And their gaze waltzes
Exquisitely like moonlit
Hips of Bohemian women
That Salsas and lounge
Upon a luminous shore of love,

Soothing bonfires
Beside honey blossoming coves

Reynaldo Casison

1.) Beautiful and mysterious like a tulip.

Supple, yet smooth you flow as the wind.

What sort of creature is this? I asked!

She is "Anna", they replied.. in a ridiculous manner.

2.) Thou shall not be frail, let not your eyes turn pale!.

Courage, you coward! And overcome your fears.

I am but a lost lad, the worst of all men!

This creature you call a woman, will forever be my best nightmare.

A woman—what is she, if not a mystery written in fire?
She speaks, and her words wound and heal alike.
She loves, and in her love, one either lives or perishes.
She is neither angel nor devil, yet possesses the cruelty of both.

Men dream of understanding her,
as a blind man dreams of light—
but what folly! What arrogance!
For even as she stands before him,
laughing, crying, whispering secrets into the night,
she remains unknowable, a labyrinth without an exit.

She does not belong to him, nor to the world.
She belongs only to the chaos of her own heart.
And God help the man who loves her,
for he will never escape her shadow.

Cherry blossoms,
Heavenly mango vineyard
And exotic women robed in moonlight
Waltz like
Rose stanzas

Reynaldo Casison

I love exotic women
Who are lazy as eggs
And Sweet like evening rain

Reynaldo Casison

Deep in the Now,
there exists a kind of woman,
often attacked,
and sometimes rejected.

A warrior soul,
independent, rebellious,
the feminine in its purest state,
untamed and free.

She is the one
who left Eden,
forsaking the comfort of man
to carve her own path.

They say she was born
from Adam’s dust,
but made of pure energy
and empowerment.

She is where
the deepest passions
and the hidden faces emerge.

She is where life’s wounds,
fears, and shadows are faced,
where lost power is reclaimed.

A beautiful woman,
but I prefer her in the streets.

Because in my bed,
I want the one who surrenders,
the one who loves.

The one who cares for me,
and lets me care for her,
who speaks to me
through true communication.

And after long conversations,
time slips away unnoticed.

A beautiful woman,
in her fire and her calm,
Lilith in the streets, Eve at home.
Not because man commands it,
but because that is where she finds her balance.

They walk .. slowly.

Flashing her distance... happily.

She follows the path... patiently.

She swallows the water... She walks.
Scared not , She walks .

She ran-
Breath quickened, fastened heart.
He stalks-
The eyes widened , sharp as steel.
She falls.

They come ...
She ran.
She falls -
She crumbled.

The way she got upset
The light she got stared...
The way she accepted ..
Her fate ensnared.

The way he was happy,
The evil bestowed
The way they asked her,
And she followed.

To be a woman:

To be a woman is to bleed.
From between our legs, as young as nine, when the only worry in our young minds should be about scraped knees from riding bikes and scooters, the visceral meaning of womanhood begins to leak through the soft cotton amour of childhood.
The impending doom of what could be warded off by a child's imagination has cracked and no longer can be repaired.
This is the fate of a woman.
From that day we bleed.
Shoving gauze of soft smiles and politeness into bullet holes bore into our bodies by men.
Anything to stop the bleeding and remain a fragment of the person we once were.
We’re blithe in the presence of grown men that become aroused to the notion of humiliating us.
We try to feign ignorance and keep a straight face in times of turbulence to maintain modesty.
Our nails embedded into our palms, we bleed.
And a storm has formed.
Through the storm we seek the same refugee we watched our mothers seek. Always thinking that the outcome will be different.
This one is not the same.
We’re not our mothers.
Our love is different.
It’s respected.
It’s mutual…
as long as you’re the one doing the laundry and the cooking and the cleaning and you pay your half and you look after the child that you nearly bled out for.  
Nurturing, tending, cooking and cleaning and ‘whoops’ watch the knife…

bleeding.
Always bleeding.
It’s equal love though, isn’t it?
It’s what you wanted, right?
When you bore two children and you’re raising three, that’s what you wanted. That’s what you bled for.
That’s what you bled for?

Who has he bled for?


He walks into the kitchen, boots scuffing the linoleum on the way.
Dumping the scrapped leftovers of love you gave him in the early out of the morning into the trash and tossing the containers into the sink.
He pats the heads of the people he pretends make him whole and goes to the shower to rinse off the 10 hour shift of hard labor that didn't involve his family.

You don’t expect a kiss at this point because you learned that asking for what you deserve could come with a broken orbital socket.
So you let your heart bleed.
You bleed it into your kids.
You let them know that they are loved.
You pretend that everything is okay.
You go to work, you come home, you bleed and you bleed and you bleed.

Hopeful that your daughter doesn’t see.