Friday, March 30, 2012

Last Judgment



Last Judgment 



I tried to feel 
my heart
yet there was nothing there
except row 
upon row
of saints 
warming themselves
in the sunlight 
of a winter
morning.  
They were silent
and in eternal 
isolation.

March 30


March 30


I run to the door hopeful
that he is there
but my brown eyes swim
with terror
as I open the door
to the gunk of all my
yesterdays
rotting in the hollow
of my skull.
I sit at the kitchen table
nibbling on the bonbon
of sin
until I cast off my identity
musing
on the scent of gardenias,
lost in a subtle metaphor
of blood festering
in a crypt.

Thursday, March 29, 2012

Grown Apart




Grown Apart


She’s my sister,
but we’ve grown apart.
Her feathers have turned
a coral colour, and her bill
is blue.  She’s not easy,
the moon gets caught in her
jittery nervous system.
She is very still,
at her center she is still,
very still with misunderstanding.

Tuesday, March 27, 2012

The Game of Solitaire



The Game of Solitaire  



Don’t you just wish you
had written that obituary?
Time: a waterfall
of love and peace splashing
on the reef of life. 

These were his thoughts
as they placed the flowers on
the casket.  Could they tell
he had already found another
body to keep him warm 
in the winter of his life?

There is no shame in not wanting
to live without the company of a woman.
But shouldn’t there be
a time to think about the loss.

Men are different in that respect,
they fear the cold
solitude of the morning after.

Sunday, March 25, 2012

Our Sister of the Swamps


Our Sister of the Swamps


She brushes her hair and climbs into the car
pig-headed about the weekend dance
even when she knows every sleaze in town
will be there pitching his fork for a piece of her ass
she’s not familiar with love but is adamant
about finding out

Our sister of the swamps has a way with men
she stuffs her bra with tissue
and puts on the lavender hot-pants

She’s going to have a ball
even if it is with some confused dyke
that doesn’t care what it is she’s got between her legs
swamp fever will do you in every time


She’s hopeful she won’t get asked out
by some self-absorbed idiot that never reads
although she’s ready with the eye-liner
just in case, she needs to go punk
and scare somebody off

Body Parts


Body Parts


pristine alphabets
and cows moo as they jump
over the moon

to his back yard
come the bodiless to barter
vision endlessly

the disfigured wait
in the dark
to see the results

before they also bargain

it’s never easy
to get the right fit

flesh doesn’t attach well enough
to be considered art

Monday, March 19, 2012

Mariah Carey & Lionel Richie - Endless Love Karaoke Lyric.

Looking Back


Looking Back



He broke into our room
and laid on my bed as if he were dead,
bald angel blocking and shaping
the fragile light.  I said: gently,
then he clambered on top of me.  Disoriented

by the softness of his lips and the mental
image of his empty bed, I couldn’t believe
this was happening, so I started to talk. 
That did not please him.
He got up and buried himself in his bed. 

I had made him uncomfortable.
Perhaps, he thought I was afraid
he’d have an epileptic attack .  My world
pyramided with grape baskets leaning
like the sea to my hands.

Thursday, March 15, 2012

Shading the Dark



Shading the Dark


The whirr of blood sucking bats
tempers the evening with ebony air

I’ve wondered about you across
those white stones, dressed

in black, coat and boots.  Your dark hair
stirred by a vortex of wind, your eyes piercing

my chest until I can hardly breathe.  My hands
extended to capture the chill of your pale face.

I thought the season had turned its back on me
and I could hear the gulls cry as we strolled

through red-mottled relics.  I thought you
were bigger than life, but now I realize

you were a peasant with nothing more than
good fortune, and the knowledge of mimicry. 

Wednesday, March 14, 2012

To the artist


To the artist


whose hands move
more priestly than a priest through
inane worlds of cherubs and clouds;
to the three net-menders sitting
in the dominoes of their doorways,
dressed in black— everyone mourns someone.
Today is my birthday and I no longer care  
for this old love of death,
the cold angel whose destruction                  
I learned to accept early in life.

Tuesday, March 13, 2012

haiku


a broken
vase for my birthday
midnight moon


私の誕生日の真夜中の月のために壊れた花瓶

Amor Perdido



Amor Perdido


te recuerdo
en el tránsito nocturno  
vestido de amapola amarilla
tímido— cual manatí perdido    
me asombró por mi falta
de insistencia 

Sunday, March 11, 2012

Forever


Forever


I watch the moon disappear
just before dawn.
I am heavy with sleep
but find it difficult to lie down.
Church bells remind me
of broken vases
and a kiss that lasted a lifetime.

Tuesday, March 06, 2012

Youth



Youth


Those were the days of laughter;
the days of brunch and wine
when the sun’s brilliance was free
of jealousy.  They were the delight
of my own disappointed life.
I walked the shores of the ancient
night with a full set of hair
and all my muscles tight.

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San Juan, Puerto Rico, Puerto Rico
Sergio A. Ortiz is a Puerto Rican poet and the founding editor of Undertow Tanka Review. He is a two-time Pushcart nominee, a four-time Best of the Web nominee, and 2016 Best of the Net nominee. 2nd place in the 2016 Ramón Ataz annual poetry competition, sponsored by Alaire Publishing House. He is currently working on his first full-length collection of poems, Elephant Graveyard. ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ Sergio A. Ortiz es poeta puertorriqueño que escribe en inglés y español. Actualmente trabaja en su primera colección de poesía, Elephant Graveyard, Cementerio de Elefantes. Ha sido nominado al premio Pushcart en dos ocasiones, al Best of the Web en cuatro ocasiones, y al Best of the Net, 2016. 2do lugar Premio Ramón Ataz de Poesía, 2016. Sus poemas han aparecido, o están por aparecer, en revistas literarias como: Letralía, Chachala Review, The Accentos Review, Resonancias, por mencionar algunos.

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