Summer's End

Summer's End

by Armando Ortiz

Towards summer's end

nearing the harvest moon

sitting in the time of dreams

we broke bread and made memories

giving thanks and respect to those we love

Towards summer's end

approaching the Autumn moon

within realms of dreams

the sun arose and stars cleared

night came to an end

and we vanished into the wind.

Wading in Water

Wading in Water

by Armando Ortiz

wading in water

along Onion Valley trail

where melting droplets

in nature's weight flows

the white noise of running creeks

sting like icy needles

and exiting an alpine lake

gives warm shivers

floating in upper stream pools

I return to that childhood

where shimmers buoyantly move

and arms resist the gentle force

the waft of sagebrush vapors

wander under the shade of aspen shrubs-

I wish to be wading in water

thoughts meandering next to bliss

Kearsarge

Kearsarge

by Armando Ortiz

I sit meditating

on the southern slope of a mountain

the shadow of the north face

breaks free from its boundary

stratus clouds momentarily veil the sunlight

the landscape darkens as if it were night

the silence of Buddha is broken

as chipmunks from ground to rock scurry by

cold winds funnel down the alpine valley

making ripples and howls within rocks surrounding

colossal statue cracked unmoving

sits ringed with dabs of purple violet irises

crown of frozen grey and melting ice

is like a dream to my city eyes

Dream of Mountains: Short Piece

Dream of Mountains

by Armando Ortiz

I dream of hiking mountains
walking giant mortars
on alpine canyons
one continual upward motion

Life conceived extremes
thousands of winters
foxtails untouched by hands
firmly sweeping the wind they stand

wild flowers long harsh winter endured
late June rough gravel break through
granite peppered with pine green
where purple iris edge against a cairn

to watch molcajetes steaming with life
to walk on giant rocks
and stroll along grey cliffs
with white peaks that silently lie

to journey to a frozen conception
that melts into hidden cracks
and traverse giant mammoth molars
and glide on the air like a flying dinosaur.

In the name....

In the name…….

By Armando Ortiz

In the name of whom should we improve our communities when public schools are dismantled, and lay barren of hope?

In whose name do students get over tested to miss out on funds, and on an exploration of electives?

In whose name does the cutting of public school funds benefit the public, and support learning?

In whose name are educators forced to fight for what is right? To be able guide the youth and time for deep thinking.

In whose name is a child’s future put on the line and seen as a number and not a name, a result, not a journey?

In whose name does the serpent of privatization enter the house of impoverished communities, and tear up the one guaranteed right for every child?

In whose name do teachers strike, but for community, a decent future and healthy prospects.

In the name of equality and fairness is that we fight.

Despite immense odds, we stand up to fight against oligarchs, private entrepreneurs, corporate unknowns that never have seen the eyes of understanding or heard the anguish of student suffering.

In the name of justice, humanity, equality, the public good and freedom we strike. 

Missed Call

Missed Call

By Armando Ortiz

Yeah, I looked you up

after you accidentally called me

using a different program.

You were probably thinking of someone

while traveling through Eastern Europe

but in your mind a lingering memory

had you lost in hateful similes of me.

The ancient wandering rats of Rome

had you thinking of a sleazy and grimy opossum,

the foreign dialects that you heard had you wondering,

how true words could be so deceptive

to a lonesome soul.

You wore a white fuzzy cap,

a light blue dress with white borders

that fluttered to the Autumn winds

hid your body from all elements

and you had that unknown smile.

My eyes saw a tribal queen,

holding strong against the jet streams of

the Northern Asian steppes,

just a nomadic princess

made strong and determined by life’s

experience.

You were more than a marble bust

carved by the hands of Rodin,

like a rare precious Afghan stone,

that turned into the eyes of Venus over

the moonlight waters of Los Angeles.

I’ve moved on and

won’t return that call

but it raised many more questions

than it did answers at all.

I want to return to that accidental connection

and tell you about my situation,

you cannot to be my obsession, but

I’d walk with you in bazaars

along alleys and streets

and make memories anew.

But all you are is a reminder

of the time you said to leave

when you sent that message

where you turned the page

with our chapter closing,

making me disappear.

I have to remember that you are a digital copy

no longer here, but there, somewhere in LA,

a figment of the imagination

a morning frost in the middle of autumn

that disappears into the air by the time

I ring the bell  to do my job with simple care.

Believe me though

I’d still eat you up

in one green light

digging deep

and striking gold.

Morning Light

Morning Light

By Armando Ortiz

You became the dream unfulfilled,

a drifting mist from the coast

that dissipates into the summer heat,

after I shared with you my secrets.

You were the calming white roar of the Pacific

when we slept by each other’s side.

We were not meant to walk together

along the beach, holding hands.

I didn’t roll up my jeans- knee high,

nor did your clothes get wet.

We didn’t get splashed by ocean foam

or feel ourselves sink into the sand

following the egret that walked ahead.

We just held hands

during a late summer day

and under a yellow maple tree

is where we kissed the first time.

We pressed against each other

giving comfort to ourselves,

while the sun set

west of the Verdugo Mountains.

I held you tight,

you bit my shoulder,

we didn’t declare our love,

but rode the waves of passion.

Like running water,

flowing into a precipice,

our wills were caught up

in the rush of desire.

You allowed me to taste

the saltiness of your skin

and to nibble the left earlobe,

our bodies flowed into disaster.

A magnetic water fall

we floated in mid air

falling into an abyss

of unknown experience.

You accused me of selfishness

after I told you my forgotten truths.

With you, I grew, and became

conscious of my foolishness.

You might have loved me once,

but your warmth is with me forever,

I harness that memory with these words

hoping that we both remember.

What I did was unforgivable

and only once did I try to apologize,

not daring to try again

instead, I meditated on that dying ember.

Later I was crushed by remorse

and questioned my sanity,

forgiveness from you is unattainable,

nor is the love of the Virgin Mary.

I awake from this illusion,

you are forever gone,

lost in a collection of memories,

you regret and despise having met.

Walking back to my car that night

left me void of emotions and sight,

I drove through the darkness of night,

till the break of day gave a shimmer of light.

Although we are now apart

maybe this apology

one day finds

a place in your heart.

MacArthur Park: Betsy and Bella

MacArthur Park: Betsy and Bella

By Armando Ortiz

“Betsy, it’s time to say your prayers and go to sleep,” said Bella. She’d been in the kitchen washing a stack of dirty dishes that had piled up the last few days. Betsy was in the living room reading, directly under a light that emanated from the ceiling. She was engrossed with a Curious George book. Bella walked towards her, wiping her hands with a towel. Her smooth tanned arms shone under the light, as she lightly elbowed Betsy on her arm. A small tiny sanctuary was on the opposite corner. Their niche was directly across the light. Betsy was always under the watchful eye of her mom and Le Virgencita.

The sacred space had the Virgin of Guadalupe as the central figure. They knelt before her and prayed. St Christopher was on the foreground of the Virgin Mary, to the right. Another little statuette was on the left side, that of St Jude. In between these was a candle, a little flower vase and a plaster cast image of Jesus Christ. The Virgin’s eyes always caught Betsy’s attention, since they seemed to be looking down at her, like ancient Buddha eyes. The replica had an aura of love and serenity.

They always followed the routine right before going to sleep. Her mom mostly did the talking. She begged the Virgencita, the beloved virgin, for patience and strength, thanking her for life and having something to eat that day. Following this brief ceremony Bella would tuck Betsy in her own small Hello Kitty bed and kiss her goodnight.

            Mom was always in prayer, a relentless woman of prayer, and earnestly felt that the Virgin was taking care of them. The same part of the couch where her daughter had been studying was now being used by her. Now it was Bella that was directly across from the image of the Lady of Mercy. It was her turn to be under those watchful eyes and commence the two hour study session. She was an autodidact, but simply gave thanks to the heavens above and always brought flowers she’d cut on the way back home from work; yellow daisies, red roses and occasionally magenta baby bottle scrubbers. Bella would stay up a few hours past bed time, studying and reviewing for the Dental Assistant course that she was taking at the local vocational school.

            At the time though, she worked as a housekeeper at one of the old hotels in downtown Los Angeles. She’d been given the job after a neighbor who’d worked there for 15 years had finally found a man and married. The newlywed couple decided to head north and start a new life somewhere in Salem, Oregon. Bella gave thanks to the Virgin for the job, and used some of the money from that first pay check to buy a bouquet of roses, and went to the church she attended and placed them on the altar.

            Life was certainly not easy, especially housekeeping work. She had to clean thirteen rooms in eight hours. She had some help, but it was always frowned upon to call for assistance. Towards the end of the day her back ached from all the bending, leaning and pulling. As soon as she clocked out, the bus would take her back home, where she would pick up her daughter from the next door neighbor, who watched over Betsy for two hours after school. The pain and tiredness was relentless, but she always thanked people and thanked the image that watched over them.

Betsy would have her homework done by the time she was picked up, but she knew that her mom expected nothing but reading and writing at the house. Though it was routine, she found it easy to write in her diary and write on what she’d done that day or write down her dreams and the things that she wanted. She knew that her mom also had a diary, because sometimes her mom would sit on the kitchenette table and write down her own thoughts, her own hopes in a leather bound diary that she’d picked up from a sidewalk peddler.

Her family wasn’t particularly religious, occasionally going to Sunday mass to pray and every so often go to confession. Nevertheless, for Bella, her trip through Mexico a few years back made her a believer. Her hazel eyes had seen people walking on their knees, and crawling towards sanctuaries where the Virgin was housed. Every house that gave shelter and a plate of food had a little sanctuary that honored the Mother of Jesus. The people she crossed paths with gave her a deep impression, helping her along and showing extreme generosity in opening their homes. A sense of spiritual debt to them and to the image of the Eternal Grandmother would weigh on her for a very long time.

When Betsy thought about her mom, she imagined her writing notes to people, a habit that had been acquired by her as well. She’d sneak notes for her teacher to read after lunch, give friends notes of friendship or make drawings, like two kids playing handball. The person who got the onslaught of notes wasn’t her mom though; instead it was the neighbor Margarita, whose refrigerator was riddled with notes that Bella had given her making it look like a multi-colored bird that’d lived ages ago.

            When they weren’t studying they’d be praying, constantly petitioning the Virgin for grace. If it was not thanking something and looking up to heaven, Betsy found that her mom, practically thanked all kinds of people, all the time. She was grateful to Margarita, the neighbor that watched over her, the vato that stood outside the building all day with his hands in his pocket, shaking hands with strangers, and the lady that sold tamales in the morning. As if the powers that be had set everything up so that she would be grateful for her lot in life.

In the weekends they went to a vocational school for three hours. Betsy would take her journal or a coloring book and get lost in her imagination. Her mom on the other hand, sat, took notes, turned in assignments, and asked the instructor a multitude of questions. Mr. Okpara knew she was a single mother working to get bye, so he’d given her permission to have her daughter in the class. Betsy just sat there working on binders that contained her drawings. At times she’d just sit there and listen to Mr. Okpara’s lecture. He, along with the other instructors saw that Bella was different. She had gumption. She had the heart and commitment of a marathon athlete. She wouldn’t stop, instead just kept going. At bed time Bella would think of her parents back home. She wondered how they were doing. She’d left her home at sixteen and had taken the trip north a few years back. They would receive money from her at least once every two months.

You Were

You were

By Armando Ortiz

You were

caramel salt

after our long hike

you were

black licorice

when I smelled those curls

you were

a jolly rancher

cherry kiss

you were

a ripe peach

warm to the touch

in this history of mine

you were

not an illusion

when our cheeks pressed

you were

golden silk

Zigging Road

Zigging Road

By Armando Ortiz

On the splendid heights of dreams, the size of Himalayan Mountains, where you find sacred crystal streams.

Is how I feel when I hear your voice and the words that reach my ears put all frustrations at rest.

But I wonder where these rivers will take me.

Will I meander through gentle ravines and silent valleys where the water glides through the surface of the earth?

Will the journey lead us to violent clashes and tumultuous rapids that slam onto boulders of granite.

This dream turned reality is uncertain and I wonder how much longer am I able to handle the twists and turns of these unknown rivers that become asphalt.

You told me of a deeper good that can be found dwelling in my heart and of the service given to communities.

You were eager to hear my daily battles with youth and told me it was just normal situations in a teacher’s life.

But I feel like I can’t help you, your course of travel has been turbulent and chaotic with an ebb and flow of violence, and how am I to respond to such realities?

I'm there to listen, but can’t stop you from reminiscing about those days.

Uncertainty with the future is a double edge maze.

Do I want to complicate my life with more problems?

Does that plastic water bottle have vodka?

Is that where your fear of loneliness stems?

Should I not care and just enjoy the ride?

Jumping out before the raft sinks to the bottom of rushing waters or right before it flies off a waterfall cliff?

What is love?

What is patience?

Where does kindness lie?

Can it be found under a soothing voice or in the laughter of a mermaids’ pleasure?

Can it be found in my pleadings to cease the drinking?

Cease the mourning?

In many ways you were my rescuer, but I soon found that you too were barely afloat, and disheveled after tempestuous rapids and crazy roads.

A siren swept by the violent waters of a typhoon.

You’ve reached the bottom many times, but have you truly touched the surface of the volcano?

I don’t cry as I did when I let go of your hand at the airport that first time, but there is just an interminable sadness that surrounds me like an aura of uncertainty.

Life is so unstable and with you the ground seemed firm, but what is up ahead and what will we face?

Will you demand your luxurious lifestyle and eat out every day or settle for a common man’s life home cooked meals?

Will you be glad with simple clothes and a gentle warm hand?

I aimed too high and seemed to have fallen to the ground and it appears that whoever I meet is on shaky ground or doesn’t want me around.

I miss you, and love you, and so I think of you, but I have to let go, for your sanity and mine. 

Valley Oak

Valley Oak

By Armando Ortiz

Valley oak tree,

deeply grounded

roots mingling

with barren gully

like a standing pompom

its long branches

block the So Cal heat

soft winds makes one ponder

Unmoving tree

with dark brown skin

having reached

its farthest boundary

Continuing the cycle

with falling acorn

fattening bounty

Deer feeding

and dying in silence

while red tail hawks circle

watching coyotes dancing

Beautiful lady

baked by the sun

standing naked

like an autumn dream

Go to that canyon spring

and there say a sacrament

for something to happen

For you to become her

and I to turn into a mountain