Best Ortiz Poems
I have attempted to capture my favorite major league baseball players in this little shape poem of home plate. Included are (in no particular order):
Say Hey Willie Mays Walter Johnson (Big Train)
Randy Johnson (The Big Unit) Babe Ruth (The Sultan Of Swat)
Tony Gwynn Jimmie Foxx
Ted Williams Maury Wills
Stan “The Man” Musial Johnny Bench
Ken Griffey Jr Greg Maddox
Henry Aaron Lou Gehrig
Roberto Clemente Ty Cobb
Satchell Paige Ernie Banks
Rickey Henderson Carl Yastrzemski (Yaz)
Trevor Hoffman Albert Pujols
Gibson (Bob and Josh) Honus Wagner
Rogers Hornsby Cal Ripken
Robinson (Jackie, Frank and Brooks)
Some favorites I had to leave out…
Christy Mathewson Warren Spahn
Sandy Koufax Tom Seaver
Mickey Mantle Rod Carew
Joe Morgan Ozzie Smith
Mariano Rivera Miguel Cabrera
Pedro Martinez Ichiro Suzuki
David Ortiz Jose Altuve
I’d love to see your faves mentioned in the comments section!
written 24 Aug 2020
I may not like it
the designated hitter
Ortiz is the best
Denied, 2010
Vickie M. Ortiz Vázquez
Human
Human am I
So, I hear I am human
Therefore, human rights by nature are mine
Who have spoken of these?
Martin Luther King, Jr
Cesar Chavez
The Black Panther Party and the F.L.A.N
Human am I
Born female with a path
Grown to a woman with a guilty mark
So, I hear I am human
Therefore, human rights by nature are mine
Grown to a woman
Human still am I
Yet, simple human rights have been denied
To brothers and sisters of mine
Still human am I
Therefore, human rights are being denied
By those who can’t understand
What nature can’t denied
Human
Human am I
So, I hear I am human
Still a human am I
A woman with human rights…
DENIED
If I Tell You, 2011
Vickie M. Ortiz Vazquez
If I tell you, Puerto Rican I am
What comes to mind?
Morena of “el barrio” or Blonde woman of “el barrio”
Better yet, pale skin-blonde from up north
That one, the straight English-speaking wanna-be
“Con su pelo lacio”
If I tell you, Puerto Rican I am
Could you describe who I am?
Woman controlled, subjected by Welfare
Carrying on the poor women cycle
You know, the one imposed by the few rich white men
Shackled
Would you think of me in a bright light; dim light?
If I tell you, Puerto Rican I am
Do you envision an immigrant, alien?
A woman once taken and brought at age 15
Beginning of her womanhood
Tormented by loneliness, isolation, ignorance
Frustrated by the never ending question, “Are you mixed?”
Misunderstood by her citizenship
Seen as unfair by many
Slaved island, unrealized
Are you able to narrate which Puerto Rican woman am I?
If I tell you, Puerto Rican I am
Puerto Rican I am
“Café con leche,” Afro-hair, big lips, small nose
Distance between what I was and inspire to be
Clinching to her African heritage
Searching
If I tell you, Puerto Rican I am
Can you explain the injustice my hair endured?
Constant search for assimilation
Assimilation
To break free
Impacted by those with similar skin color, Afro hair, big lips
Different
If I tell you, Puerto Rican I am
Do you paint two contrasting siblings?
Light, dark complexions
Tall dark father with short light mother by his side
If I tell you, Puerto Rican I am
Do your pages bleed from inspiration?
Disgust?
Stereotypes?
Would I read between the lines, a woman becoming her own?
Struggling between many worlds
Or, do you spell the notion of loud, submissive, sex symbol
You know, the one portrayed in the media
If I tell you, Puerto Rican I am
Can you decipher, WEEEEPA
Labels, 2010
V. Ortiz Vazquez
Girl, teenager, young adult, woman
Hispanic, Latina, Puerto Rican
Sister, aunt, godmother
Lesbian, woman of color
How important are these labels?
Why use them to define myself?
Better, use to be boxed within brackets
Brackets many times use to oppress me and those a like
Box me
Reduce at time, close to nothingness
Trap within groups
Recycling stereotypes, unfairness
Idiotic
Other times, forgotten
I am a woman
A Puerto Rican woman that is
I am a daughter
A Puerto Rican daughter, know this
Born to privileges that do not really exist
I am a Puerto Rican woman who loves another woman
Rights denied
Ignorance still prevail in 2010
I am brown skinned
How important is this? I don’t know, Do you?
Yet, I will not trade the following:
Daughter, aunt, godmother, woman of color, Puerto Rican
They provide an experience taken for granted by many
At times an understanding that others dream off
A strength given, passed down
Not forced or taken
I am the labels you love to hate
I am the labels you hate to love
the M-V-P
two-thousand-sixteen
Ortiz don't you agree?
two-thousand-four
losers no more
Boston Red Sox
out of the rocks
contenders again
beginning to win
three word series wins
no more Babe Ruth sins
now Ortiz calling it quits
won't send the Sox to the pits
for they're stronger than strong
without doing a wrong
Self-Portrait, 2011
v. Ortiz Vazquez
4’9” or 5’0”, never quite knowing which
Brown eyes, black Afro hair
She Hercules strength within
34 years old wondering where times has gone
A second, minute, hour; days, weeks, months
Young morena, carded at times
Few gray hairs basilan between wisdom and just time passed
Time spend recording images, words
Hidden ideas within pages
Pieces behind doors, question of “Am I an artist when no one except me sees my
humble images?”
Energy transfer in a moment of passion where soul, thoughts merge
Written words waltz between lines wondering “Am I a poet when no one except my
girl listens to the movement within my writings?”
Quote-on-quote educated yet ignorant
School smart, whatever that means
Socially dysfunctional, quietly listens to the cacophony-story telling time
Not my story but hers, his, theirs
Commonalities, none
Fearful she hides behind her home’s walls
Pages hide her thoughts
Agony bleeds every time she wakes
Capture by her moving hand yet stored away
Aching, waiting to break through
She turns and walks
Sanctuary, solitary times
Lingering questions, who am I?
How to survive without knowing
Knowledge eludes me
To find a different host
Jealous, envy; no, lost
Floating through time, space
Looking to land yet not knowing where
Falling back to old tricks
Seclusion
Time to put thyself asleep
Lights out
Half Empty, 2011
Vickie M. Ortiz Vazquez
To describe oneself, what question must be asked?
One driven by reality?
Philosophy?
To speak of the physical beauty that resembles humble being
“Beauty is where you find it” sings Madonna
Should I bomb descriptive words which stop at physical characteristics?
For while my cup is half empty, hers is half full
Driven by beauty standards
Unheard off
Reality just to those with wealth
Illusionist balancing individual’s self-esteem
Through the cut
Thread together; million dollar hands
Is my glass really half empty?
“Beauty is where you find it” sings Madonna
Should I painterly describe the beauty walking alone?
The one not understood
Unique
Hidden behind leaves, thorns
Casted aside because she lacks size zero
Trying to fit in yet not in her clothes
Trap
To be or not to be
One’s self that is
Casted aside because she speaks her lingo
Forceful to protect
Hidden behind hurtful words, thoughts
Survival skills gone
Or, is it?
Social interaction forgotten
Silenced
Casted aside because she mirrors society’s wrongfulness
Body scan reveals six distinctive colors
Red, Orange, Yellow, Green, Blue, Purple
Blues streaming constantly
A cut
Deep red spills
So, I ask; to describe one’s self what question must be sought?
La Historia-101, 2011
Vickie M. Ortiz Vazquez
Imagine, I cannot
To feel their lost
Longing for the return home
Rejoicing behind closed doors
Criminal act
Propagate servitude with miserable pay
Runaway between breaths
Hunted
Capture, captive
Criminal act
Rape once again, over again
White women turned the other way
Power instilled by any means necessary
Emancipated January first 1863
Imagine, I cannot
Overseas journey, long nights
Not knowing what awaits
The other side
Driven by hate, broadcast faith
Golden Goose displays false imageries
Selective stay, citizenship
Manipulations to project extreme dislike
Plant self loathe
All in the name of supremacist tendencies
Reached land
Meenay, miny, mo
Criminal act
Los Marielitos, 1970’s
Imagine, I cannot
Under the hot sun
Vast land of sand, predetermined path
Self-sacrifice in the name of family prosperity
Uncertainty
Dreams fuel by promises
Human trafficking, lottery
Slavery
Death
Destiny
Either way, criminal act
Imagine, I cannot
Whispers of sterilization
Population control
Blinded by land’s riches
“I must have” translated to ‘let me help you prosper”
Fed ideas of growth
Second guessing labor intensive industry
Rise of unemployment, 1960’s
Restless machetes stored away
Land’s fruits stolen
Justify
Criminal act
Under false pretences, little you give lots you take
Migrant float picture of your lies
Grasp in the hand of the devil
Imagine, I can
Two thousand eleven is the year
Headlines a fluke, mostly ignore by news
Recent voices speak of fear
Fear to seek an education
Fear to seek shelter
Fear to seek food
Fear to roam about
Inhale life’s smells
Capture life’s colors
Tattoo life’s experiences
Criminal act
Imagine, I can
Flickering lights getting closer
Fused back light
Finger print attempt for a burned out back light
Tif for Tat between Blue and Morena
Unnoticed the color of his skin
Minutes after, does it really matter?
Blue soldier with a license to destroy
Destroy without questioning lives of those tricked
Brought under false pretenses; full of hope
Penniless
Left to die
Wrongfully accused
Dreams shattered
Hopeless
no Artist, no Poet
Vickie M. Ortiz Vazquez
I am not an artist
So, I doodle
Play with shapes, colors
Juxtapose
Yet, I am no artist
Inscriptive, descriptive visual symbols come about
Recognizable shapes, not what it seems
Misunderstood at first glace
Driven by a part of me you do not know
I am not an artist
So, I doodle
Play with shapes, colors
Juxtapose
Yet, I am no artist
Lines meet to reveal a thought
Experience
Fuel by what has been heard
Watched
Felt
Syllables merge to form words, sentences
Beliefs
I am not an artist neither a poet
So, I write
Use words to paint my thoughts
Yet, I am no artist nor poet
Black book to grey notebook
Symbols meet; apart by soft-hard covers
Thoughts described
Driven by the woman, teenager
Childhood memories
Stitch by a common thread
Me, myself and I
I am not an artist
So, I doodle
I am not an artist neither a poet
So, I write
Yet, I am no artist nor poet
I am life’s fool
Touch by moments of inspiration
I am nature’s creation
Design to loose and gain
I am society’s product
Branded by many labels
Constricted, tormented by my “brothers” and “sisters”
I am not an artist
So, I doodle
Play with shapes, colors
Juxtapose
Yet, I am no artist
I am not an artist neither a poet
So, I write
Use words to paint my thoughts
Yet, I am no artist nor poet
Work in progress
Life’s path
Unfinished piece, lifetime work
Brush strokes, wide-simple yet complicated
Narrow path full of passion
Torture
Bristled brushes with primary colors
Endless possibilities
Motifs floating about
I am not an artist
So, I doodle
Play with shapes, colors
Juxtapose
Yet, I am no artist
Expressive words delineate motifs
Continuous mark with an end
To express what cannot be said
Mumble within me without escape
I am not an artist neither a poet
So, I write
Use words to paint my thoughts
Yet, I am no artist nor poet
I am life’s fool
Touch by moments of inspiration
I am nature’s creation
Design to loose and gain
I am life’s fool
Touch by moments of inspiration
the Contemporary Evil, 2011
Vickie M. Ortiz Vazquez
I am tired, of you
I am tired of you and those like you
Taking away without re-precautions
Lurking, using your authority to get away
Surfing to the light as if nothing has taken place
Smiling
Breathing
Laughing
I am tired, of you
I am tired of you and those like you
Hiding behind peacock feathers, beautiful colors
Disguise that fools everyone, including you
Contemplating when would be your next fix
You walk among us smiling, breathing, laughing
As if nothing is out of the ordinary, just another day
Your life mirrors what everyone knows yet refuses to act on
Refuses to stand up, shout no more
Rise above, fight against you
I am tired, of you
I am tired of you and those like you
Vociferando lies, fables that continues to weave the shield that protects you
With every call a menace is release upon us
Trusting we wait, hope opens the doors
Suddenly; pitch black
She said, he said
I am tired, of you
I am tired of you and those like you
Hiding behind the oldest, largest legal gang of the world
Oath to protect and served
Unbalanced, to find minimum to no protecting, serving
Deaf ears to what she said, experienced, lost
Struck not once but twice within the same moment
Entrust with life, not enough to be heard
I am tired, of you
I am tired of you and those like you
My skin opens, bleeds with every news of your protected lifestyle
Your privilege life hiding behind the color blue
Walking along a white man’s anthem
As old as the blues
Weeps uncontrollably my skin
Not seen, not heard, nor spoken
Swept under the rug my pain, her lost and unfortunately her inheritance
Mind, I can be your grandmother, mother, sister, daughter
Don’t fix upon me the undesired, unwanted
I am tired
Aren’t you?
Whisper, 2012
V. Ortiz Vazquez
Bright as the day
His confidence
Walking tall for his batch bears no wrong doing
Predetermined sex
Downloaded expectations
“Boys don’t cry”
Sprung from love
Her sensitivity
Watching those around
Her mark reveals a list of don’t
Whishes of a boy tramples downloaded expectations
Recalculating
“Girls don’t do that”
Walking about
Unknown to one another
Distance companions with similar nature
One believable, the other one not
Society’s rules
Predetermine disposition
Learning behavior
Up for debate
Slowly he begins to make his move
Trust ensue no rejection
Without suspecting
She bare her mark
Not knowing what, how to feel
Act
Silence descends upon the body
Laughable his story, he thought “boys don’t cry”
Miserable her short life, she “asked for it”
Compose, controlled with confident
Satisfied with the cruel intentions
In conjunction with low, clear voice whisper
“Shhhhhh…”
"Bore, Boredom" 2010
V. Ortiz Vazquez
Bore, boredom
How can it be?
Why at age 33?
What does it mean?
Surviving with a few “migajas del dia”
Not really living, just there
There
Bore, boredom
Few situations bring joy
Still secluded
Isolated
Not really living, just there
There
Bore, boredom
Moments of joy
Her and I
Written words
Visual inspiration
Joy
Bore, boredom
With occasional, polite, short conversations
Wondering when will it end
Looking around, searching for something more
Nothing
Once again trapped in the same routine
Why do I even try?
Bore, boredom
When it began?
Why can’t I shake it away?
People
People ever where
Yet, I don’t seek any pleasures from them
Her and I
Written words
Visual inspiration
Joy
Bore, boredom
When will you stop?
Why make my soul your home?
Yet, I don’t know if I can survive without you
Perhaps I can, but don’t know how anymore
Still secluded, isolated
Her and I
Written words
Visual inspiration
Moments of joy
A moment of joy at age 33
What happened to the early moments?
Where did they go?
How can I get them back?
History with many missing pieces
Nevertheless, don’t forget the present moments for they are the ones that count
Grasp them, snuggle with them, cherish them
Bore, boredom
Her and I
Written words
Visual inspiration
Moments of joy
Modern Slavery, 2011
V. Ortiz Vazquez
Ivory black covered in crimson blood
Rhythm of fears hides his God like stand
Scared by his image, he castrates the family violating the house jewel
Jewels
Dreams of home a man’s song
Lyrics of hope cascades with every opportunity
Betrayed by those of his suit
Eyes shut, eyes open
Glimpse of a new life
Or so was the hope
Shackles gone or so it seems
Weight lifted or so it feels
Dragging
Caught in the web
Familiar, chameleon the perpetrator
Multicolor no longer neutral, white
Greed’s trap, your dreams
Twenty first century, invisible yet here
Weighted by my afro hair, big lips, brown skin, accent, womanhood
No lyrics of hope
Silently I write
Few safe ears listen, no questions
Wealth not within my reach
Distance, hazy, foggy “anhelos”
To break through
Struck down not once but twice by your greed
Or, my greed?!
Label me a woman, Latina, Spanish speaker, lesbian, sinner, working class
Shackled by your God like demeanor
Puppeteer is you
Puppet is I and those alike
Wearing the mark
Working class
Living for “migajas”