home on luis ángel ortega

Green and yellow a light movement toward the left to the rhythm of wind and clouds I have no choice I become grass helpless without warning Our song played our first dance as husband and wife and the weight of the world that was came down on me hollo…

Dried flowers solitude beer haze brown lace body a prayer so as not to drown in their hazel eyes a void in me anguish fear to be lost in their hands only to be left behind Statement This poem came out of a series of exercises in a

Four cubes in a glass — transparent.

six-thirty, the sky splits— pale yellow where the sun falls, blue above my head.

I went out for a walk this morning looking for a tree.

A drywall wall in a new construction, at that hour: a perfect shadow appeared.

A cafe warm in January too loud to think outside in the shadow of buildings a breeze green plastic leaves brown dead leaves the murmur inside music, chatter my ears hot my drink cold I chose cold wanted warm

Beside the busy road through dry grass crossing an empty lot there is a path marked by hundreds of shoes no sidewalks surrounded by cars the asphalt steams under the sun the only way to cross

At the center of the park like many in the city there is a kiosk: sheet metal roof failed Mediterranean architecture colorful paint political images on the metal Castle for children shelter for adolescents shade for adults refuge for poets So universal I

Midday— a clear day, almost warm for winter.

The sun falls behind the sycamore barely enough light— I sit and watch.

Mulberry leaves against the rust sky— each one too bright, spinning Static hum where silence should be electric, unrelenting Reclined in the car seat jaw clenched holding back what wants to rise The taste of metal spreads The only word left: pain

On a corner, a café at the street's edge, under yellow lights, plywood walls fake white brick.

I see you across the table— sprigs of rosemary decorating everyone's drinks, adorning some dishes.

Next to the street gray fingers rise from the ground passing the white wall where some lean Gray, with green lights of porous wood, fragile perhaps— short thorns prevent confirming it, they run along each branch

A yellow and orange crown behind the hills a layer of mist halfway up them — birdsong cold smells of grass gray and blue colors filling my lungs — children cross the park on their way to school —

Always watching you up on the roof, on the lights, following you through the park.

Through my window crowning the hills a thin fog— scent of woodsmoke A gray mantle where blue once reigned silencing everything No rain.

Yesterday while walking I found a bird it was hurt, fallen and helpless— I should have helped it.

Recently I was remembering the famous painter Bob Ross’s program: The Joy of Painting.

For more than two decades, talking about digital transformation in education has become almost mandatory.

Some time ago, I finished Project Hail Mary by Andy Weir, and I felt like writing about it.

This blog has been abandoned for years at this point.

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My short story Titán won third place in the 4th Short Story Contest of the Lasallian Library Network in 2024!

I am thrilled to announce that my works El Templo sin Tiempo (poem) and L05T P03T45 (short story) were featured in the Aventuras de Papel international literary exhibition held in Mar del Plata, Argentina, in 2024.

We could imagine the technologies of the platform on which I work, Build It, as a dish; where Ruby on Rails is our main dish but is accompanied by a good portion of JavaScript through Stimulus JS, and while this brings the functionality and that magical f…

One of the best traits of humankind is its curiosity.

Have you ever spent a week just trying to run the project you just joined?

During this past weekend, I found myself in the middle of a family conversation, where the topic of home office came up.

I am excited to share that my poem Una Cucharadita de Sol was selected as a winner in the Quarantine Poetry: Homemade Poems Competition in 2020!

Today I read a poem by Jaime Sabines, one of his verses said the following: “The best part of school is recess,” says Judit, and I think: when will life give me a break?

There is a recurring feeling in my life.