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Womans Moods

by Patrissia Cuberos

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Unrequited Love This wound I carry Won’t heal. It burns at night And at midday, burns again I hope for a cure A miracle But no! Because my wound It’s waiting With no hope Patrissia Cuberos March 99
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My Desires My desires are golden butterflies that I trap in the cobwebs of my wisdom. My desires blossom and ripe, swell and explode. The seasons of my heart, raspberry crests on the tips of my breasts My desires, sailors sailing to a magical cave, in the depths of the rippling of the waves of my legs. The singing of the sirens pulls and calls to drop in and drive down to deep and depth explore. My desires Wings that tickle with soft whispering tongues My velvet-silk skin Coda: Butterflies have a brief life Raspberries rot Sailors drown Skin, grows old. P. E. Cuberos A moody woman 1999-2016
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Untampered Dream I wish I had a dream that I could dream “No thanks” I said and I caressed your cheek You didn’t know Neither did she. My softest touch Your softest cheek I wish I had a dream that I could dream Unspoiled by our knowing A dream that left alone All what cannot be mine.
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The Birth of the Bra "Prisoners for Life? But why? What have they done?" "They've broken certain rules, Some conventions, The law!" But how? I asked indignant. "Well," said the pompous Judge. "In the war of the sexes, They are too much of a clear provocation. They are tempting and more!" "You mean, because of their beauty?" "And the opposite too! Too big; too small, too flacid... The list of charges is long! The veredict is clear. To prison with them both!" "
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Divorce Now I am who I am Or who I believe to be Free to say or to feel Or to dare to disagree Now I am who I am Or at least who I can be Left behind the power game Who won the match yesterday? Now I say what I think And sometimes, What I don’t think With the twist of a word Flies the world of make believe Now I’m free to believe Or to think, or to dream Now I’m free to say no To be bad, to be weak To be free, to be me. P. E. Cuberos www.pecuberos.com
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Mood 74 Foreign Reality How to howl with a song That doesn’t want to be written How to growl about life And make of it a song Lost loves and friendships, Farness, remoteness, Lost identity, Silence, The daily deprivation of touch, of tenderness And you want me to sing About beauty and spirit About nature and God About peace and love Peace and love brother The last hippies are dead Collapsed behind computers And credit cards A heart with central heating Can’t give much The little fire inside you Is just enough for you Hang on, is this reality? Let’s call it daility, Senility, mediocrity Hypocrisy, detachment, commitment. Not much difference Too many words. Too little love. P. E. Cuberos A Moody Woman 1999-2016
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Spring Don’t come again Spring Don’t come again To bring entangled in the stars Of the warm blue sky The memory of my youth Just yesterday Spring Don’t bring with you The perfume of the soil The laughing bee That kissed me on the nose On that first day When I forgot my fear Spring Stay away Don’t remind me of the touch Don’t remind me of the sweat Spring Don’t come again Unless…you bring another love with you. Patricia Cuberos March 99
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released May 4, 2021

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Patrissia Cuberos Oxford, UK

Singing, whether Tango, Opera, World Music, Romantic revolutionary Latin songs, or Baroque Music, is an expression of my passion; a catarsis for the little and big dramas and tragedies of my life, real or imaginary. It makes me dance, connect with joy, tenderness or those depths of anger and dispair, and spiritual heights, extremes of feeling that make our life interesting and worth living. ... more

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