Poema: La Tumba del Príncipe Connell | historias de un embrujo hermoso… surrealistas

por Luis S. González-Acevedo


La Tumba del Príncipe Connell

En aquel bosque mortuorio de tu Isla Esmeralda,
–tú sabes cuál– en la colina con vistas a la pradera,
tus ojos menguantes y anhelante tristeza
serán aliviados por piedras mágicas
que cantan ecos megalíticos por sus grietas.
Allí, tu pasado inmemorial descansará.

El alma de Taína,
las olas de Poseidón cabalgará.
La princesa caribeña montará
con valentía las crestas del mar.

Tumba del Príncipe Connell, Taína por ti vendrá.

–La versión en inglés de La Historia Poética del Amor Feroz y Atlántico de La Princesa Taína y el Príncipe Connell aparecerá en la publicación de mi novela stories of a beautiful haunting… surreal en abril del año 2021–

–Cuando traduzca stories of a beautiful haunting… surreal al español dentro de 2 años, La Historia Poética del Amor Feroz y Atlántico de La Princesa Taína y el Príncipe Connell aparecerá en su publicación, historias de un embrujo hermoso… surrealistas en abril del año 2022–

Poema… ¿qué me inspira?

¿qué me inspira?

–21 de diciembre de 2018–
springfield, ohio, usa

por Luis S. González-Acevedo

los montes isleños ante mi existencia diminuta
de las palmas su sensual meneo
y la noche atlántica ahogando mi arrogancia
el viento caribeño silbando sus secretos entre hojas de guineo
y la nostalgia de su olor vital a la distancia
el sol abrasándome la piel sobre la arena
mientras las olas me sazonan con espuma y sal
el pastelillo de guayaba provocando de saliva un mar
el canto del pitirre despertándome cuando aún la luna coquetea con el cañaveral
y juntos despiden la noche con un cafecito en mi cafetal

¿qué me inspira? será publicado en un libro de poemas e historias en julio 2020–

Poema… matemática racista del presidente #45 de los u.s.a.

matemática racista del presidente #45 de los u.s.a.

–19 de septiembre de 2018–
columbus, ohio, usa

por Luis S. González-Acevedo

“3,000 personas no murieron,”
tuiteó el sr. Intolerante Racista.
odio e idioteces de su corazón brotaron
–con el diablo para la maldad se alista.

sólo “6 a 18 muertos”
¿3,000 muertos? ¡jamás!
tuiteó el presidente inepto, rey de los inexpertos,
bestia de pensamientos retuertos
–en el infierno, se bañará con llamas.

¿cuántos puertorriqueños hacen un humano?
considera su matemática racista:
166.6 –tuiteó el narcisista,
su mentira más grande que un océano.

“cuando 498,000 boricuas mueran,
entonces habrá 3,000 humanos muertos,”
el gran idiota y los suyos piensan.

¿seguirá el necio tan arrogante en su estiércol
cuando ante la justicia quede boquiabierto?

matemática racista del presidente #45 de los u.s.a. será publicado en un libro de poemas e historias en julio 2020–


Story… María’s Island

María’s Island

–May 16, 2018–

by Luis S. González-Acevedo

Anton Cortázar Toledo quivers in front of the urinal, steps back, and pulls on the cold lever. Waters rush down its porcelain back, disturbing the fresh blot of yellow like a cleansing waterfall.

“Boarding for Flight 920 to Orlando will begin shortly. Please have your boarding pass ready.”

Anton moves quickly toward the lavatory. After wetting his hands with lukewarm water, he positions them under the automatic soap dispenser, wets again, and rubs vigorously. The sight of the baptismal liquid washing away the tainted suds intrigues him.

The hand drier starts automatically as his fingers slide steadily back and forth below the vent. “Good as new,” he celebrates under his breath.

“Good afternoon,” says the stranger stepping up to dry his hands.

“Buenas tardes,” Anton replies in native Spanish.

The man leans in a little, as if confused, but eventually smiles and nods.

“Good afternoon,” Anton adds –in English– as he walks away.

As he steps out of the restroom, he can’t help but notice the digital clock with bright numbers on the wall –an acute awareness of time confronts him. Near the gate, passengers continue to line up as Anton moves toward the end of the line.

He greets an approaching American couple with familiar warmth. They glance at him with little interest, saying nothing. Red-cheeked, he moves forward with the line, tugging along his carry-on.

| | |

Anton sits on the floor, next to his luggage. He pulls out a puzzle, a souvenir he picked up near Laguna del Condado. The puzzle conjures the smell of the lagoon’s troubled waters. He carefully selects a piece from the box and lays it over a previously assembled cluster. It seems right, but doesn’t settle perfectly. It’s slightly forced. He scatters the remaining pieces but doesn’t find one that’s more fitting. Given the piece’s shape and colors, it appears to be the only possibility. He presses gently, again, but the cluster doesn’t give naturally. Steam rises from within, and his chest inflates and deflates precipitously. His temples play a soft rhythm.

Groping himself with uncertainty, Anton pulls out a phone from his blazer’s inner pocket. No emails. No texts. No voicemails. The empty inboxes don’t surprise him, but he’s disappointed that he hasn’t heard back on the promotion. He clears his head, refocusing…

The woman standing nearby holds him captive with her mere existence. She sobs delicately. Silently… Her shoulders shimmy.

“She must be dear to someone,” he thinks.

“Someone staying?”

“Someone waiting?”

Her head sinks. His eyes are locked. He studies her meticulously, intensifying the quest for truth. His eyes pause briefly on the tag attached to the oversized bag between her elbow and torso, “María C. Burgos García.” She stands hunched, face drawn to the floor while cupping her mouth and nose with a trembling hand.

María’s breathing hops as she tries to catch her breath between private sobs. These vital moments unfold under Anton’s microscope…

“She’s torn,” he concludes.

“She weighs what she leaves behind against what awaits.”

“Who? What does she leave behind?”

“What? Who claims her in Orlando?”

“Should she stay?”


“Only she knows.”

| | |

“Ladies and gentlemen, boarding for Flight 920 to Orlando has been delayed. Please stand by for further instructions.”

Some passengers scatter about, but María remains rooted. She keeps to herself, eyes fixed on the cinematic images reflected from the waxed floor. Anton sits on the seat closest to his place in line. From there, he witnesses the wet trails coming to life on her face.

Anton’s eyes shift to his phone, not wanting to be too obvious with his observations. He taps a random app and skims quickly through a myriad of senseless posts.

María reignites his interest.

Gazing surreptitiously at her, he thinks: “Go or stay?”

Anton stares pensively at the gate.

“Ladies and gentlemen, we will begin boarding Flight 920 to Orlando.”

Turning away from the gate, his eyes rush down the long white corridor, cleansing his soul as they run. They’re drawn to Avenida Ashford by the lagoon.

His phone chimes. He checks his email:

“From: Stewart, Jack
To: Cortazar-Toledo, Anton; Frustrada, Jane; Mizphits, Jared
Date: Tuesday, September 19, 2017

Anton, Jane, Jared,

I just received news that you have been promoted.

Jack Stewart
Director, Human Resources”

“Stay or go?” he asks himself, as if demanding an answer.

María looks back at him with smiling, brown eyes as she quickly retraces her steps.

“She’s choosing to stay,” he says with amusement and some emotion –his voice breaking. The small crowd nearby stares at him –bewildered.

His breathing settles. He’s relieved and at peace, maybe for the first time in decades. He understands. He understands her… Anton taps [delete].

Tossing his boarding pass into the trash on his way down the corridor, he follows María toward any dreamful possibilities floating in his lagoon.

María’s Island will appear in a future book of poems and stories (release date | July 2020)–


Poem… Citizen, Where Are You?

Citizen, Where Are You?

(translation|modification of ¿Dónde estás Ciudadano, Ciudadana?)

by Luis S. González-Acevedo

Sad is the destiny
of a colonized people,
its soul torn
and ways violated!

Without rights and without voice,
serving like slaves;
without citizens who would dare
–with deeds and not mere words–
to reveal their intentions
and willingness to answer…

By becoming the answer
to the age-old question:
As concerns Puerto Rico,
who will set it free?

Liberty is a right,
a universal foundation,
something that Puerto Rico
has never truly enjoyed.

Political slavery is a cause of sorrows,
brutal and binding
Puerto Rico with self-doubting chains.
National Injustice!

Pedro Albizu Campos and Blanca Canales: patriots of renown.
In a delirious search for freedom,
their spirits call each of us by name
and proclaim: “We’ve come to share our courage!”

–You can find the poem in Caribbean Poet, by Luis S. González-Acevedo or the original version in Spanish in Poemas Caribeños, por Luis S. González-Acevedo–