Saturday, October 29, 2016

Evening Star Somoka



Evening Star



gales of thought
drag out a tumult of words
I turn away 
from the uproar 
seeking stillness

sky 
tinted with saffron 
a rainbow 
taks me back
to childhood

Friday, October 28, 2016

go ahead tanka



go ahead 
take to flying, become a bee 
tomorrow 
you'll be too old to soar
peck the hyacinth in my garden

Thursday, October 27, 2016

A Ditch on the Road to your Body


A Ditch on the Road to your Body


Let every month be November with electric euphoria.
May tenderness be born from one of your bones,
and James Dean's laughter go up in flames,
may you show me the scars you no longer remember.

I touched your arm, a ditch on the road to your body.
I touched the open scar. You laughed and closed your eyes, 
your laughter told me that you were naked
between wild horses. Back then, you didn't hear me praise
your sense of emptiness, that sweetish scratch on the skin of your back.
I wanted to wrap myself around your red-blooded-James-Dean jacket and
lick the layers of oil, dirt, dust, adhering to your heart.
Some speechless voice told me, when I supported my head on your hip,
or when you rode me and our testicles 
rubbed together,
collided,
folded into each other 
and I thought we sailed
a path of wires, threads,
to weightlessness, 
that the scar was still fresh in your memory.
I wanted to get into your shirt and walk 
on the beach of your wet feet,
and help you get into the new pants I bought you.

Let me burn those afternoons at close range of all your goodbyes, 
along with your James Dean laughter so we can live.


Wednesday, October 26, 2016

who wants - tanka


painting by Christian Schloe

who wants 
to bring down the door 
to my garden 
of buried silence, paid for 
with shame and lost pride

The Salt of my Tongue




The Salt of my Tongue


I've known you since then, 
stagnant water, since you left me. 
Now, I'll have to seek

refuge in other eyes. I am the valve 
you wear down, the man you loath.  
Your body and my body

speak the love they occupy,
the love that restores us unabridged
to what we are. We travel

with open skin, without calm,
blindly pointing the way to the rotten,
the ones who still long to live.

I always dig you out, my bone,
my ghost under the pillow, among men
kissing under poplars,

and women who need to penetrate
each other (a hopeless cause) 
to feel happy.

I'll be there, chased, a bat flapping
in each of my wrists, then you'll know
we'll never be so hidden we forget each other.

Spoken from the highest branch of my glory



Spoken from the highest branch of my glory


Who wants 
to bring down the door 
where I buried 
my silence, a silence I paid for 
with shame and the daily castration 
of pride and love, a love that is 
nothing but the dirty side
of a fallen tree?

Monday, October 24, 2016

the dusk - tanka



A wall painted by Bansky



the dust 
surrounding my bones
before dusk 
honey distilled 
from your lips to mine

Sunday, October 23, 2016

Cedros y Beatitudes



Cedros y Beatitudes


Que las sombras te lleven.
Que arrastren tus pesados brazos
resurectos y aserrados mil veces.
Hay barracas llenas de niños
esperando que la maquinaria 
del mundo haga "clic"
como se suponía que lo hiciera
hace siglos. Ten lastima de aquellos
que se pasan el día temblando.
Su silencio es como el silencio
de las montañas al caer la noche, 
o el de las olas al hincharse.

Thursday, October 20, 2016

When the Wind Tightens its Grip


Painting by Eve Riser Roberts


When the Wind Tightens its Grip 


You saw my legs
and got up from the bed.

Later you called 
wanting assurance 
it was not contagious.

The flowers of cold
died from a dry wind
blowing from the north.
But have no fear, 

gypsies arriving on ships
full of questions
beg you not to forget them,

the same as Modigliani's blue cat.
Don't forget, I'm one of those men
that never asks for anything.

Thoughts from my Second Date with Truth



Thoughts from my Second Date with Truth


You gave me your truth,
let me know how you attempted
to save yourself from it.
How else could we have gotten 
to know each other?

Every word a gap,
a small one.  Because we burn
underneath, and so much light hurts.

I dreamt that truth was One.
I saw her approaching
in silence in the form 
of a woman constantly turning
her soul on and off.

Her soul growing in my heart,
turning it on and off as well.
Her word ascending over my word, 
whipping clean

whatever it was I had recorded 
up to the very last punctuated period,
the slightest one, 
the one on my crossroad.

We were so small 
that up and down could not
be distinguished.  So small
we erased ourselves from our 
heavenly sky of half truths,
far from Grace. So small
we became tiny bullets 
willing to pierce other glass hearts.

Wednesday, October 19, 2016

After being Stoned in the Spanish Inquisition



After being Stoned in the Spanish Inquisition


When I was young
I lived sliding down empty, 
smooth surfaces
where rest and vertigo
were rumors of echoes.

I fell so many times,
got up in different places
never to be returned.
The detour was Law

and openness was feared.

When I was young
I tried to invent a machine,
but my machine made errors,
I was one of those errors. The higher 
the offering, the more useless.

They asked for lamps
and words. I said, love understands praise.
They said, your tree

is a serpent eating its own tail.
But I grew in my tree like a clumsy hand
ascending towards that Truth
listening to no one.

Reader, I call upon you,
solemn reader, ironic reader,
never be indifferent! You must build, 
twirl with the machine,
dream you see the Tree of trees
bigger than the forest!

Tuesday, October 18, 2016

Between Cracked Walls

Between Cracked Walls


My home floats,
within its walls, no land
to drop my roots.
It sails between dense clouds 
of feathers. It's doors
and windows open
like eyes gazing at the moon
glowing over rooftops.

The photographs hanging 
on its cracked walls
sing your farewell 
to the love I nestled. 

My grandfather clock
twists and tangles its needles.
My sisters cry
at the foot of its bent shadows.
The echo of its tic-tac 
loud in their ears. 

My home roams in my dreams
until all that's left are lullabies 
sung by my mother, a ray of light 
shooting through a starless sky.


Buried in my Heart



Buried in my Heart


Heraclitus's waters,
time passes dragging its back
between the edges 
of polished stones...
my shadow falters

trees shed their leaves
as do faces perpetuated 
in old photographs...
my newest face
diluted in the stream

heads or tails - A tanka



you toss 
the days to come 
up in the air 
our life together 
a gamble

Monday, October 17, 2016

The Fall - A Somoka



The Fall


do you know 
how sparrows die?
water 
engulfs them like lead--
at the very last minute, silence

the blow  
of their bodies on the water
a rumor of wind...
from my room
you cannot see the sea

Saturday, October 15, 2016

Hey, Mr. Tambourine Man, this one's for you!



Hey, Mr. Tambourine Man, this one's for you!


You're already a forest.
There are dolphins, 
lakes, and impossible 
loves inside you named Dylan 
sitting at my table.

When someone 
mentions your name 
in the future, 
empty houses 
brim with people.

Have you forgotten
it was happiness 
that first plowed my heart,
a storm in an empty glass of water.

When fear and hopelessness arrive
and the Cherry blossoms fall
on muddy ground,
you'll hear me scream 
like a gull or a woman

who knows moving forward
is to be left alone.
When all this happens
remember the tambourines
and the way rain 
turns into trees.

Friday, October 14, 2016

Somoka - You were Born in Winter



You were Born in Winter



you brought
the murmur of a memory
and little feet
as small as a snowflake
in January

how will life be
when it unfolds in your hands,
a fish squirming
to return to water,
or a ship ready to sail?

Thursday, October 13, 2016

To Ramona - Bob Dylan - Winner of the 2016 Nobel Prize for Literature

It's raining too much for a Monday



It's raining too much for a Monday


and I can't complain, destiny won't let me.
The cold will eventually come 
with its searing humidity,
its depopulated bones,
its voice broken and badly injured,
its heartless experience,
and above all else, its scam.

Winter will walk on steely sheets,
cross forgotten bridges, leave its mark 
on silence, take revenge on good fortune,
a lunar eclipse, what is born never to die,
restless hope that disturbs the senses,
that fragile image that sways in the garden,
(my heroes are unsettled).

It will fight to be triumphant 
and dwell in my memory and in my dreams.
affecting my conscience.
I know, there will be no light to protect me
from Monday's loneliness, no distance
or impassable frontier.

Tuesday, October 11, 2016

Upon reading the results - To Alan Turing




Upon reading the results,
To Alan Turing 


Genetic abnormalities,
he said in his white coat,
ordinary exceptions that prove
maddened chromosomes.
But the sum, the calculation
does not return,
it spits on all his pain.

You, who gave birth
to large artificial thought
closed in lived diversity
in retrospect like a vice
under a sky of numbers
and signs, you’ve found evil
in the fable that constricts
the deformed face
of your generation’s morale.

Tuesday, October 04, 2016

My Dear Renier





My Dear Renier,


you reached my bed,
turned around,  
and I left me 
feeling nothing!

Your onyx head
was the size of a spindle
spinning above my physique

like a pirouette knitting
a supernova on the peak
of my impossible soul.

And me?
I was the feathered 
comet tail of your 
what-could-have-been.

Sunday, October 02, 2016

¿Qué tal si me siento?




¿Qué tal si me siento?


¡No pierdo más mí tiempo!
La distancia entre nosotros  
es humo de tren que partió
en domingo hacia la nada,
imitación ventrílocua
de palabras eróticas, laberinto
de rejas con alambres de púa
enmarcando los pasillos del deseo.

Ofreces afeitar mis días
mientras mido tus intentos de lamer
mis sueños. Pero pisas en falso
y te caes antes de estremecer 
mi zona intima.

Saturday, October 01, 2016

Mi querido Renier





Mi querido Renier


llegaste y te fuiste
y no sentí nada.

Tu cabeza de ónix
era del tamaño
de una rueda de huso
fluyendo sobre mi cuerpo,

una pirueta bordando
un supernova  en la cúspide
de mi imposible ser.

Y yo? 
Fui detalle emplumado
de lo que pudo haber sido
y no fue.

¿Cómo de bien conoces América?




¿Cómo de bien conoces América?


Viví en su jaula
de carnaval
como un babuino.
Fui liberado
con un microchip
en el oído,
toda mi lucha extinguida.
Deje que sus botas
aplastaran mi cara
en el fango,
nadé en su sangre,
me senté desnudo
sobre las estanterías
donde almacena
las causas perdidas.


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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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