Editor's note: In celebration of the Christmas holidays, we would like to invite our readers to discover the feeling of poetry that celebrates the joy of living by reading "Epicurean Dreams," a book currently available on Amazon, Barnes and Noble, and other online sites. 

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We include a sample of one of his poems and a critical note about his work.  

Her stories paint emotional landscapes—lost loves, half-remembered cities, specters of childhood—that hover just beyond the tangible. Each tale feels like an act of excavation, unearthing the delicate threads that bind identity to dreams, exile to return.

 

Luis Alberto Miranda writes like someone who has learned to converse with silence, with the shifting light of the tropics, and with the complex geography of memory. From South Florida—where the Atlantic breeze carries echoes of distant shores—his voice emerges as a serene yet persistent meditation on belonging, desire, and the subtle stirrings of the soul. His work inhabits that liminal space where language becomes both refuge and revelation.

In Epicurean Dreams, her poetry unfolds with a sensual intelligence, intertwining pleasure and reflection in a single breath. Miranda does not pursue excess, but rather a refined hedonism: the gentle tremor of joy, the intimate ritual of living, the sacred stillness that follows longing. Her verses suggest that happiness is not a spectacle, but a cadence, a way of listening attentively to the self and to time.

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In Geography of the Invisible, a collection of short stories, Miranda becomes both narrator and cartographer, charting maps of the unseen. His stories depict emotional territories—lost loves, half-remembered cities, specters of childhood—that float just beyond the tangible. Each story feels like an act of excavation, unearthing the delicate threads that bind identity to dreams, exile to return.

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In another of his works, García Márquez, Joyce, and I, Miranda orchestrates a personal dialogue with two monumental figures of world literature, revealing not imitation, but intellectual complicity. Through this intertextual communion, he situates himself within a lineage of writers who understand that reality is porous and that true art resides in the fusion of imagination and lived experience.

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Luis Alberto Miranda is, above all, a writer of thresholds. His prose and poetry whisper of migrations—geographic and emotional—roots that stretch across oceans, and the persistent human need to narrate one's own journey through the invisible. In his pages, South Florida ceases to be a mere place and becomes a state of heightened sensitivity where language blossoms into memory and memory into art.

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Little Suns ©:

You filled my night with little suns

silvered by the moon...

I wanted to continue dreaming

clinging

to the wild territory of your skin,

to experience the fevers

that only your nakedness knows how to soothe.

Through the cracks of feeling

The rays were seeping in 

of the harbor lights

and the feline moans that

caresses produce

were growing

until the bodies are exhausted 

at dawn.

Ports packed 

seaside brothels

the shadow of the bodies repeating

at all thresholds 

of the night

where love 

It's just a word

to express the desires 

and desire.

But you

you were floating on the water

surrounded by snakes

in the common place 

of envy

and in surrealism 

of the landscape.

Reason and feeling 

they didn't come together

when I drew you 

in my memory

to record your gestures 

and your laughter.

You were Diana 

after the hunt

and Venus before 

and after lust,

Artemis the punisher 

to his "voyeur",

Leda deceived by the swan,

unfaithful wife and compassionate lover.

You filled my night with little suns

silvered by the moon 

in the midst of uncertainty

of forms and appearances

With your dedication you achieved the impossible,

setting fire to my existence

recreating nothingness in one night.

With the myth of eternal return

the gods of Olympus 

They brought us back

to this uncertainty of things

where we are left alone,

ambiguous and contradictory

lying on the sand

of our broken dreams.