I once went to a poetry reading
At a café shop in old San Juan.
A tuesday night i believe,
The tourists, like cattle,
Down their cruise ship ramps,
And into the cobblestone streets;
White, bloated stomachs, burnt skin,
In their sandals and Hawaiian shirts,
Or sandals and short skirts, short pants,
Invaded the capital city streets.
The sun was setting.
They were still out and hungry for more
As tourists are for sights, and they'd stop
In the plazas where the pigeons play,
And they'd yell to their misbehaving kids,
And to "look at that!" at their uninterested teens
Who text and text and chew gum non-stop.
So there it was, the café, a quaint little place,
With coffee and pastries fresh and a shop
On the side specializing in art and poetry objects,
And a in the back a space with a set tiny stage
Where poets come and bard and have a drink
And discuss their affairs in the most
Pretentious way that is only possible to
Be achieved by poets, that air of superiority.
A man in a beret and a black shirt and jeans
Was the first to go and he read about
The flowers and the rivers and the beauty
Of this, our land, in a way that wasn't true,
In a poetic way, and then after applause
Another went on, wine red hoodie, jeans,
Young and unkempt and he read about
The Americans and their imperial ways
And about patriotism and independence
And dreams that us young kids feel,
The need to rebel against our oppressors
Because our spirits have not been beaten yet
By the disappointments reached through a
Lifetime of political wrath and corruption
And propaganda and all sorts of things,
The young poet received a great ovation,
Writers here have strong spirits and
Even the elder ones still believe in the cause.
Some Americans, a few europeans
(a Spanish couple and a ****** face German),
Had gone in the shop, probably for a drink
But stayed for the poetry, and they stood,
With uneasy faces that, even if they didn't
Understand the words, they felt
The vibrations of their meaning,
And it was wonderful, and i was glad,
Know the truth and that the cause isn't dead,
It simply crawls in backs of shops,
It hangs with the young people,
And one day it'll explode,
One day the people will awaken
And get rid of these demons.
This time a poetess came up,
And she read in English a rhyme;
While she gave her show some teenagers
And their parents, Americans,
Texans by their accents, began talking,
Interrupting the reading, and the blonde
Woman reading the poem stopped and struggled,
Until at last she said "be quiet, gringos."
In a voice that was strangely soothing,
And the americans scoffed and silent they were,
And she finished her reading and got off the stage
And sat her purple t-shirt, skirt, dressed self
Near the people she'd just told to settle down,
Grinning. I don't remember what her poem was about,
I only remember her action, it was one
That served as reminder to everyone there
That this is our land and not theirs, that we make the rules
And the outsiders should be the ones respecting them,
Not the other way around, that the fight should continue.
I left the cool café and walked into the humid streets,
The moon above San Juan and the bay,
And El Morro
And La Perla
And Capitolio
And the bums and the dogs and cats
and the tourists and all of us;
The proud city, centuries old, that holds a prison
Were our poets and our fighters  and thinkers
were once held,
And i thought: The dream is still alive.

When my father died
For the third time,
He left behind a backpack

It was dusty and black in the back
Of my mother’s black trunk
It stunk
Of cigarettes, desperation,and neglect
For weeks I had stared at it
Not daring to touch it
Not daring to feel his absence

But today was no ordinary day
Today I felt brave
Today I picked up that old backpack, opened it, and reached inside
My hands stumbled on: old papers,
Wrinkled and adorned with coffee stains,
A rusty kitchen knife,
An unopened package of red pills

I searched and searched that old, dusty, sack—
My eyes skimmed over the  scribble scrabble written upon the papers
My fingertips ran across the dirt-caked
T-shirts
I searched and searched that old, dusty sack
for an “I love her”
for an “I’m sorry”
for a “I tried to call her back”

But I found in that old sack
Useless items that don’t love me back

I looked at that sack,
and it looked at me back,
And I tossed that old sack
without looking back
Cause’ neither did he.

A poet is a poet is a poet.

Philip is the name I use
Oliver is my family name
Especially on my passport
True my passport should say Poet

I like to think I am one.
So I write a poem every day

A poet is a poet is a poet

Poetic license I like to take
Occasionally when I need to
Especially when I talk in metaphors
Twitter -pated . Tongue -twisted metaphors

Introducing the art of the Acrostic Poem
Simply using the phrase vertically to trigger

A poet is a poet is a poet

Poets need to die to become well read.
Only the lucky ones ever get published
Even John Keats wasn’t recognised in life
Trick is to keep on writing for all your worth.