"Los escritos de Paul Paniagua subliman el espíritu, conquistan la alegría, y nos hacen ver la vida con humor y optimismo... Desde el título, Paul Paniagua nos penetra en un espacio lúdico, inspirado en los juegos de trompos. Para el autor, el texto es una métafora de la vida.Es un liSbro original que atrapa al lector.. Estos textos hiperbreves no se pueden leer con el ceño fruncido, sino una una amplia sonrisa. " Dra. Mara L. García BYU

"Mis textos descubren el misterio de la vida, las cosas, y aún hasta en una toalla vieja o inodoro cualquiera, se desenmascara la ocasión de reír y llorar. Espero que mis textos enseñen a enfrentar la vida sin miedo; no hay razón para no ser feliz en ella. No hay excusa para no serlo ni trompo de poner alguno que tenga que pagar por nuestras culpas". Paul Jr Paniagua



El inodoro irrumpe en protesta. Se estremece de llanto. No acepta su terrible destino. Solloza. Traga de todo. Anticipa saldar cualquier cuenta pendiente. No se da por vencido. Sufre acoso moral. Le resulta absurdo contemplar el suicidio. No se acobarda. Sigue de pie resoluto.

Wednesday, May 30, 2012


From the beginning he always wanted to move mountains with his faith.  At the age of five he began by trying to move spoons, forks and marbles; later, as a teenager, he continued trying with tops and Mexican cup-and-ball toys but without success.  As an adult he attempted stones and bricks, and still no success.  He studied the Torah, Kabbalah, the Quran, the Gospels, and a hundred different philosophical systems . . . but still he never managed to move anything from anywhere.  Everywhere he went he would try moving an object, because he knew that with a bit of faith the size of a mustard seed he could move a mountain.  At least thats what hed been told.  
What he really wanted was to move Mt. Everest to the Mojave Desert and do away with the inferno where he lived.  He tried strengthening his faith by doing push-ups, squatting on his haunches, meditating afternoons and evenings.  He would close his eyes and gesticulate with his hands as if he were levitating the highest Himalayan ranges and transporting them through the sky without causing an accident or earthquake in the attempt. Then he would draw the curtain of his bedroom to see if it had worked.  He would open his eyes and open them again, hoping to see that eternal mountain but . . . nothing; everything stayed where it had always been.  The failures accumulated and he never did learn to move mountains, although the desire never left him.  
As a last recourse, he joined the first church he could find that promised to increase his faith to the monumental dimensions required.  Nothing of the kind happened. Not even a modest hill, as far as can be ascertained.  In light of this disappointment he suspended the effort and decided instead to improve the air conditioning in his spacious home and take in every orphaned child he could find to save them from the sweltering desert heat.  Next he founded a clinic to rehabilitate drug addicts who were on the verge of suicide.  He dedicated the rest of his life to building hospitals and orphanages.  He even rescued giraffes and snakes.  He saved a life here, another life there, a home here, a home there, for the rest of his days.  People began seeking him out, leaving everything behind to follow him.  People came down from the hills and mountains, from villages and towns, even whole cities came looking for him. 
He never moved mountains; they ended up moving themselves.  People loved him for his faith, of whatever size it was.  It all happened without him realizing itcommitted, doing good the only way he knew how.  It never occurred to him that mountains have feet and hands, and that they walk from town to town smiling from ear to ear.  Nor did he think people could steal his heart as he served and loved the poor.  Mountains flocked to him endlessly.

Translation by Prof. David Rock


In the end,
let someone else write my poems.

What is there left for me to say?  
There, a lily,
there, some jasmines,
there, the dew on your lips,
there, the moon burning the night,
there, the night in pain,
there, the blue stars shivering.

What is there left for me to say?  
Here you come, repentant now,
your downcast eyes.
Id rather be banished.
I cant live with your lies.
Its no use. Ill have to sleep in Phoenicia;
Ill have to learn Phoenician.
Cast your ashes into the sea and thats it.
No clouds to cloud any stars,
as Gonzalo Rojas once said.
Blessed be his name, tonight.

Translated by Prof. David Rock


There are more elbows* than meet the eye, if we include ankles, knees, knuckles of both hands and feet, and even some brothers, uncles, friends and acquaintances of mine; and of course the people of the lovely state of Monterrey, Mexico.  Andwhy not?my buddy Joan who never picks up the check when he invites me to eat watery elbow-macaroni soup or tuna and elbow-macaroni.  Elbows are innumerable, even infinite.  They flourish.  They make the rules.

*Translators note:  The Spanish word for elbow is codo. In colloquial usage codo also designates a stingy person, a tightwad.
 Author: I attempt to put to rest the false myth that  people born in the State of Monterrey are stingy.

Translator Professor David Rock

Like me in facebook in the following link

Monday, May 21, 2012


One night I was wiggling my loose tooth and it popped out. I was happy to see it come out. It was my last baby tooth. In the mirror I saw a small blood stain on the gum which gradually disappeared from between my teeth. There was a big hole now which my tongue covered up, ashamed. As I looked at the tooth, I noticed it was shining, silvery like the moon at night. I was surprised to think that my mouth was shiny; someone had told me this before but I never understood why. It didn’t occur to me that a molar could be so beautiful.
I rinsed my mouth and ran to show the marvelous tooth to my mom. She looked at it and told me it was silver. She told me how she had taken me to the dentist who, while I was asleep, had put the crown on my tooth. I never knew that. Mom took a look at my new smile. With her finger she touched the new tooth that had begun to sprout in the hollow space and had pushed out the other tooth. “Marieanne,” she said, “I can see your new little tooth; it’s white and shiny! I smiled. 
I watched Wizards of Waverly Place and for a while I forgot about everything. It was late, I could see from the clock. I brushed the rest of my teeth, took a shower, and puton my pajamas. I read a poem, said my prayers and got into bed. But first I carefully placed my silvery tooth under the pillow, hoping for a visit from the Tooth Fairy.
I woke up at 7:30 the next morning anxious to see what the Tooth Fairy had left for me. I knew my tooth was special. I doubted that anyone else had one like it. I thought it must be worth a fortune. I lifted up the pillow and was surprised to see that the Tooth Fairy hadn’t left any gift or money in exchange for my tooth. I asked Mom what had happened. She explained that the Tooth Fairy didn’t want to bother me while I was sleeping, since I had a bad cold and wasn’t feeling well. I thought that was nice of her. I had slept with a fever. I think mom stayed up with me all night. 
I told Dad what had happened and he promised me the Tooth Fairy would come that night. Hearing that made me want to go to sleep. I knew the Fairy would come, but I wasn’t sure I wanted to give her my tooth. I sat back up on the bed and wrote her a note: “Dear Tooth Fairy, This silver tooth is a special treasure. It’s filled with memories and lots of delicious scrumdiddlyumptious flavors. If you don’t need it, please don’t take it.” I left the letter under my pillow and lay down again. Dad kissed me on the forehead and turned off the light in my room. I snuggled under the blankets and this time I really fell asleep. The Tooth Fairy accepted my proposal, leaving me the tooth and a stunningvsurprise.

Sin Trompo de Poner
Copyright 2011
By Marieanne Paniagua 


November is leaves swifting all around. 
Suddenly, it gets a little chilly. 
I put on a sweater; I run 
It makes me a little hot.
I take my sweater off.

November is leaves swifting all around. 
I fill the wind, a little breeze. 
I sit down on a bench. 
The wind stops.
I start to run again.

November is a stirring of leaves all around. 
It gets a little cold for me; colder than I like 
I think it’s time for me to go inside.

I walk home, 
leaves fall upon the frozen ground 
The paths of autumn wear browns, 
yellows and its reds

I get home: I go inside 
It’s warm inside 
Dad waits for me

I take a blanket ;
I wrap it around me 
I look out the window.

Autumn color’s are everywhere 
November is leaves stirring all around .

Written by Marieanne Paniagua

Wednesday, May 9, 2012


Los codos podrían ser más, si incluyéramos los tobillos, las rodillas, los nudillos de los dedos de las manos y de los pies, inclusive algunos de mis hermanos, tíos, amigos y conocidos; y por supuesto, a esa linda gente de ese hermoso Estado de Monterrey, México. Y, ¿por qué no? a mi compadre Joan que se rehúsa siempre a pagar las cuentas en el restaurante cuando invita a comer sopita aguada de codos o atún con codos, aunque éste sea español. Los codos son innumerables y sin límites geográficos o étnicos. Los codos son muchos e infinitos. Los codos abundan. Los codos son ortodoxos.

Paul Paniagua
Sin trompo de Poner
Copyright 2011


Fue cirugía de corazón abierto la que le llevó al quirófano.Todo salió bien. Fue entretenido cerrarle la aleta torácica. El médico de cabecera decidió instalarle un dispositivo dentado al margen izquierdo del esternón para facilitarse el acceso futuro. El cirujano optó por medio cerrar la herida sujetando las costillas con grapas y alambres que pensó nunca remover de su lugar. Fijó el cierre dándole tiempo a las costillas para soldarse de nuevo. No hubo recaídas ni complicaciones mayores. La operación transformó al viejo Esteban en un superhéroe. Él mismo lo fue descubriendo. Miró que su automóvil encendía al sólo acercársele para abrir la puerta. Al entrar en el living, el televisor recorría estaciones por sí solo; la computadora se apagaba con sólo darse golpes de pecho, y la mismísima caja fuerte se abría sin código alguno con sólo extenderle sus manos y tronarle los dedos. Fue percatándose de sus nuevos poderes atribuyéndolo a aquella amalgama de acero, alambres y el cierre eclair que llevaba en el pecho. Sorprendidos por su nuevo talento, y sabiéndole desempleado, sus amigos lo contrataron como control remoto para cometer sus atracos. Esteban sin saberlo, aceptó la oferta de empleo sin la menor objeción.

Paul Paniagua
Copyright 2011


Las orejas son aéreas. Planean entre la lluvia, nubarrones y los vientos. Las orejas tienen alas. Son libres en el cine enamoradas de los ruidos. Las orejas aman los tambores africanos, no se diga nada de las películas de nuevo estreno. Algunas son antenas parabólicas de espionaje. Son satélites. Lo escuchan todo. Las orejas se delizan por las calles entre el tráfico. Las orejas brillan con aretes de oro blanco o amarillo, zafiros, esmeraldas o diamantes. Hay orejas puntiagudas “Doctor Spock” o rositas con bolitas de galletas. Éstas vuelan siempre acompañadas en pareja. Son gemelas. Las orejas son muy sexys. Su talón de Aquiles es el lóbulo. Tiemblan de escalofrío al contacto con los labios. Duermen aplastadas en la asfixia de la almohada. Son sonámbulas. Las orejas estornudan.

Paul Paniagua
Copyright 2011