suffered in Chile 27/02/10)

Lineas (from my dear friend Tom )

dear lines, presume to be a letter,
written to be read in a place presumed
to be housing a party, laughter and joy,
presumably read in Neruda's tongue.

cantos y flores al sur del mundo...
palabras silenciosas en el corazón
de la lluviosa region novena...

dear lines, presume to be a song,
designed to celebrate a date presumed
to be a birthday in the deepest south,
presumably sung in Neruda's tongue.

cantos y flores al sur del mundo...
palabras silenciosas en el corazón
de la lluviosa region novena...

dear lines, presume to be a flower
watered in the southern rain, presume
to be a mountain dancing the paso doble.
i wish i could sing in Neruda's tongue.

cantos y flores al sur del mundo...
palabras silenciosas en el corazón
de la lluviosa region novena...


¡felíz cumpleaños, Sandra!

Ethics for Sunday Scribblings

with enormous joy
the moral of the autumn
does not need a choice

elastic ethics
born under unbalanced ground
a false aesthetics


life seems seductive

I  cross the line uncaring

goodness inactive

The gold of the sun (for OSI)

for me a delight

watching the gold of the sun

greeting me with light

CQ 40 CQ 40 speaking....(Messages for Sunday Scribblings)

When I was a child I used to spend  summer time  in Rinconada, a place in the Andes near Argentina . It was a beautiful but isolated place. My family talked with other people that were in the same living conditions using the radio: " CQ 40 CQ 40 hablando en banda de 40 metros" that was the first message or call given.

I was proud of using  those special  codes.
For example:

My QRA is Sandra and my QTH is in Rinconada, Chile. There is a lot of QRM today,I cannot hear you. Tell me the QTR to send the QTC

This codes could be questions or answers. To communicate with those messages it was fun...

A single drop - Una única gota

The cradle of the south awakes with the wind

he  greets me when he  arrives at my door,

the water announces its arrival with a single drop,

that is the beggining of raining  in the south,

I walk and  I can  see under a gray veil

the stones the trunks and the mint

shivering when feeling its fingers

at the compass of a  song that lingers

increasing little by little its pounding,

I suddenly feel like doing an embroidery

burning a fire waiting for its rattle-trap

under  an intimate atmosphere in the night

La cuna del sur con el viento se  despierta

y  me saluda cuando está en mi puerta,

el agua se anuncia con una única gota  leve,

ese es el comienzo cuando en el sur  llueve,

yo camino  bajo un velo gris y puedo ver

las piedras los troncos y la menta

que se estremecen  al sentir sus dedos

al compás de una  canción que permanece

aumentando de a poco el golpeteo,

siento ganas de iniciar un bordado,

de prender el fuego y esperar su carricoche

en un ambiente íntimo en la noche