Winter Day: Arbor Day at Honey Badger

Winter Day: Honey Badger

by Armando Ortiz

We sat there on the benches recalling,

Arbor Day in Ann Arbor, like it was yesterday.

Precambrian weather and frozen plains,

Hanukkah aligning with the stars, and

Saturnalia directly following along.

Rompope warmed our hearts, and

hard-sauce calmed the cold, putting it at bay, though

frosty nights took over the long evening, with

Bullring hours that tackled our sleep.

Negligee dreams during those winter days gave way to lights

Rear-ended by morning glory rays of light.

Now mornings are warmed with cups of champurrado

soothing our bodies as the cool chill is pushed aside

and a new day is about to rise.

Thoughts and sketches

Thoughts and Sketches

by Armando Ortiz

1. Anger takes a hold of us all

words of hurt are like waterfall

that hurt you more than the gnaw

that is produced when to them a

truth whose door has been opened ajar.

2. If you are thrown into water infested with jellyfish how will you make it out?

How do you survive an onslaught of stings and make it to the surface, but then how are they removed?

How do you stop the trajectory of a bullet that has been released from the barrel of a shotgun?

3. When you smell a rat, you get out, and fast.

When things are not working out and words

do not match the reality then something must be wrong.

How does attitude affect the outcome in many instances?

How does one create characters that come to life?

4. Waves produce an image that

reminds me of when you slept.

Even sleep can be a pleasure

when peace takes hold of our senses.

5. Rolling hills of endless orange groves

sit idle under the early summer sun.

the citrus scent taps and opens memories

when our youth seemed to last forever.

6. He would make paper airplanes

and from the second floor of the school building

would launch them out and see the planes

slowly sing and glide towards the roof of the cafeteria.

7. Corn shoots emerge from the ground

nourished by the volcanic soil of the land

and tended by dark hands that were dipped

in buckets of light, making them cracked with bones exhausted.

A language sprouted from the earth and conquered by foreign language.

8. Silence in the eyes, and the mind

containing secret memories of things unseen

and told by the outside.

A vessel filled with thoughts and experiences.

The beauty of landscapes misinterpreted and lost in the

soul of a young child replaced with modern words

and linear worlds.

9. Rats devour the spirit

and gnaw on the soul.

Rodents run around hallways

searching for prey.

10. Exponential experiences end up expanding

our elemental minds.

Intention transfers over to the over.

11. The imprint of out mother

appears through the air

a thin veil cover her hair,

revealing her pink lips.

12. truth is released through the final exhale of life.

13. Turtle island is where we live

and with every war the shell gets

brittle.

13. Natural and man-made

artifacts alone are just objects.

We imbued things with the energies

that radiate from within.

the human condition,

hard to contain and impossible to

Decipher.

Drifting Swifts: Hirundinidae of the Mind

Drifting Swallows: Hirundinidae of the Mind

By Armando Ortiz

If I were to choose a bird to become, then a migrating swift would be the choice. They shoot through the air, as I climb the Baldwin Hills State Park dirt trail that brings back scenes of things I once saw. These passerine birds travel and wander from north to south during winter, spring, and fall moving according to natures’ cycle of seasons, making one wonder where we fit in this enormous circle of life.

I see Hirundinidae travel high across the lavender sage sky, towards the eastern horizon that’s splashed with hibiscus. Flying, flapping its wings, like the hands of a gypsy belly dancer, a silhouette of black hands swaying in midair, swirling like the martins I saw in China; gliding and diving fast, inches above the edge of hills and slopes, centimeters from the surface of Weiming Lake, catching food, and eating tiny insects. Making Buddhist hand poses that pass me bye, and become the hands of Chinese sword dancers- invisible limbs gliding toward unknown trajectories, manipulating themselves and maneuvering toward their destination.

All I do is hike along the trail on this barren Los Angeles hill, where wild grass has turned golden, and diving birds that brush their breast against the long narrow leaves with pointed beak to the heavens. Ivory belly cliff swallows with rust colored throats, like a four fingered hand making a W that slashes the edges of the dried desert grass, manicuring the mounds, and wicking away tiny locusts that jump out of the bristles of golden wheat. Starting from some imaginary peak above the highest point of the hill, and freely letting gravity take hold- like a roller coaster that goes down that steep fall, stomach touching your throat. Diving into a dense fog of humanity with feathers being at its control, and nimbly swimming through the wind like Kamikaze divers. Swerving down a winding road like a wild skateboarder, in absolute control of its moves. Yet all that moves are my legs that fight against gravity with every rise and push of the knee.

They continue to pass me bye, flapping, scissor shaped bodies that cut the onshore breeze that moves east as the sun slumbers down the horizon. The silhouette of these migratory birds, black against the red coral sky, dancing in the air and ceremoniously waving at the sun as it sinks down, becoming shadow puppets that are alive, saying goodbye to day-time. But there is more to be told, because on a trip to the Northwest, it was blue martins and green swallows that I saw. Glimmering martins clothed in lapis lazuli that kept circling around me as I walked toward Jimi Hendrix’s grave. I even had the chance to record this very miracle, where royal purple was the main color of the flowers growing along the edge of his memorial, and strokes of shimmering indigo were the birds that flew around the granite pillars, performing a midday light show welcoming this southern visitor.

Along that same trip, I saw smaller versions of these swallows, but green was their garb, a green that was closer to emerald or maybe metallic green, but not as deep and dark as a quetzal- a shimmering green. They probably spend their time diving between the plateaus of Oregon and Washington on the wide Columbia River gorge. Sidewinding like a roller coaster through the air, free to move anywhere opposite to where the summer winds go, and maybe occasionally swooping down to get a sip of water. I’ve only advanced a few feet, trudging up the hill slowly reaching the top, to see the skyline, and these migratory birds compel my mind, involuntarily springing forth memories that become one endless connection between past and present. These tree swallows are quite a wonder making you think if it’s bad to be envious of such a wanderer. If even for a second I could be- then I’d tilt my wings on an angle and let the force of the wind take me up, drifting with the jet streams of time, and then, maybe then, I’d reach the top of the highest mountain.

Rolling: Short Piece

Rolling

By Armando Ortiz

A ball bounced and floated like a soap bubble,

yellow as the bright sun was the tumbling sphere,

along a path it randomly made on the golden grass,

Behind it was a child of three that trailed behind,

zigzagging with every fragile step and ecstatic laughter

moving like the tumbleweed that rolls along the desert wild.