
Maritza Rivera
Maritza Rivera wrote of my personal loss and of my heart: “MAY ALL THE PIECES FIND EACH OTHER.” This is a true poet – not merely a public poet -- one who is always a poet, in daily practice, within arm’s reach. On the page, she creates her own history from our national/cultural histories. Her view is egalitarian, and she makes a sharp argument for human rights while creating unexpected pleasures through the excellence of her writing. – Grace Cavalieri
Maritza Rivera is a Puerto Rican poet and Army veteran who has lived in Rockville, MD since 1994. Maritza has been writing poetry for over 40 years, is the creator of a short form of poetry called Blackjack and has been published in literary magazines, anthologies and online publications. She founded the weekly Mariposa Poetry Series, which ran “twelve poet years” from September 1999 to October 2002 in College Park, MD.
Maritza is the author of About You, a collection of poetry “for women and the men they love”; A Mother’s War, written during her son’s two tours in Iraq; Baker’s Dozen, a limited edition in the Brazilian Cordel tradition created for the 2013 Seeing Food art exhibit at the Kramer Gallery in Silver Spring, MD and Twenty-One: Blackjack Poems. Maritza is a contributor to Poets Responding to SB1070; hosts the annual Mariposa Poetry Retreat at the Capital Retreat Center in Waynesboro, PA; and was the recipient of a 2012 BID International Writing Fellowship in Bahia, Brazil.
An Hour in Rock Creek
Water is a much better
measure of time
flowing, bubbling, creating ripples
pooling into sandbar memories
some worth keeping
holding dear.
Mallards float
alongside each other
effortless as leaves.
The iridescent head and neck
of the male ahead; the plain, tawny
female following behind.
Except for the runners and cyclists
who push themselves farther
nothing is forced here
by the creek.
No amount of wanting you
changes that.
Mack Attack
Driving to work again
between two Mack trucks
I imagine brakes failing
and the little morsel of a car
I drive being squished like cheese
between a red dump truck in front,
a blue cement truck behind.
I watched every season
of Six Feet Under and never once
did anyone meet their end this way.
Wouldn’t Alan Ball
and his staff of creatively morbid writers
have thought of this possible beginning?
So why then is the road
littered with traffic, tire treads,
industrial sized trash cans
and now two Mack trucks
trying to kill me?
Mi Nombre
It's been so long
since I've heard my name
said the way it was intended.
With short round vowels
vocales full of sound
sonidos full of flavor
and r's that roll
some farther than others.
With solemn hellos
that ask for bendiciones
blessings from the elders;
and boisterous goodbyes
from too many children
primos, nietos and neighbors
(vecinos, grandchildren and cousins).
Our names play tag together
fly kites in El Morro, hike the Forest
of Clouds slide down waterfalls in El Yunque.
They tell the story of our ancestors
identify their towns, villages
and familiar landmarks.
Maritza Rivera Rosario
Torres Méndez Sánchez
Ayala Zayas Cruz
My parents
grandparents
great-grandparents
Stopped at the checkpoint
where they ask my name.
Newtown's Law
Mourning the death
of officials is mandatory
in North Korea.
Not displaying the right amount
of sorrow is punishable by law.
Things are different here.
No mandate is necessary
where the slaughter
of children is concerned.
We have so many dead.
When whole neighborhoods grieve
there are sufficient tears.
Thirteen
Of all the chores I did as a child
the one I hated most was hanging laundry.
Clotheslines, clothespins
a basket of wet tee shirts
towels and bed linens:
my arch enemies.
I saw nothing wrong
with tossing them all
into the dryer and letting them
tumble into submission
but my grandmother
would not have it.
Why waste the warmth of the sun
she knowingly asked. Smell the tropical
breeze in the sheets she’d proclaim.
I would say she had a point
except for the sudden downpour
that always happened once everything
was carefully hung and almost dried.
Here I am many years later
seeing food in words that hang
like laundry
savoring them
and so many memories.
Gracias, Abuela
for such a delicious chore!
© Maritza Rivera, all rights reserved