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Best Poems Written by Windy Martinez

Below are the all-time best Windy Martinez poems as chosen by PoetrySoup members

Details | Windy Martinez Poem

Letter to the girls in the same building

i was seven the day they knocked —
“can we play with the spanish girls?”
yaphia and tarita,
smiling like the sun outside our door.
mama laughed,
said “spanish girls?”
because yaphia’s father was puerto rican too.
and that was the start -
the start of everything.
we held each other like secrets -
first periods, first kisses, first heartbreaks,
all the firsts we whispered into the walls.
we cut class, we laughed, we cried,
we failed, we succeeded,
we survived.
there were things no one said out loud -
but we carried them all the same,
in glances, in silence,
in the way Fire looked when no one was watching,
in the way Tarita’s smile flickered just before the storm.
we’re mothers now,
with children and husbands and lives that pull us apart,
but when we meet -
time folds.
no distance, no years,
just the same three girls
with the same unspoken pact.
whatever secret needs telling,
we tell.
whatever joy needs celebrating,
we celebrate.
no questions asked.
no judgment given.
we are more than what tried to break us.
we are the mothers, the sisters, the keepers of light
who never forgot how to hold each other.
we carry each other still -
in laughter, in tears, in the spaces between.
and i love you, girls,
more than words in this letter can hold.
thank you for being my safe place -
then, now, always.

Details | Windy Martinez Poem

Harlem, You Cheated

you used to whisper to me
in stoop slang and bachata basslines,
kiss my cheek with corner store breath -
hot beef patties, papitas, a dollar Arizona.
you’d walk me past block parties
where the speakers cracked from joy,
and the aunties sang louder than the music.
your hands were rough -
but they knew my curves,
my story,
my roots.
but now,
your voice got quieter.
real estate signs stutter
where murals used to speak.
you wear button-ups now — ironed crisp,
smell like rosemary and rent hikes.
your laugh don’t echo
off bricks no more.
it gets lost
somewhere between the wine bar
and that dog park
you said wasn’t for us,
but now you walk through like you forgot.
when did you stop calling me “mami”?
start saying “ma’am”?
when did you trade timbs for toms,
cafecito for cold brew,
“you good?”
for
“you’re trespassing”?
i loved you when you were loud,
when you cursed and prayed in the same breath,
when your shoes had scuffs
and your hair still smelled like shea butter and sweat.
now you slicked it back — forgetful.
i see you in Whole Foods windows
with your new girls —
their yoga mats, their green juices,
their way of looking at me
like i don’t belong
in the place that built me.
you changed, Harlem,
and not in the way lovers grow —
but in the way dreams get flipped for profit. 
still,
i walk your blocks like a jilted bride,
tracing memories
where laundromats used to hum
and grandma's gospel broke morning silence.
you once held me
like a secret.
now
you just walk by.

Details | Windy Martinez Poem

She don't blink

my block got bones
made of brick and breath.
she bleed through cracked hydrants,
catch cigarette ash like snowflakes,
and see like a fly to death.
her ribs? fire escapes-
bent, rust-bit, bruised.
kids dangle off ‘em like loose teeth,
their joy just one cracked step from falling.
she don’t blink.
she sees the crackhead two buildings over
lean so far out the window
it look like gravity let go on purpose.
she sees the baby-faced boy
swipe an apple from the fruit stand,
run like his momma’s belt already in mid-air.
she hears the couple across the courtyard
curse in two languages at once—
“coño, cabrón, i told you don’t touch my phone!”
plates crash like punctuation.
she know who did it. always.
remember joe? down the block?
she know it was lil ronnie shot him—
don’t matter what his momma said on the news.
she know when the baby’s daddy ain’t coming back.
she know which apartment got roaches,
and which girl been sneaking out
with borrowed lashes and somebody’s man.
she see the 13-year-olds roll up outside the laundry,
blow smoke like they men already,
moms swearing they honor students
while they tag walls with their street names in sharpie.
she see grandma on 4c
push that stroller with one hand,
baby crying, bottle hanging,
other kids yelling “nana, i’m hungry!”
while her daughter chase smoke and basslines down lenox.
she don’t talk much,
but she remember everything.
her silence ain’t peace—
it’s storage.
she carry folks’ stories
like groceries up six flights.
she don’t sleep easy. never did.
she hums lullabies in radiator heat,
carries secrets in stairwell echoes,
and if you listen close,
you might hear her say your name too.

Details | Windy Martinez Poem

Masterpiece

She is the mural painted on barrio walls,
stories in her curves, rhythm in her calls.
Colors of abuela, the fire of the street,
a masterpiece rising where cultures meet.

But art needs a frame — firm hands, steady eyes,
men who don’t compete but safeguard the prize.
A frame holds the story, keeps memory tight,
protects from the weather, the dust, and the night.

Alone she’s the art, brilliance untamed—
but her power shines louder ’cause he is the frame.

Details | Windy Martinez Poem

Same Building

we came up same building,
same busted elevator, same rumors in the walls —
three girls stacked on top of each other
like secrets whispered through radiator pipes.
6S - she’s half rican, half black,
but don’t call her half - she all attitude,
dark skin glowing when she laughs too loud,
hips slick like she dancing with nobody’s permission.
5E - 5’1 and built like a threat,
she got a stare that’ll stop you mid-lie.
she hate surprises, so we never sneak up -
she come knocking first if you do her wrong.
then me - 7N, freckles spread like stars on light skin,
red-brown hair tied up, book in my lap,
content to stay inside while they chase block heat.
they pull me out anyway - stoop nights, corner gossip,
big dreams that don’t always fit our pockets.
we so different it make no sense -
three girls shaped like soft rebellion,
like hard lessons, like love
that never needed no permission slip.
puberty tried to twist us up,
boys tried to break us open,
life threw her worst
and we just leaned closer -
me, yaphia, tarita - same building girls,
same busted elevator,
still going up.

Details | Windy Martinez Poem

What do you call it

what do you call it
when a chica’s dreams melt faster
than the piragua man’s ice
on a July Harlem block?
when sweetness drips down brown fingers,
but the city never tastes it right?
what do you call it
when they call you spicy —
like it’s a compliment or a curse —
when you’re just tryna argue your piece
on the tenement stoop
where your mami’s voice still echoes
out the third-floor window?
what do you call it
when the block party DJ drops salsa
into hip-hop and the boys battle
for bragging rights and your heart,
but you know better —
you know your name is more
than chica, more than spice,
more than a rumor shouted
through the summer fire hydrant spray?
what do you call it —
this Nuyorican pulse
that hums in the cracks
of Harlem sidewalks,
beats its drum in your ribs,
and dares every deferred dream
to dance, anyway?
what do you call it
when a chica’s dreams melt faster
than the piragua man’s ice
on a July Harlem block?
when sweetness drips down brown fingers,
but the city never tastes it right?
what do you call it
when they call you spicy —
like it’s a compliment or a curse —
when you’re just tryna argue your piece
on the tenement stoop
where your mami’s voice still echoes
out the third-floor window?
what do you call it
when the block party DJ drops salsa
into hip-hop and the boys battle
for bragging rights and your heart,
but you know better —
you know your name is more
than chica, more than spice,
more than a rumor shouted
through the summer fire hydrant spray?
what do you call it —
this Nuyorican pulse
that hums in the cracks
of Harlem sidewalks,
beats its drum in your ribs,
and dares every deferred dream
to dance, anyway?

Details | Windy Martinez Poem

Bochincheras

Bochincheras

"ayo, peep shorty on the corner—pants saggin like gravity owe him money."
"¡ay dios! look at them boxers—bright like they from the 99 cent store.
he walkin like he own the block, but can’t even buy a metrocard."
"let me be pacific—he cappin heavy.
actin like he important when he just buggin.
all flex, no check."
"y esa muchachita? the one wit’ the neon braids?"
"thirsty as hell, mami. out here twerkin like rent due tomorrow."
"draggin it! odee draggin it!
talkin loud, laugh even louder, got them lashes battin like wings."
"she got on bamboo earrings and them slides with socks?
whole outfit look like she lost a bet—but she think she killin it."
"a mess, chula. but she feelin herself.
you know how they do—young and unbothered, like life ain’t got bills."
we sit on the stoop like two chapters from a novel—
one in spanish, one in black girl blues,
but both written in block ink and burnt summers.
"you remember when we was them?"
"mm-hmm. we ain’t have no chill neither."
"but we ain’t wearin pajama pants outside."
"¡claro que no! mi abuela woulda thrown la chancleta from three floors up."
we laugh so hard the pigeons side-eye us.
sip our café like holy water.
"still, i pray for them."
"always. one day they gon’ glow up or grow up."
"same difference."
the sun hits our skin like we earned it,
and we keep watch like always—
narratin, judgin, rememberin.
but never hatin.
just talkin.
just lovin.
just loud.

Details | Windy Martinez Poem

With a Gentle Hand-Mystic

with a gentle hand, Wynter,
brush your curls,
and don’t forget—
knot your braids tight
so the wind don’t snatch your shine.

with a gentle hand,
hold the butterfly—
be soft with the small things.
but don’t forget,
even wings push back
when the storm comes blowing.

with a gentle hand,
share your candy, your jokes, your light.
but keep one fist closed,
‘cause not everybody claps for you—
some folks just waitin’ to take.

with a gentle hand,
abuela stirred the beans slow,
then stitched hems straight,
needle sharp, steady rhythm—
and still kept tricks of the trade
to throw chancletas
or hold it down if need be.
gentle, but tough—
that’s the recipe.

Wynter,
the world gon’ test you.
they’ll call you sweet,
then try to eat you alive.
they’ll call you weak,
then be shocked
when you stand.

so hold both—
the open palm and the closed fist,
the rose petals and the thorns,
the “yes, ma” voice
and the “don’t play with me” stare.

with a gentle hand,
you gon’ flip pages and flip tables,
you gon’ hold babies and hold your ground,
you gon’ bless the block
and check the block—
same hand, same heart.

and Wynter,
never forget—
soft don’t mean breakable.
gentle don’t mean less.
with a gentle hand,
you can lift mountains,
you can fight, you can love,
you can be all of it—
loud, sweet, unshakable.

Details | Windy Martinez Poem

Block Party

Double-dutch ropes slap the sidewalk -
snap - snap - snap -
braids whip air,
girls jump in, counting
uno, dos, three,
feet flick like drumsticks.
The ice cream truck jingles off-key,
icy lady shakes paper cups,
piragua man shaves ice into snow -
his knife scraping the block awake.
Pastelillos pop in hot oil -
spit, sizzle -
plastic cups clink with rum and cola,
congas crack, maracas shake salt in the air,
horns blare like chisme in heat.
Heels click-clack over concrete -
punctuating each spin,
each swirl of hips.
Whistles split the air -
one from the lifeguard at Jefferson,
two from the men on the corner,
three from abuela
when the coals are hot.
Somebody throws meat on the grill -
ssszzzz -
smoke climbs windows,
neighbors bring foil trays -
yellow rice, ribs, roasted corn -
each dish a downbeat.
Kids yell cannonball,
water smacks back,
lifeguard’s whistle cuts through splash.
Old heads tap dominoes on tabletops -
crack, slap, smack -
hands older than the stoops they sit on.
The block fills itself
the way music fills a drum -
the street hums under bare feet.
Tonight,
the moon will smell like charcoal
and sweet ice.

Details | Windy Martinez Poem

The Stoop

they sit outside the penny candy store,
old men slap dominoes on chipped tables,
smoke curling up like prayers
their wives gave up saying.
i lean on the fire escape,
watch them call me mami
like it’s my birthright —
call me solid, thick like the block,
hips wide enough to hold the gossip
and still swing.
they say ju got that caramel skin,
that soft bite in your mouth
when you try to say sweet —
they say i’m loud, i’m stubborn,
i argue with my hands and my hips,
i got too much to say for a girl
that comes from stoops and window sills.
but this is my gospel —
my curvy body a prayer,
my no’s a sermon,
my laugh breaks their cigar smoke,
my name rides the domino slam —
mira, mami, this girl ain’t leaving
her corner for nobody.