Encounter at the Panamá Canal (Poetry)

(Note: After my maternal grandmother, with whom I was very close, passed away, we traveled a number of times with my grandfather. Papi, as we all called him, was lost and severely depressed. He always loved exploring and entertaining new people he met, so the traveling helped him a lot. We took a cruise through the Panamá Canal, which was his station during World War II. The story of his time there is told in one of his short stories, titled "Sargento Nube". I wrote this poem during that cruise. For me, the significance of this poem is my deep desire for some sort of connection with my grandfather, which I never did get. I did some stupid stuff when I was a teenager, stuff I am still ashamed of, so that lack of connection is partially my fault. Also, we never quite clicked like he did with my sister. Since we were little kids, it was perfectly clear that I was our grandmother's favorite, while my sister was our grandfather's. At the moment I wrote this poem, I was fictionalizing a shared moment I wanted to have with him, but that never quite happened. As the years have passed, I've come to terms with that estrangement, my paternal grandfather was a complex man, and I'm ok with it and with my memories of him. These are, by and large, good memories.)

Encounter at the Panamá Canal

The shiny cruise ship rocks softly
The deck is deserted, the novelty ignored
and the passengers go back to the
mindless gambling and endless eating.

I stand alone.

The jungle unfolds before me.
Beyond the iron horses and the
concrete caves, green takes a peek.
My stare is fixed on the wilderness.

Papi was here.
In my mind’s eye I can see him.
He is staring at me.
He’s standing at the edge of the forest.
Apart from civilization.
Apart from  everything he knew.

Beads of sweat form on his forehead.
He is hot.
The thick green army issue shirt

doesn’t help.

His boots are shiny, despite the mud.
He sports a steel helmet, not that he needs it.
(He has never fired a shot.)

I see his eyes.
They still carry 

 the hint of vitality of the past.

They are tired, dead.
They long for home.

In his stare I can see.

I can see the white sands of Buyé.
The narrow streets around the Plaza.
Home’s rice and beans.

So much.
All that was lost.

I smile at him.
There is a pain in our heart.

I can barely make out his stripes.
Sergeant they made him.
Sergeant in the Second Great War.
The one after the never again.
Only a  high-school graduate.
But the most important man.
Fighting for a nation
far, far away.

Beneath his thin mustache,
“Puerto Rican style” they used to say,
a sad smile forms.
He is waving goodbye.
His silhouette disappears
as if it were swallowed by the wild.

I try to find him once more.
But he is gone.

Sadly, I turn away.
There is someone besides me.

Papi stares at the forest.
A hard stare, nothing more.
His hair is grey and thin.
His face wrinkled, his mustache gone.
He smiles warmly,
I smile back.

We both know.
We can share now.
I understand why he never talks 

 about it, why he’d rather forget.

I put my arm around his shoulder.

We slowly walk away

(2000)

Quis ut Deus? (Poetry)

Quis ut Deus?

Goddess of foundry, form and
forge.

Fingers fluid over
flame.

Fire flexes
silver.

Mistress, mistress of metal.

The shapeless becomes

shape.

Mistress, mistress of metal.

Out of nothing,

beauty comes.

Hammer swings.
Pounding, pounding
of metal.
Fire burns.
Forms flex, fuming
in flame.
Out of nothing,
boons are born.

Mistress, mistress of metal.

Goddess of foundry, form and
forge.
Fingers sprout

treasures.

Eyes mirror ancient
light.

(2018)        

Wordless In Córdoba (e-Poetry)

(

You are

everything I’ve ever

dreamed of in a man.

   Kind, gentle and loving.

    ) We deserved a chance. ( 
   You are perfect for me.

Yet, I can’t understand

why I am unable to

love you.

)

She cleared my nickname
from the chat window
And logged
off.

(2018)        

Incense (Short Story)

She gave him a quick kiss goodbye and stepped out of his car. She got into hers and, with a sad wave, disappeared into the night.

The scent of her perfume lingered. He sat silently on the driver’s seat, trying desperately to control his emotions. With slow, deliberate movements, he turned off the radio and closed his eyes.

She held his hand tight as they walked through the botanical gardens. It was hot that day. Beads of sweat rolled down his back and his forehead. It didn’t matter. He was happy. As they strolled down the path that bordered the small lake at the center of the garden, she was smiling. It was the most fantastic smile he had ever seen. A starburst of joy and pleasure. It was happiness made movement by a pair of gorgeous lips. He realized then that it he was inside one of those moments that you never, ever want to end. As she blissfully chatted about a million things, he remained silent. He had nothing to say. Her smile said everything.

He slumped back to the driver’s seat while taking a deep breath, savoring her scent. He suddenly realized he didn’t even know the name of her perfume. Once gone, the memory might forever be lost. He couldn’t decide whether this was a good thing or bad.

Her laughter filled the half empty Japanese restaurant. She had a quick, delightful laugh. It was one of the greatest sounds he had ever heard. He offered his hand across the table. Without hesitation, she took it. She smiled at him. An indescribable warmth gripped his arm, his chest and his heart. He smiled back at her and wondered what words could he say. He wondered what phrases he could muster to describe how he felt. He was painfully aware of the mistakes of the past. He worried whether she would think him a fool, a hopeless romantic or just a fucking creep.

He sat in silence for a couple of heartbeats, trying to decide whether her lingering perfume offered him joy or pain. His finger rested on the A/C controls. If he opened the vent, her smell would immediately disappear into the ether. If he didn’t, it would linger for, maybe, a few more minutes.

Her perfume melded with sweat, passion and lust. It made a unique scent that threatened to become addictive. Even at that moment, enthralled by that precise moment of deep, physical hunger, he made the conscious decision that this was the scent that he wanted. In a moment of pure romanticism, escapism and complete abandon of logical thought, he chose this essence as  the last one he would ever need or want.

After making a decision, he placed both of this hands on the steering wheel. As he shifted the car to reverse, he looked at himself in the rearview mirror.

(2017)        

Unremembrance (Poetry)

I
have to
let you go.

Let me
tell you what I
saw.

I saw you.
I saw me.
I saw a lifetime
of possibilities.

Maybe.

Your hand in mine.
White dresses.
Lazy afternoons
drinking wine.

The laughter of children
that never were
echo in my mind.
They're fading away
with tears in their
eyes.

Everything that
never happened
races past.
Recollections that
weren't memories
explode in a flash of
light.

And then,
silence.

I
have to
let you go.

I have to
let the
idea
of you
go.

I have to
let
you
go
I
have
to.

(2016)        

Sulyeon (Poem)

She's wearing a long white dress.
A wide sun hat covers her head.
The pond sparkles in green and blue.
She walks slowly, deliberately.
As if she doesn't want to disturb
images that were never there.

The kids play nearby. She laughs.
She smiles. She moves gracefully,
regally almost. Swans and frogs bow
as she walks past.

She looks beyond the pond.
She looks for someone
that was never there.
She looks
with her almond colored eyes.
She looks
while her long ebony
locks frame her face.

Is this true? She asks the pond,
glimmering in green
and blue.
Will thought one day
become memory?

As I close my eyes,
memories that were
never mine flash
past and into
the future.
Perhaps.
Perhaps
not.

(2016)        

Annotatio (Poem)

She isn't here.
There's a dull ache right at
     the pit of my stomach.
She isn't here.
I'm struggling to come up with words
     to paint images.
She isn't here.

It's fascinating,
     really.
Feeling the feelings while
     finding the phrases.
Thinking the thoughts while
     tinkering the sentiments.

It's a Shakespearian curse,
     actually.
(The man,
     not the characters.)
She isn't here.
     And I'm looking for the words
to describe it.

How to describe the memory
    of her perfume?
Is there an adjective for
    remembering a fragrance?
How can I describe what the memory
    feels?

She isn't here.
  Where can I find the words
to transcribe the memory of a
    moment in time?
She isn't here.
   And I wonder if she feels the
same.

(2016)        

Circumitus

Mare de Lis,

No había pensado en ti desde hace muchos años.

No recuerdo cuantos exactamente. No puedo negar que en algún momento tu nombre me haya pasado por la mente. O que tu sonrisa me cruzara por la ventana de la memoria de vez en cuando.

Pero, no había pensado en ti desde hace muchos años.

No me había detenido a pensar en tu cara. En recordar tu mirada. En intentar recuperar el sonido de tu voz y tu risa. 

Te encontré de casualidad. Una búsqueda de las que hago todos los días para el trabajo. Buscando sitios nuevos que hablar en las propiedades en línea que manejo, encontré tu nombre. Encontré tu foto.

Rápidamente, varias cosas comenzaron danzar en mi cerebro. 

Primero, me da mucha felicidad que te veas contenta. No solo eso, todavía estás en el mundo del arte. Espero que no hayas abandonado tu pincel y tu talento. Tus trazos y tus colores eran (¿son?) lo más impresionante de ti. Luego de tu sonrisa, claro.

También observé cómo el tiempo ha pasado. Han sido casi una década y media desde que te vi. Los dos, tú y yo, ahora estamos peligrosamente cerca de los cuarenta. (Quizás yo más que tú.) Pero, todavía está allí la chica que me inspiró más poesía que ninguna otra, antes o después. (Sólo he publicado uno aquí.) 

Lo tercero que recordé lo que sentía por ti. Me dio mucha alegría recordar lo que sentía por tí.

Finalmente, y lo más importante que recordé: tú eres Libertad Aurora. O bien, Libertad Aurora eres tú. Cuando comencé a escribir Two Dancing on the Red Earth, allá en Cambridge, sólo escribí el Prologo y el primer capítulo. No concebí a Libertad hasta después de haberte conocido. Sin hacerlo conscientemente, modelé mi imagen mental de Libertad en ti. Su cabello, su mirada, su sonrisa y su personalidad, la de mujer fuerte que no depende de nadie, nacieron de ti. Libertad existe, en extraña manera, como un tributo inconsciente de mi idealización de ti. 

Este momento de comprensión me azotó fuertemente. Sinceramente no me había dado cuenta de lo que había creado con mis palabras. Cree mi versión ideal de ti. 

Probablemente nunca sepas nada de esto. Nunca sabrás que fuiste mi musa, no sólo para un ciclo extenso de poesía, sino para lo que es, hasta el momento, mi personaje favorito de todos lo que he escrito. Nunca sabrás lo que sentí por ti. Nunca tendré el valor de buscarte y decirte todo lo que significas para mí.

Sólo me queda una cosa que decir.

Gracias.

Driving (Poem)

 (Note: Yesterday, I was looking over some old poetry and found this piece. I wrote this poem over a decade ago. I was still a grad student with no real idea of what I wanted to do with life. What strikes me now is that, today, I am one of the two heads stuck inside a shiny SUV talking about diaper brands.)

Driving

Driving along the

silent long road,

two walls of glass

between the back of their

heads

and me.

They’re tucked inside

the new, shiny security

of their blue SUV.

Hands flutter, I wonder.

Their conversation, perhaps on rings,

perhaps on diaper brands,

perhaps simply on chess.

All planned out,

            the map laid out,

sure of the road to take

ahead.

A flashing of yellow.

A turn to the left.

I am alone

driving along

with my rusty Fox.

Going home

to ponder the future.

Tomorrow I have a paper

due.

(2001)        

Leaves (A Micronarrative Collection)

Leaves

While SPC Santos was busy dying by IED in Kandahar, somewhere in California, his dog patiently waited.

She ate her fries slowly, with no hurry, savoring every bite. As of today, she had nobody to go home to.

The plane dove. Capt. Evander struggled with all his might. He had to save the passengers. The nurse gave him his medicine.

She always slept with his blackened shirt.

The soldier waddled through the limbs of his comrades, pools of blood embedding red onto his skin. He felt nothing.

He woke up asking himself what is the point of dreaming.

She posted a status on Facebook. He liked it and made a comment on it. She deleted it. He opened a bottle of pills.

He looked at himself in the mirror. He wished he still had the beard. She had liked the beard. He hated the beard.

Her finger lay on the bottom of a frozen lake.

Tom threw away his bologna sandwich. He hated bologna sandwich. Hank had dinner.

He saw what she had written and his world came tumbling down. She never knew. She had never met him.

As he cried in frustration, she threw it.

I walked ever so softly towards her and bowed. 

(Micronarrative collection originally published through Twitter.)

(2013)