Sunday, August 23, 2015


      by Camincha
I don't want to read 
all there is to read. 

Really, I don't. 
All these lovely stories 
that sound so charming.   And 
often end so common place. 
I write them myself.    Of course 
not commonplace, though! 

Really don't want to read other's 
except they beg me.    Like a kitten 
scratching at my ankles 
for attention they beg me to caress their 
lines with my eyes.    To share 
their turn of events.    To turn the page 
and keep up with the story.    I do, and feel 
good afterwards, like when I share 
a cup of coffee with Mary even though 
I should have gone on with the house cleaning. 

Turning the pages I find about foreign 
lands exciting characters, though more 
often than not about people like me who also 
enjoy and survive and hurt and read about 
                         others like me. 


Thursday, August 6, 2015


Miraf'lores, Lima Perú   ©          WORDS  209              LINES 29       

                                       by Camincha

I come down to the Coast that has the seducing curves of my
morena, who sings, Tamales calientiiiiiitos!!!!!!!! Through
the streets of my city on Saturday nights. And the voice
of my cholo with his eagle–beak nose, skin the color of mud,
my color. My Inca whistles at my door. Sharpens my knives and
       scissors big and small.                          Miraflores.

I come down to the Coast. To blue, green eyes. Full bearded
Europeans. The cafe latte skin of my criollas and criollos. To
flat streets that roll to the ocean. To its white foam. To the heat
of its shade. The tears of its garüa. The corner of La Picaronera.
The callejon next door. The European chalet. The Gardens of
La DiagonaL Ice cream from D'onofrio. The church across
Parque Central. The benches of Alameda Pardo. Sunday's
promenades. The British-Peruvian school, blue uniform, hat,
white shirt, red tie. Ferocious exams. Matinees at the Excelsior:
       The cowboy and the girl. .                             Miraflores.

I come down to the Coast. I take El Expresso to go to Lima, El Urbanito
to El  Mercado Central, to La Tiendecita Blanca where our mothers
bought Chantilly Creme to decorate birthday cakes, and still serves
butifarras, paltas rellenas, tamales, empanadas, humitas. Memories jump
through the intersection of' Larco and Pardo, f'ive blocks in diameter,
with a rainbow of flowers in its center. Walk to Schell St. where my school,
San Jorge, used to be, then to Porta St. that saw my growing up years.
El Terrazas Club still a block away, looking forward to its next Carnavales
Festival. Would you like to dance? sounds in my head. Dance? His
eyes full of  adoration. EI Malecón gives me his cliffs that roll to the
Pacific while the scent of jasmine, dahlias, sweet peas, honeysuckle,
       sweet  narcissus, stalk my steps … Miraflores, my Miraflores.