Long Ortiz Poems
Long Ortiz Poems. Below are the most popular long Ortiz by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Ortiz poems by poem length and keyword.
Mi Padre, 2012
V. Ortiz Vazquez ©
Bears the mark since child birth
Incognito until childhood
Development blocks transformed part of his destiny
Twin brother carries the severe load
Not only does he stumble when speaking but also when walking
Both deteriorating with the passing of
Seconds, minutes, hours
Days, weeks, months, years
To remember the days when family went out for a jog
To ride the memory lanes when outings took us to the mountains
Rivers
Lechón Asado
Monitas, Crab hunting
Mud beyond the ankles
To peddle through strange terrain brings the day you taught me how to ride my bike
Hanging on the tree’s branches
Result of your way of teaching
“You have two choices; break or crash,” you said
Remember my swimming training?
“You either swim or drown,” you stated as you threw me into the deep waters
To this day, panic comes when I cannot touch the floor
Next stage in my life a new lesson
To learn how to drive
18 was I, a family friend my teacher this time
Keeping in mind the words you said to me once
“If you want to learn how to drive, watch what I do”
So many words yet no practical techniques with them
Formal education left you at an early age
Life’s education provided you with lifelong lessons
Handy man you became
Trick of trades pass down to you
Childhood road blocks no impediments to you
Sharp mind even when learning was tough at times
Hands no stranger to hard labor
No competition to formal education
Building your life’s traveling path one block at a time
First, you stole my mom
Your wife
Second, came my brother
Then, me and my sister
To wake one day to learn of your demise
Explanation to the changes within you
No longer active
Your hands no longer take pleasure of fixing things
Captive between four walls
Your mind
Diagnosis of schizophrenia
Johnny, Christian, Vadeline, Carlitos, Chadwick, Cody
How long until you can no longer enjoy grandchild’s laugh?
Touch?
Conversations?
Cheated you were, are
Compensated with a wife, children, grandchildren
Nurture with richness of a simple man
Patiently I wait until the next time you say, “Tonta. Así no se hace”
And, in your father’s role explain to me what I already know
Don’t seem to understand
To call you later and ask for your handy hands
No time of waiting
Refuse to part with slipping mind
Sharp hands
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
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
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
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?
Mi Amiga Querida del Alma, 2010
V. Ortiz Vazquez
Do you know? Do you remember the time and place?
I don’t
I don’t remember time nor place
But it is here today—Thursday, September 19, 2010
I search and search with no luck
The mind as always don’t want to let go of the hidden
No time, no place, yet Puerto Rico for sure
Yes, Puerto Rico
Why? you must ask
How can it be if you don’t remember time and place?
Simple
Age 15 was went I left
And with me she came
With me she came
I don’t know time nor place
Was it received with joy?
Or
Cast away with shame?
Either way, I just don’t know
I do know about the present
Unbothered, glad by the presence
Others around me, not glad
Better yet, they seem uncomfortable as if it was a drag
I, on the other hand, think of the possibilities
What it stands for
Refer to sometimes as “la tía”
Stop
Let’s be honest
I’m not too fond of “mis tías”
So, why address you by it?
No, no, no
I don’t know time nor place
I do know about the present and “la Tia” just got to go
So many labels, why baptize you with one that brings bother to my skin
Why not give you the proper place within me?
Amiga,
Amiga,
Yes! Amiga
Wait, don’t come to conclusions yet
Amiga because
Close to me you are
Amiga because
Apart from me you never are
Amiga because
You know a part of me no one else know
Amiga because
I am never disappointed by you
The hell with the past
Who cares about place and time?
Come on with the present
Guide my future
Please, don’t disappoint me
For I love your purpose
Not that Type of Lover, 2012
V. Ortiz Vazquez
I am not that type of lover
You know, the one who softly caresses you with her gentle touch
Take you places by whispering sweet words into your earlobe
Out of no-where brushes you with her warmth breathe
I am not that type of lover
You know
I am not that type of lover
The one who open your door like a “gentleman”
Put her coat on you to keep you warm
Or places her Blazer on a puddle
You know, the one who brings flowers just because
I am not that type of lover
You know
I am not that type of lover
You know, constantly sending you hearts via text
Writing love songs, poems, stories
With pen, pencil strokes capture her effortless thoughts of you
Gesture drawings render her live heart
I am not that type of lover
You know
I am not that type of lover
But, I would walk beside you every moment; endlessly
Synchronize my breath to yours
Listen closely and become enraged for you
Transfix my days on the next time we see each other again
Inject your wishes deep within my veins
You know
You know, the lover whose heart turn to rock upon your dislike
Melts by the winks of your eye
The one tattoo by your words of “I love you”
Where skin deep shows the true colors
Perplex by light shining through your soul
Rhythmic waves encourage bloodstream flow
You know
A lover with secrets, hidden past—not so much
Moments of threats dismantle by a simple thought of sweetness
Sweet emotions
Ecstasy
Daily intoxication, production of your morning kisses
Night kisses
Addicted
Fraud, 2012
V. Ortiz Vazquez
Fraudulent the given path
Trail lined with nature’s flowers
Petals mark the areas to be follow
Thorns mitigated
To move forward through the given path
Written by her hands, she continues her journey
Steps by steps, moving forward
No contemplation of the past
Nor any reasons to cheat and foresee the future
Near or not
She continues her journey
Surreal, the feelings inside
An impostor waiting to be caught
Not knowing her next move
Driven by the idea of more
Back roads non existent
She continues her journey
Trick or treat no other choice
Thorns begin to grow
Vines loop forming an arc
To slouch, no other escape
Continue ahead only choice
Her journey await
Dismantling, broken road waits ahead
Uncertain, not knowing herself
Her ways
Her wants
Desires
She continues her journey
Feeling like an impostor
Fraud
When would she become her own self
Without those moments
Seclusion once again
As she continues her journey
Fraudulent the given path
Trail lined with nature’s flowers
Petals mark the areas to be follow
Thorns mitigated
To move forward through the given path
Written by her hands, she continues her journey
Walk the line without questions
Question without expectations
Expect with disappointments
Leap through broken paths
Turn around, retreat
Descend upon the unknown areas
Fraudulent the given path
Fraud to give upon temptations
Not to shed the forever long mask
Given with birth
She continues her journey
Buried Alive, 2010
V. Ortiz Vazquez
House play with a neighbor friend
Older than I is he, yet not old enough
Husband and wife, house wife
Bread winner comes home
Home, field between houses
Time for bed, naked from the waist down I lay
Caught, I’m to blame
Shamed with no explanation
I should have known better
Older than I is he, yet not old enough
Locked inside, exposed to me
High schooler, teenager; younger I am
Adult act becomes mine
Young I am, no stranger is he
Salty, whitish, I don’t understand
Shamefully I lurk around, searching without understanding
Finding similar, no teenager an adult
No teenager is he, still young I am
Sled to the side, incognito a touch
Finger nail’s cut
An excitement unforeseen
Unexplored essence exposed to me by his touch
Tragedy
Blamed, shamed, grounded
Who is to blame?
Trinity: him, you, they
Should have known better, Female I am
One forgotten, hazy memories, not even his name
Second not seen for years, learned of recent lost—grandpa dies
The other, seen by occasional visits
Declining health, prostrated to a wheelchair
Life’s move, checked yet not checkmate
Here I stand, age 33
Foggy days, shatter pieces
Lights out
Checkmate since childhood
Life cut short
Living without breathing
World’s brightness taken away
Shifted to black and white
Muted
Silence my home
Distance my protection
Youngster, buried alive