Poet of the Month
Every month Moon Tide Press features a different poet to celebrate and bring readership to deserving, diverse voices.
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If you are interested in being featured as a Poet of the Month, or want to nominate a poet, please contact editor@moontidepress.com.
Mauricio Moreno
September 2023
Mauricio Moreno is a 1st generation Colombian-American artist and writer, originally from Elizabeth, New Jersey. He moved to California to fulfill his life mission of being a writer and sharing his and others’ stories to bring readers closer together and heal the world.
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His works have been published in Conchas Y Café, Intercultural Press, Resurrection Press, No Tender Fences, Rigorous and has featured at several open mics throughout Los Angeles. He is currently working on his first novel.
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When he’s not writing, he can be found in Long Beach donning his Hogwarts robes and steampunk goggles, tending to his growing collection of fur babies with his wife.
DELE MI TARJETA
Dele mi tarjeta, pobresito.
The man with the cheap suit handed his sympathy
in the form of a 3x5 business card.
The card had been folded at the edges.
The man with the cheap suit handed me his sympathy
a handout for a poor Lano boy with no future.
The card had been folded at the edges,
his number scribbled illegibly.
A handout for a poor Latino boy with no future.
Standing in line at a conference in college
His number scribbled illegibly
on the contact list for the U.S. Army Reserves.
Standing in line at a conference in college
I met the keynote speaker of The Peruvian Business Association
once on the contact list for the U.S. Army Reserves.
Dele mi tarjeta, pobresito, he commanded his assistant without looking at me.
I ripped the business card in half as I walked away.
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ENDANGERED SPECIES
El colibrí doesn’t care about how fast
your car burns dead animals, or how big
his carbon footprint is. El colibrí
doesn’t worry about the color
of its wings, or whether they’ve lost their sheen,
nor does it chase youth at the bottom
of flower beds, or try to dye its feathers
in chestnut-colored hair color. El colibrí
just worries where he’ll get his next
meal, which pink hibiscus he’ll feast upon,
whether he’ll taste gold or brown at
his beak. El colibrí flaps his wings
at the speed of thoughts, each flutter
the lifespan of a dream. His wingspan
reflects the universe, infinite motion,
a nebula in its breast. El colibíi, only knowing
how to fly and kiss, to soar and hover, can’t
dwell on the past. He doesn’t mourn missed flowers,
or dead leaves on the ground, doesn’t remember
his first kiss or which heliconia tasted sweetest.
El colibrí only knows the smell of home, the
orquídias of Medellín, the kaleidoscope of
home, shades of all spectrums that decorate the
gardens where El colibrí can feast and frolic,
where onlookers who worry about their
canas and arrugas gander at the blissful
ignorance of El colibrí. If he knew the world
was burning, would he still hover and take
his time on this torch ginger flower? Would
his wings still put on a show to the
spectators whose lust for more poisons
the flowerbeds? Would he still inch closer
if he knew how close he was to extinction?