The Sweetness of Your Love

How can I describe the sweetness of your love
When your smile stands suspended in the eternity of a second,
Your aura is the ocean blue that kisses the horizon,
And your warmth is the scent of berry-flavored oatmeal?
How can I describe the sweetness of your love
When the chorus of your voice is a symphony of Rock and Spanish pop,
And your essence can’t be captured in a word?

“The Sweetness of Your Love” by Azul Serena


When you look at me
Do you see the unassuming girl
Who disappears behind the shadow of the passing faces,
Or do you see what I see in the mirror?
Do you see
A halo of reckless curls
Woven with coffee colored highlights, and
A pair of large, almond eyes
That are deeper than the sea and more soulful than the trees?
Do you see
That my timid lips hide a smirk and a tongue
That are laced with unapologetic truth?
Do you see
That my shoulders bear the weight of my success and
My hands are weathered from the labor of my mind?
Do you see
That my legs yearn to traipse the earth
Now that they have walked a mile in your shoes?
When you glance at my fading back
Do you wonder at the treasure you have missed?

“Her” by Azul Serena

Unexpected Love

This poem was inspired by Pablo Neruda’s Sonnet XVII.

If Fate denies linking the stitches of our love in her prophetic tapestry,
Was it you, then, My Love, who pierced my soul
And shattered my being into a thousand pieces?
You, who like the blaze of the mythical Phoenix
Flared into a cloud of feathery ashes
And draped my existence so wholly.
Dead and reborn,
Not in a thousand years’ time
But in an eternal second of joy!
Merged and transformed so that
The caress of your touch,
The depths of your eyes,
The whisper of your breadth,
The sound of my name on your lips,
The caress of my touch,
The depths of my eyes,
The whisper of my breadth,
The sound of your name on my lips.

“Unexpected Love” by Azul Serena

How It All Began

I like to believe that the beginning was marked by a glorious day with singing larks, golden rays, a sky so blue, and leaves so green that it made you think that it was the stuff of dreams and fantasy.  But it was not.  It was nothing more than an ordinary day, with ordinary weather, ordinary colors, and the numb bustling of everyday life.

I do not know why it happened that day.  After all, I had seen him week after week in the same white uniform and blue belt, sparring endlessly first with friends, later with worthier opponents, and not infrequently as a means to impress those who were watching from the sidelines.  I had practiced with him, too, but he was not impressed with my mediocre attempts and I had no intention of challenging his assessment of my abilities.  At least not until that day.

As always, my dad dropped off the three of us in front of the dojo.  My sister had a handful of coloring books that she never opened in her earnest absorption of the attending mothers’ gossip.  My brother walked silently towards the entrance with a solemn intensity in his eyes that later become a defining characteristic of his persona.  I walked behind them all and, for the millionth time, wondered why I had agreed to take karate lessons.  I was mortified by the possibility that someone from school would discover that I, the same girl who could not catch or throw a ball, climb a tree, play tetherball, or dribble a ball, was the same girl who was taking karate lessons.  I sighed, tugged my jacket, and whispered a silent prayer that Sensei would not make us practice summersaults.  Of all things related to my karate lessons, the thing I dreaded most were summersaults.  Every time we practiced them I feared that during one of those cumbersome and inefficient defense moves, I would break my neck and die in a most embarrassing rolled-up, tangled heap.  Unfortunately, Sensei did not share my fear.

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Here We Go

This blog has been a long time in the making.  These stories and poems began fermenting one languid spring afternoon as I tried to pass the time, but soon enough, the reader/writer/English major in me decided to take over and fill my pages one word at a time.

What I am most nervous about is how my works will be received.  I haven’t shared these works with anyone before – not even with my best friend who knows more about me than I know about myself – so hopefully you won’t find them unbearably dull.  If they are dull let me know gently because my fragile ego may not be able to handle harsh critiques…one day it will but not as of right this second.

Readers, without further ado, I present to you my first creative writing blog.