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Liza Ortiz Poem
we write as if it is our last night
we write whether it be with lead or ink or typed
we write alone or in a crowded environment
we write come rain or sunshine
we write because we want our stories to be told
we write through every phase; it is universal
we write even if our voice is never heard
we write when we are loved and when all hope is lost
we write regardless of our social class
we write because it feels wrong to stop
we write because it helps connect us
we write because we are all writers at heart
we write until our last breath on earth
Copyright © Liza Ortiz | Year Posted 2024
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Liza Ortiz Poem
As I walked around this rusted mobile home park on a cold December night, with unpaved roads and the usual strays nowhere in sight.
I stopped to look up at the beautiful moonlight.
It was a large full moon with a lonely star nearby.
Seemed strange that no other stars were out in this clear night sky.
That single one did however shine ever so bright.
Copyright © Liza Ortiz | Year Posted 2024
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Liza Ortiz Poem
I hear the sound of clanging and banging from a distant source
Like an orchestra of metal pots that have fallen on the kitchen floor
which brings a ringing to my inner ear
then a low vibration comes as I stand still
This frequency happens frequently
transmitting a language I've yet to unveil
Creating a magnetic peace during its stay
One day I hope to understand the meaning behind it all
A tale probably woven over a thousand years
I hear the sound and listen in
The tone goes away just as mysterious as it came
Copyright © Liza Ortiz | Year Posted 2025
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Liza Ortiz Poem
In a sea full of green, so wide and still,
Where every leaf leans to the wind’s will,
They whisper the rules in rustling tones,
“Grow alike, sway alike, don’t stand alone.”
But somewhere beneath that uniform sway,
A pulse beats red in a quiet display.
Not loud, not proud—just power contained,
A fire untouched, a soul unchained.
The green is safe, a shade of peace,
But peace that comes with a silent lease—
Where edges are softened, voices are tuned,
And difference is trimmed before it's bloomed.
Yet red does not ask for permission to flare,
It rises in contrast, alive and rare.
It doesn’t compete—it simply exists,
A bold contradiction the green resists.
So how does one find what breaks the mold?
Not by chasing, but by being bold.
Not by looking with everyone’s eyes,
But by daring to seek what the world denies.
You find the red by refusing to bend—
By being the color that didn’t blend.
The X in the formula no one could name,
The reason the pattern never stayed the same.
Copyright © Liza Ortiz | Year Posted 2025
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Liza Ortiz Poem
Evil little faces
In little evil places
come in from many cases
Behind the glass door mazes, do we really make changes?
Do they actually change us?
I walk by the metal cages, I've come to feel the same spaces
Humbly, I have to say this
We are all on borrowed time still
Copyright © Liza Ortiz | Year Posted 2025
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