BIO AND NOTE
Zoraida Rivera Morales is a Puerto Rican poet and children’s book writer. She became a teacher and a school counselor and spent many years learning and growing with young people while helping them grow and prepare for college.
Her poetry in English was published in Flare: the Flagler Review and in various anthologies compiled by June Cotner and Nancy Tupper Ling. Ediciones SM, a renown Ibero-American educational publisher has included her poetry and stories in workbooks and textbooks.
La revista Iguana, created by Christianne Meneses Jacobs and now owned by Cricket Media, published her poetry for years. En sentido figurado, an international ezine, has, also, been home for her writing.
She is represented by Amy Thrall Flynn at the Rubin Pfeffer Content Agency and is working to publish her first children’s book.
Twitter handle:
@Z_RiveraMorales
Website: Coming Soon at: zriveramorales.com
A stanza of the poem, “Visita a Río Piedras,” was used, along with parts of other poems, in the presentation of Inconclusa, la precaria realidad boricua, which mixed drama, art, dance, poetry and sign language at the University of Puerto Rico in Rio Piedras. This dramatic piece explored life in Puerto Rico after Hurricane María.
Visita a Río Piedras
Río Piedras,
solitarias encontré tus calles
No tuve que hacerme espacio
en el Paseo de Diego
No escuché música
ni niños llorando-
Solo pasos, silencio.
Río Piedras,
Ya no está el negocio
donde saboreé
mi primer desayuno
de recién casados
y hoy no me animé
a llegar hasta tu plaza.
Sobrevives digiriendo libros.
Tu corazón late,
cada vez que un estudiante
pisa tus calles.
Río Piedras,
entre tus edificios vacíos
y etéreos
andan fantasmas,
reminiscencia de un ayer
de ensueños.
Suspiran desvelados
esperando
que el furor del tren
les devuelva el alma.
Remembranzas de mi padre agricultor
Y te marchaste.
Con tu partida cruel, Dios fue tan bueno.
Te permitió partir como pediste,
solo tres días en cama
y te fuiste.
Aun puedo verte,
las manchas de guineo
en tus pantalones.
Tus mangas largas,
tu sombrero de ala ancha,
tu piel rosada que el sol quemó
en su treque, trabajo por sustento.
Y aún puedo oler
la rica tierra en las bolsitas negras.
Verte agachado sembrando
tus verdes hijos,
hileras de cafetos
que crecían contigo.
Hija,
repetías siempre –
Trabajo es honra
y lo que hagas, hazlo bien
o no lo hagas.
¡Qué remembranza
Oh, padre amado,
tu sonrisa al volver cansado!
¡Qué remembranza,
tu mirada llena de amor
al mirar la tierra
que tu regabas con tu sudor!
Godmother Always
She still smiles when she sees me. I can tell she remembers.
She says my name and looks to see if it’s true she remembers.
With names and faces, she plays Memory. Her names have mixed like dimes
and nickels in a jar. For now, my name is honey on her lips.
While I was away growing in a city where the sun hid and palms didn’t dance,
she sent a card every birthday and every Christmas a photo.
When I returned to my island, the sun and her arms warmed me. She danced.
I had a room to stay while I learned my way at the university.
When I visit we see old shows together. She shares stories of relatives
I barely remember. Laughter fills most.
“One day, I won’t know you,” she worries. “We all forget, sometimes,” I tell her.
“If you forget, for me and you, I will remember.”