The Seeds Planted in My Garden (2022)

This year I am thankful. Grateful for the mercy and favor that has been shed on my life.

Headpiece by Sonoran Muses – Emily Jones

Joyous that my cries for the end brought trumpets for beginnings. I am peaceful because I know the Awesome guides my steps. I have lost those whom guided me: Ernestine, Joseph, Aaron, Betty, and Denise. But I have gained sight that shows me the way. A high price was paid for my future, and now I multiply the talents passed to me (Matthew 25:14-30). Love made me, and loved I am. War protected me, and so I defend. Thank you to all that believe in me. Your seeds are watered well in my garden.


 With Love,
Martina Delgado 



Morning Prayers

Thank you.
That is my voice waking me to the risen sun.
I breathe in and yawn.
My body feels stiff,
I stretch.
I feel each ligament,
Each muscle reminds me I am still here.
My eyes flutter and form is added to my vision.
A bed, mirror, tables, and plants,
glow under the curtain, dimmed light.

I am home.
Home is me.

My dog pushes her nose against the bedroom door.
She is awake.
She stretches her body downward,
Tail up and I hear her peaceful moan.
Each muscle reminds her that she is still here.
Her jaw parts to pant and she is happy.
Thank you for my human.

And there we are.
Two beings,
Animated again.
Living prayers in skin.


They are l o s t .

Seeing solutions but accepting illusions.

Conclusions created by envious minds.

They will call your gold copper,

Then copy what you offer

Under the guise of authenticity.

Intricately they study the pure,

And create perversions that do not cure,

But infect the mimes that follow them.

You cannot trust what pride has


Between tight teeth.

Unwilling to pick free.

It’s control that they seek.

But do not worry.

The lost are consumed by their fear:

That you will one day see that they are not there.

They are mirages that fade under the truth.

The lost have no depth to grow their own roots.

So, they look for sweet flowers that grow through concrete.

And hope you don’t see what makes you unique:

A peace that blooms around negative thoughts.

My love,

They sure want what you’ve got!

Check out my author’s page and new poetry book

Why I Love Poetry

A poem’s words can stem from thoughts, feelings or experiences. It can be a few lines or a few pages. The shape of the words can be in a traditional paragraph form or take the shape of an object. Poetry can be about anything, but what I love about poetry is its reach.

I can write a poem about my love for nature, and the reader can interpret it as the love for a child. I can write a poem about finding strength after heartbreak, and the reader can interpret it as a recovery from addiction. 

A poem’s words can stem from the writer’s thoughts, feelings, or experiences. Poetry can speak to the reader in ways the writer never imagined. Therefore, I live. Therefore, I feel. Therefore, I write. All tears, blood, and sweat are transformed to verse. My life is yours to recite.

I love poetry.

Check out my author’s page:

Backwash by M.Dels

Hello, Travelers!

Guess what?

I have a poetry book!

Please visit my WordPress site if you haven’t read my blogs.

My blogs are the appetizer.

“Backwash” is the en·trée.

Follow the link below to learn more.

As always, thank you for reading my work. ❤



Hiding feels good.
You cannot see me.
You cannot read
What I have not said.

You cannot go to bed
And reflect on the person you just met.
Because I am hid,
I am silent as the dead.

I like being hid.
It’s safe in the unknown.
It’s comforting being alone,
And not waiting by a phone.

Not waiting for an invitation.
Not waiting for a smile.
Just fading like highway lines,
Mile after mile.

I like being cloaked.
Old furniture under sheets.
Stored away in an attic
Where living eyes barely seek.

Dull light warms my body.
Attic dust I only trust.
Because it is there with me,
Where humans barely fuss.

Hiding is my joy.
But my problem is that I glow.
I radiate like the sun
Wherever I choose to go.

So when you see me laughing,
Having fun and shaking hands.
Just know I’d rather hide away
In a far away land.

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Rest Stop

Photo by @twinsfisch via Unsplash / Prose by M.Dels

I am lazy. Laying in the lap of lost energy. Joyful for my blessings. Blending into calm, no more strife or survival. I am embalmed with warmth. My chest rises and releases all stress. I did my best.


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Liberating Lights

picture by @wonderlane via Unsplash

Sometimes, you have silent cheerleaders. Watching, waiting, wishing success for you.

But too ashamed to say it because they are surrounded by hate. Pray for them to one day be free —

And sit in unity with you and your blessings. They are lost just like you were, but they stood still, hoping a light would show them the path to liberation.

Be that light.


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Most Treasured

You have to stand
By yourself.

There is no one,
They may try,
But no one can


The tears you cry.
The years of tried


Under fierce flames.
Carved names on my flesh.
Healed, scar tissues


A veiled medal.
For underneath is
A power, vibrant,


Under the rising sun.
I have become the element
Only victors want.

Poetry by M.Dels

Follow me on Instagram @mdelspoetry.

Check out my author’s page at

Dead Plants

My mother could bring a dead plant to life. And I mean, dead; brown leaves and all. Most would throw a dead plant away. But mom would nurse it back to life. I would taunt her every time she went out to that garden and watered that barren, brown plant. 

“Mom, that plant is dead dead. Just uproot it and start over,” I would say to her.

“…no, it’s still there. It just needs some time,” mom would reply.

Months passed. Seasons went by. And then, one day I saw a green leaf sprout from that barren spot I teased every morning. I was amazed because I didn’t have the patience my mother had. And she was always successful in bringing dead plants back to life.

But people are different. The same way mom never gave up on dead plants was the same way she never gave up on people. For that reason, many loved her, but many used her. In the end, the stress of trying to revive people, like plants, ended my mother’s life.

I remember her last days. I woke up each morning to water her, talk to her, encourage her. I even rolled her in that wheelchair she hated and sat in the sun with her, pruning her hair and braiding it back so we could see her sunken, but vibrant face.

“Stop bothering me, Martina,” she fussed at me weakly.

“No, I need to do your hair, and you need to get some fresh air,” I fussed back.

Years passed. Seasons went by. And one day, I saw a familiar woman raise her head from that empty spot where my mother was. She looked like her, but different in ways that reminded me that I am my own person. My mother was alive, but in me. 

I was amazed because I had finally found the patience to bring something back to life.

I was my mother’s dead plant.

But today, I am alive.