works on luis angel ortega

Without Warning

hey@luisangel.me (Luis Angel Ortega) — Thu, 14 May 2026 16:53:22 +0000

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
hollowness
in my chest
and the feeling
of my soul 
leaving
 
Six.
Control.
Eight.
Breathe.
Six—
 
I clench.
Hard.
It hurts.
I release.
 
A weight.
Goes.
 
The birds fly.
The leaves tremble.
I wish
to become
grass.

Knowingly

hey@luisangel.me (Luis Angel Ortega) — Mon, 04 May 2026 16:27:08 +0000

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 surrealist poetry workshop: paintings, collage, automatic writing. Somewhere in that process something more personal surfaced.

It’s a poem about the rituals we build to protect ourselves, and how sometimes we walk into the fire anyway. The knowing doesn’t make it easier. It just makes it more honest.

Times

hey@luisangel.me (Luis Angel Ortega) — Thu, 19 Mar 2026 17:30:49 +0000

Four cubes
in a glass —
transparent.
Passing.

From the glass
so close
with no way
to reach
the amber horizon
with white crest

Unbidden
a sprig
of chamomile —
the only one
I have received
keeps me company

Dry flowers
stay
with me
drinking
from me

Some day
I will return
to my balance
they will bloom again
and I'll become
my destiny

Statement

This poem came out of a surrealist poetry workshop. The prompt was simple: write from the perspective of a cup of ice with a beer and a sprig of chamomile nearby.

I sat with those objects for a while and somewhere in that stillness the ice started feeling familiar. The longing for something just out of reach, a dry chamomile sprig as unexpected company, and the quiet peace of knowing that change is coming, not as loss, but as return.

The ice knows it’s nothing but a blink of an eye . That’s not the sad part. The sad part is how close the beer is.

Lilac (for Rita)

hey@luisangel.me (Luis Angel Ortega) — Tue, 10 Feb 2026 17:31:16 +0000

six-thirty, 
the sky splits—
pale yellow
where the sun falls, 
blue
above my head. 
The greenest park 
in the city,
tall pines 
that never lose their needles, 
a sycamore
that keeps its bark.
And this lilac, 
alone among so much
that stays,
leafless,
full of seed pods—
yellow-brown,
clustered at the crown
where I cannot reach them.

My grandmother's lilac 
was the center of her patio. 
After she died, 
someone said it brought bad luck. 

They cut it down.

I don't remember when I stopped
seeing lilacs. 
Until recently—
I picked a seed from the ground,
carried it in my pocket
like I did as a boy.

Now I stand 
beneath this tree
without leaves, 
in the greenest park,
looking up 
at what I cannot touch.
The seed pod still in my pocket—
small, 
dry, 
impossible to lose.

January in Poetry

hey@luisangel.me (Luis Angel Ortega) — Sun, 08 Feb 2026 19:30:34 +0000

I went out for a walk this morning looking for a tree. Not just any tree, but one that would tell me something, that would give me permission to write the day’s poem. I’ve done this several times in January, at least once a week, sometimes more. Sometimes I find the tree, sometimes the insects find me, the sky, the air moving through the branches. Chihuahua has become strange to me, or perhaps I’ve become strange in it: now I know where the desert trees are, which ones are in bloom, which ones just endure.

January has been a month of exercise. Not in the poetic, elevated sense of the word, but in the literal sense: something that must be done, a muscle that must be flexed even when I don’t always want to. Some days the poem turns out interesting. Other days it just comes out and that’s it. But it comes out, and that’s what matters in this experiment I imposed on myself without really knowing where it was going.

What I didn’t expect was how much making it public would change things. I publish each poem knowing someone might read it, and that forces me to be more careful, to refine, to ask myself if I really want this out there. I’ve discovered that I have poems saved up, poems I wrote in January but don’t feel ready to share. Not because they’re bad, I don’t know yet, but because they touch something too recent, too raw. They’re private in a way I can’t fully explain. I’m surprised that other poems, on the other hand, cost me nothing to release into the world. I don’t know what that says about me, but there’s something.

Nature became my muse without me consciously deciding it. I suppose that’s what happens when you go out looking for poems regularly: you start paying attention to what’s there, to what was always there but you’d never seen. I’ve fallen in love with trees, with insects, with the sound of wind in the afternoon. I know my city in a new way, more intimately. I know where certain trees grow, how many there are, how common they are. Before, I walked through Chihuahua thinking about other things, listening to podcast or music maybe, now I walk to see.

But beneath the trees and insects there’s something else. There’s a subtext running through many of these poems, a reflection of what’s going on in my mind, personal games that only I fully understand. Some more obvious than others. It’s curious how nature can become metaphor without you intending it, how writing about a tree can be writing about oneself.

I don’t know if these are good poems. Time will tell, I suppose. What I do know is that January taught me something about sustaining a creative commitment, about going out to look even when I don’t feel like it, about making vulnerability public even when it’s uncomfortable. It taught me that poetry can be an exercise and still be genuine, that I can experiment and refine at the same time, that knowing my city is a way of knowing myself.

Now it’s February. The muscle is a bit stronger. The trees are still there, waiting.

Drywall wall

hey@luisangel.me (Luis Angel Ortega) — Thu, 05 Feb 2026 19:32:12 +0000

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

The last worker
saw it with something like devotion
or sadness
for a few extended seconds.

He placed his sanding disc
in the sight of the sun,
then the putty knife behind the disc,
and turned them slowly
to resemble the shadow.

The man believed he was approaching the form
because his adjustments were minimal.

There is no one nearby,
and I still have distance to travel.
I wish I could stay here
until the sun goes down

This is an amazing poem by , another poet from the north of México. Baltazar and I decided to collaborate publishing a poem from each other in our publication so it can reach a new, bigger hopefully, public.

In this work Baltazar approaches the cotidianity of the worksite with the beauty that it may come from nature, the light, or the human-made tools. He reminds us again that the beauty is in the every day, in the moment of now. In all of us and in everywhere.

Make sure to check , Baltazar’s publication for more poems, micro-fictions and non fiction articles!

January

hey@luisangel.me (Luis Angel Ortega) — Tue, 03 Feb 2026 17:31:02 +0000

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

Desire Path

hey@luisangel.me (Luis Angel Ortega) — Thu, 29 Jan 2026 17:30:51 +0000

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

Kiosk

hey@luisangel.me (Luis Angel Ortega) — Thu, 22 Jan 2026 17:30:46 +0000

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 forgot to stop
to remember how important they are

Agave

hey@luisangel.me (Luis Angel Ortega) — Tue, 20 Jan 2026 17:41:19 +0000

Midday—
a clear day,
almost warm for winter.
Under an oak's shade
an agave is rooted.

Pale green in the sun,
dark green in the shade—
yellow stripes, thorns
along each blade.

Tall as I am,
surrounded by dry grass
and untended trees,
an empty park,
the silence of early afternoon.

I approach carelessly—
the thorns cut me.
This neglected park
where everything seems to wither,
but the agave remains.

Blades marked by years,
roots deeper
than the dry grass around it—
as ancient as the oak
that gives it shade.

Sycamore

hey@luisangel.me (Luis Angel Ortega) — Tue, 13 Jan 2026 19:37:53 +0000

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

Its leaves,
yellow and brown, lie
while some green still
cling to branches.

Its brown bark peels
to the left, a white
then cream
to the right, yellow—
anyone can tear off a piece.

Migraine

hey@luisangel.me (Luis Angel Ortega) — Wed, 07 Jan 2026 17:35:46 +0000

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

London Fog

hey@luisangel.me (Luis Angel Ortega) — Mon, 05 Jan 2026 17:35:21 +0000

On a corner,
a café
at the street's edge,
under yellow lights,
plywood walls
fake white brick.
In front of the olive-green chair
sits:
glass straw,
cup full of ice
cold to the touch.

The taste of tea
has been lost
in the cream color
of oat milk.

Lavender and vanilla
upfront, unmistakable,
settle on the sides of the tongue
while Earl Grey hides
at the back of the palate.

Rosemary

hey@luisangel.me (Luis Angel Ortega) — Fri, 02 Jan 2026 17:35:25 +0000

I see you across the table—
sprigs of rosemary
decorating everyone's drinks,
adorning some dishes.
Ever festive,
your unique herbal scent.
Evergreen branches
from some shrub
of unknown origin,
perfuming this night's gathering.

Ocotillo

hey@luisangel.me (Luis Angel Ortega) — Tue, 09 Dec 2025 18:53:21 +0000

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

6:45

hey@luisangel.me (Luis Angel Ortega) — Mon, 08 Dec 2025 23:42:51 +0000

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 —

Roof Shadows

hey@luisangel.me (Luis Angel Ortega) — Sun, 07 Dec 2025 17:07:39 +0000

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

Coming and going
you sing, announce yourself.

Though only from afar
you let me observe you.

Masters of song,
of that blue-black plumage,
fighting for territory
and their own.

At home with you—
wingspan of 30 centimeters,
black eyes
watching over the neighborhood.

First Cold

hey@luisangel.me (Luis Angel Ortega) — Sat, 06 Dec 2025 17:30:51 +0000

Through my window
crowning the hills
a thin fog—
scent of woodsmoke

A gray mantle
where blue once reigned
silencing everything

No rain.
No snow.

Only cold
and my hands against the glass

The Wounded Bird

hey@luisangel.me (Luis Angel Ortega) — Thu, 04 Dec 2025 21:55:45 +0000

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

Cold.
 Fear.
 Death.
I could have spared it that.

I don’t have the courage to return,
I don’t want to see the body,
and know that I could have prevented it—
to change the future

How many things slip by
from having our hands full
our heads crowded
How many could we save?

Titan (Short Story)

hey@luisangel.me (Luis Angel Ortega) — Wed, 24 Apr 2024 15:15:49 -0500

My short story Titán won third place in the 4th Short Story Contest of the Lasallian Library Network in 2024! This story will be part of an upcoming anthology currently in editorial production. I am incredibly honored to have Titán included in this collection, which features outstanding works from talented writers. Stay tuned for the official publication!

El Templo sin Tiempo (poem) and L05T P03T45 (short story)

hey@luisangel.me (Luis Angel Ortega) — Thu, 07 Mar 2024 15:15:49 -0500

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. This event brought together diverse voices in literature, and I am proud to have contributed my work to this celebration of creativity.

Discover them here:

A Teaspoon of Sun (Poem)

hey@luisangel.me (Luis Angel Ortega) — Sat, 19 Sep 2020 15:15:49 -0500

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! This piece was included in the international anthology Quarantine Poetry: 2020 Homemade Poems, where it was translated into English, French, Italian, and Indonesian. This recognition means a lot to me, as it captures a moment of reflection during an unprecedented time.

Get it on payhip.com or on the mirror on this site.