Showing posts from February, 2014

In a Japanese Garden tanka sequence

In a Japanese Garden a cloud of stars singing about their lives ... ten thousand fingers lead me through a garden at the end of night the slow hours and stone lanterns of a night pool— a symphony some god forgot behind these moss-covered walls is death . . . must I settle into this phantom life   do I know better than God? bamboo shoots and a hand-picked iris … the ikebana in the temple alcove wired into silence

death hiding tanka

death hiding behind the kitchen walls ... must I settle into being a phantom and not say I know things better than God?

ikebana tanka

bamboo shoots  and hand-picked iris--  the ikebana   in the front alcove,  wired into silence 

the slow hours and stone lanterns tanka

the slow hours and stone lanterns of a night garden— musical symphony that some god forgot

a cloud of stars tanka

a cloud of stars sang to me about their lives led me with ten thousand fingers to a garden at the end of night

Poem accepted for a competition


I learn the months tanka

I learn the months by measuring the length of men's shadows in the ponds of your eyes

here, in the waiting room tanka

here, in the waiting room  of my life, the doors open  and close like clams

Poppies tanka sequence

Poppies in gusts of powder snow I forget the wind can find a loose door joy shows its early bloom outside the dancing poppies nest

we are seeds tanka

we are seeds in the clatter of mortality, a gate to the fog ... fierce as a ferret

Mi libro de poesia impreso en español!


the injunction tanka

the injunction not to taste the fruit arrived from heaven's gate ... now twilight waits for what will come

Centenario de Julia de Burgos


My second print poetry (tanka) collection at


Madame Butterfly tanka

Madame Butterfly's faraway sea moves in my ears— the undulating flight of swallows and sparrows

fire tanka

fire, an abstraction... imaginary cover thrown across  the garden  of the real

this child tanka

this child learned the language of birds ... now he can follow the wind with his fingers

at the pen's point tanka

tremors from the fissures of my brain ... at the pen’s point do world and spirit wed

My first print poetry collection on CreateSpace


his hand tanka

his hand   slips under her dress pushes through the ring of dripping junipers

writing poems tanka

I began  writing poems on a gray stone bench, nothing was black or broken    and not a leaf fell 

Mi primer poemario en español publicado por


The First book of tanka poetry that I publish at


Mercedes Sosa - 07 - Canción de las simples cosas

Madame Butterfly tanka

Madame Butterfly a far away sea moves in my ears.... vowels rise like balloons about to burst

play with fire tanka

he can no more  play with fire  and leave unharmed  than I can open doors  and let in rainbows 

bubbles tanka

how do I know  if a poem has too many  bubbles ... the moon opens her lips  to the rippling sound of water

rainbow tanka

he knew how to play with fire and leave unharmed . . . I know how to open doors to let in rainbows

tanka - unusual uses for things

we buried the dead with our tools and decorations knew the tides by the signs of the moon... decided together to act together

To Russia a tanka

the audacity with which you sneer at my work... I'm shoveling snow with the pearl-handled tools you tried to censor
broken by the names of flowers ... I stay like the bees beyond self-reproach

To Russia with Love

To Russia with Love Reach down into the bottomless place of understanding, touch the terror and loathing that live there, see whose face they wear. Is it enough to tiptoe around the issue, the forced dystopia of homosexual affairs in Russia, cameras flashing while a gay man is beaten? Let’s talk about the homoerotic undertones in sports at the Sochi Olympics, or how homophobia needs the closet to survive. we see our world upside down and wonder whose sanctuaries   are encrusted with shit
I did not want my body I wanted the wolf broken and bleeding invisible,  androgynous that was me

Geography and the Creative Imagination Edited by Sonam Chhoki

Rio Grande de Loíza, coil on my lips and let me sip your waters, hide from the world inside me

Me publicaron en Brazil HOJA DE VIDA S ergio Antonio Ortiz Rivera nace en Santurce, Puerto Rico, en 1951.  Se traslada a Chicago en el 1955, y regresa a Puerto Rico desprovisto de su idioma materno en el 1960.  Es poeta, narrador, fotógrafo, y educador. Tiene a su haber los poemarios:  At The Tail End Of Dusk  (2009), y  topography of a desire  (2010). Actualmente está retirado de la docencia.  Ha terminado su última colección de poemas:  Bedbugs In My Mattress , que será publicada en el 2010. EN NOMBRE DE LA POESÍA 1 . ¿Cuáles son tus afinidades estéticas con otros poetas hispanoamericanos? SO  Bueno, en el 1971 yo viajo al Perú.  Me auto exilio porque en Puerto Rico están ocurriendo una serie de persecuciones políticas y yo sabía que no iba a encontrar trabajo además de que deseaba estudiar antropología y quería ser misionero.  Me fui al Cuzco.  Ya conocía a Neruda y otros autores como Vallejo, Borges, Alfo
think of me   as a great river      moving  forward…       a vision of poesy         flowing past Neruda's tomb