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)        

Requiem (Poem)

Requiem

Never shed a tear
over the end of a
 relationship.
Mourn the infinity of lifetimes
     never lived.

(2016)        

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)        

To Mare de Lis (Poem)

To Mare de Lis

The night runs silently

behind my windows.

I stare at my ceiling,

eyes wide,

feet fiddling.

I am thinking of you.

Are you sleeping?

I wonder.

What do you sleep about?

Do you sleep in pastels

and canvas and acrylic?

Do you sleep in brushes

and colors and white lilies?

Do you dream at all?

Do I take a peek at

 your dreams.

Me?

I dream of stars and travels.

Of children that where never mine.

Picket fences, moonlights

at la Puerta del Sol.

My pen besides your brush.

I dream of you.

I am thinking of you.

In my head

visions form anew.

That amazing expression of

pleasure and delight

you unwittingly call your smile

is forever burnt in my mind.

And your eyes...

I close my eyes and I see

flashes of you and me.

(2001)        

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)        

Broken (Poem)

Broken

Somehow I need to learn,

that planting a dandelion field

is just inviting the wind in.

(2013)