Adobo Criollo Sergio Antonio Ortiz Rivera

La muerte Te fuiste separando de mí, dejando mis heridas hambrientas de sol.    Rododendros sobre el sepulcro de mi niñez color piel se adueñaban del mármol entre las criptas del olvido y una criatura iba rumbo al placer y al dolor del verano.  Sus manos, fruncidas por la luz que salía   de la caja de Pandora, abrían el portón de hierro donde un triangulo de música cauterizaba sus ojos. Allí deje su canto recorrer mi sombra como un duelo distante, una fuga de patos salvajes.

Published in Poetry Pacific  [Spring Issue 2013] http://poetrypacific.blogspot.ca/ How Loud This Voice Inside: tanka Sequence reading with the lamp on, I see a crater where our bed last lay… we watch the distance burn        you are the last ring of smoke to be held tight…            we’re lucky            we’re not art sunken moon, my mind upside down in the sky… moonlight cannot polish stone, or pester our transparencies how silent the trees how loud the shots of hunters how broken the geese wings…how hidden the pocket knife tearing my desire

Tu guarida favorita Aparecí y ahí estabas fumando y tomando cerveza. Te conté que te había escrito unas palabras pero nunca me escuchas, solo te desvistes en un superfluo silencio de contradicciones, cierras los ojos y humedeces los labios, mientras yo me pregunto; ¿Qué luz traes contigo, en que tul estabas enmarañado cuando te deje con la acuosa quimera en las pestañas, desnudos—tu y yo—relamiendo llagas al tiempo. ¿Cómo se siente ser despojo en la garganta?

Sangría ¿En qué madrugada se destroza tu memoria de pájaro para dejarme libre de lamentos?  El animal del verano se murió, su cuerpo verde colapso apuñalado,                             cubierto de sombras, y el aire espesó           las nubes que recorrieron mi infancia. Dime si duermes bien, si el ahogo del bocadillo no entumece tu lengua.  Si las toallas no resecan el aire que al dormir transita desnudo sobre tu cuerpo. Dime si sangras los domingos o si la peste a mierda te reconforta los días de lluvia . No seas desleal a tu silencio. Muerde duro mi madrugada o simplemente déjala ir.

Plena de luz  de la casi piel que me desnuda la mente, enferma del dolor ajeno, y me bautiza diferente, ciega imagen de cera dentro de estas cuatro paredes que tintinean como un cascabel abanicando mi materia gris hasta que la máscara desaparece.             * Ya no te sueño entre las venas de un atardecer que no se suscribe a nada. * Más bien, te miro como un campanilla silenciosa donde los túneles de la noche son trenes de agua fría que cruzan el espiral de mi infancia como un relámpago desnudo y moribundo. Allí te miro caer a mis pies de cebra donde al cruzar el desierto de mi intimidad me echo a reír para nunca más mirar atrás.

Sundered Men we watch the moon  rise above us in autumn  we lie together  and  sigh, or lie... we bend  like question marks we leave the page  blotted with ink  about unruly lovers in spring  we hang like tulips and grin like orangutans

Ruins what is a day but the furnace of my eyes walking and dying through mirrors  of blood— poor men carry coffins on their bare backs— what is a day but this unique way  of breathing saturated with the texture of discarded silk… only the dead can afford to forgive

By the Railroad Tracks that I met him in a bar we went home together to remember the texture of the leaves under the moonlight that I saw him again when sparrows fell in the dark of night, we memorized the hum of cicadas that I missed him his ocean and its foam against the sky that there were sparks behind my eyes that the rain was driven, driven into the ground beside the broken barn by the railroad tracks next to the sea

Published in Skylark Tanka Journal April 24, Issue 1.1 Summer 2013 http://skylarktanka.weebly.com/buy-skylark.html last night weary eyes blossomed in the closet             his cold cotton shirts warmed by my hands

a reprieve in the day’s hourglass… beneath our vanity we love disasters that have nothing to do with us

black on gray clouds how can I tell the story of men who kill even the trees are wounded by the waxing moon as it begins to rain the grenade explodes a few feet away from the belly of death... I lie alone in my body

Published in KernalsOnline.com April 17, 2013, Editor's Choice http://www.kernelsonline.com/EC-TANKApage.html I spring forth from the ecstasy of being a lotus . . . become legend as you hide in the bosom of another For this Editor's Choice, I've selected a tanka by Sergio Ortiz of Puerto Rico which is one that also includes elements familiar in old court poetry: association by nature, juxtaposition, meeting, parting, longing and the beauty of thought. It contains self but only in comparison to a lotus in the way perhaps that an old or past love has moved on to another's embrace by choice, or maybe even returned to because of obligation. Either way, the poet/lover has become legend now and what springs forth for readers, is the ecstasy of once being.

Dengue Cerberus licking his stone wrinkle genitals… A fever of 103 I survive the lecher's kiss, Continue to swim in light Pure? What does it mean? Sharp as the tongues of Paradise Are sharp Sharp as Hiroshima rain Radiation turned them red Eleven days and nights Water dissolving my liver I barely consume any food It’s the pain of having lost my humility to love That keeps me from a hospital Yet Paradise is not an option The fever subsides like an old whore Counseling a virgin And I go to see a movie Then rush back home to bed

Chinese New Year  a woman I don't know  gives me ghost money

broken images, fragments of New York  twirl  inside... on a crowded street my thoughts walk ahead of me

Three Tanka  by Sergio Ortiz Published in Breath & Shadow Spring 2013 Volume 10 Issue 2 http://www.abilitymaine.org/breath/spr13e.html Benghazi at dawn recalling a peaceful dream the autumn wind moans through a crack in the window learning to say goodbye… a fraction of myself touching you in secret places burnt bodies inside a gutted Toyota . . . butterflies spiraling upward haunt the summer fields Sergio Ortiz is a retired educator, poet, painter, and photographer.  Flutter Press released his debut chapbook, At the Tail End of Dusk, in October of 2009. Ronin Press released his second chapbook:  topography of a desire, in May of 2010. He is a three-time nominee for the 2010 and 2011 Sundress Best of the Web Anthology and a 2010 Pushcart nominee. He was also commended in the 2012 Polish Haiku Competition.

camellias pushing up waiting for a cold snap maple syrup moon all the love I missed

http://youtu.be/id5jYgUjgQo MISTY RIVER HEATHER'S SONG THIS IS A SPECIAL LOVE SONG FOR ALL THE YOUNG PEOPLE IN THE WORLD, HERE'S HOPING SOMEONE KIND WATCHES OVER EACH AND EVERY ONE, BECAUSE IN EVERY YOUNG FACE, NO MATTER HOW ANGRY OR SAD, LIES THE BLOSSOM OF A PURE HEART, NOT EVIL WRONG OR BAD. SO IF YOU HAVE A YOUNG CHILD, BE GENTLE WISE AND KIND, AND TREAT THEM LIKE AN ORCHID, SO RARE AND HARD TO FIND, YOUR LOVE WILL BE LIKE WATER TO ALL THE SEEDS YOU SOW. FOR THEY ARE THE FAIREST FLOWERS IN LIFE¹S GARDEN WHERE THEY GROW. AND IF YOU KNOW THE OLD FOLKS, BE GENTLE WISE AND KIND, THEIR SOULS WILL SOON DEPART US, AND LEAVE THIS WORLD BEHIND, THEY'VE GIVEN US THE FUTURE, THEY TAUGHT US WHAT THEY KNOW, TO SOON BECOME A PART OF GOD'S KINGDOM WHERE THEY GO.

Sorrow’s Home when I was a child I knew encyclopedias and dictionaries— wire clothes hangers beating on my skin I looked the other way as long as my playmates groped me as if I were a girl and I was nurtured with wanderlust I sought adventure in the dark closet where my stepfather littered my pride and pain— my old poverty I was hopeful for my people were λ children floundering in dark clubs trying hard to fashion a better way war raged and peace burst out of flowers we made love on tropical nights in palm jungles near the beach

taken down for publication.