03 Oct

Poetry – 2 Poems by Ricardo Moran

Two Poems by Ricardo Moran

 

One Note

This street has one note.

Its beat
taps on angry tongues.
Its tempo
thuds in cars of glue and tape.
Its chorus of blackbirds
propels overhead.

By day, it drives
tree branches to suicide,
where birds flee
to stunted vistas,
and poppies pull out
their roots
to seek sanctuary
in mediocrity.

By night,
this
one
note
embraces
unlit streets,
ugly liquor stores,
auto shops circled
in barbed wire
of gunfire.

Its churches praise it at 420,
with the body of Christ
in one hand,
and a Twinkie,
in the other.

This street is short on vision,
and long
on
this
one
damn
note.

 

I’ve Lost All My Tread

At the wheel,
the driver has fallen asleep
and I, melt against the passenger seat,
my hand reaching for the ignition key.

Your tongue, your cacophony
of how bad things are,
pushes on the accelerator.

I listen to your dirges grow louder,
whose songs and rhythms
of fear
have San Cristobal scrambling
off the dashboard.

The car swerves
to the far right,
to a cliff,

and this fuckin’ seat belt
won’t release.

The thinning hair
on my head,
these splinters
of tread,
cannot protect me
from the wall
before me.

I tug at the door
jammed, locked
with memories.

My arms cross over
my face.
I shut my eyes.
Then,
silence.

 

_______________
Ricardo Moran
www.ricardomoranwriter.com

Ricardo Moran was one of 12 finalists in the We Need Diverse Books picture book contest in 2017. In 2020, he received the Peter K. Hixson Memorial Award for Poetry. Additionally, he sits on the board of the San Diego Writers Ink, and is also a member of the Nebraska Writers Guild where he often communes with the spirit of Willa Cather at Red Cloud. You can find him at: www.ricardomoranwriter.com

20 Sep

Poetry – 3 Poems by Ricardo Moran

Three Poems by Ricardo Moran

 

When Saturn Came Home

He knew I could no longer live in my skin. My feelings
for the body, for the soul of that boy
forced Saturn to descend from the heavens.

But when Saturn tried to come home
on that June night
he got detained at the border,
rescuing my heart from that boy
who had held it in a Loteria card,
and who, with his eyes closed, had lost it in a wager.

And seeing no other way, Saturn found an opening
in the fence, hid his brilliance,
and tumbled into my backyard.

In his embrace, my face
pressed against his warm chest,
quenching his loneliness
with my tears. He lifted my head,
tending to my broken rings, their ends
had seared the earth,
while his breath deflected the shrill voices
who claimed dominion over the holy cosmos.

His hand reached for my fingers
for he needed me just as much
as I needed him. He hurled parts of his rings
to dance, circle, and protect me
until I could ascend the heavens on my own,
until my skin was no longer alien to me.

And with that, Saturn sat with me in the darkness.
Not letting go, he held me as I sobbed,
so I would not collapse into the earth,
so that my world became mine again.

 

 

Trashy Saint

He approaches the altar
and swipes the chalice
because God has the day off
but miracles still need to happen.

Outside, smoking a joint,
he waits at the curb for his ride,
scowling at businessmen,
scratching his balls.

His stubble is thick,
and he counts the wrinkled bills
won in last night’s bet.
The shadow from his red cap
softens his eye to a muted purple.

His ride cruises up the street.
Cobalt Blue. Heavy rims.
With an airplane engine
thrusting the car up,
like a parishioner
pleading to God.

The scantily clad woman
painted on the hood
as a reminder
that even saints are human.

There are miracles to perform today
that only Freon
and a wrench
can do. What a chalice cannot,
what a prayer
can only pretend to touch.

His fingers release the empty cup,
falling
like a lotto ticket
that no one can use.

 

 

 

Blue Light Special

This flat, heat-soaked town
has a blue light,
that spins in a store.

Perched on a silver pole,
fused to a silver cart,
It looks like it could take me
to the future,
but it just sits there.

And in 1981,
I knew of no one like me
who cringed
when he held hands with a girl.

And I didn’t know
I had the right to say no.

As this blue light turns, it draws shoppers
to trinkets in bins, to stacked bedsheets,
their eyes fixed on plastic utensils.

So, I pick up a pack of men’s briefs
because I was 10
and that’s all there was.

My hand traces the smiling white man.
“Does he like boys?”

Staring at his picture, I wonder,
“How long before
I can leave this place
and smile
in a photo like him?”
Or with him,
holding his hand.

Can I hang on?

Can this spinning blue light
save me until then?

 

_______________
Ricardo Moran
www.ricardomoranwriter.com

Ricardo Moran was one of 12 finalists in the We Need Diverse Books picture book contest in 2017. In 2020, he received the Peter K. Hixson Memorial Award for Poetry. Additionally, he sits on the board of the San Diego Writers Ink, and is also a member of the Nebraska Writers Guild where he often communes with the spirit of Willa Cather at Red Cloud. You can find him at: www.ricardomoranwriter.com