POETRY BY JUAN PEREZ

Juan Manuel Pérez, a Mexican-American poet of indigenous descent and a Poet Laureate for Corpus Christi, Texas (2019-2020), is the author of several books of poetry including Screw the Wall! and Other Brown People Poems (FlowerSong Books, 2020). The award-winning poet, history teacher, and Pushcart Nominee, is also a member of the Horror Writers Association, the Science Fiction Poetry Association, and the Military Writers Society of America. Juan worships his Creator and chases chupacabras in the South Texas Coastal Bend Area.

OCEAN

the ocean is a profound mystery
deep and billowing with much history

the dead rise from fathoms—deep, ocean floors
as if a synchronized signal sounded
currents move wildly with extra vigor
as silent seas give up their soaking dead
bobbing with no ability to swim
waiting for the tide to travel to food
with the brine, some make it to the shoreline
oceans yet latch on to the passing boats
some are caught by unsuspecting fishing nets
there are many terrors riding the seas

the ocean is a profound mystery
populated by death and the undead

MOONWALKERS

time for discoveries in space ended
when a discovery found us instead

it was supposed to help us in the move
from terrestrial earth into the stars

that magic little pill, that miracle
how could spacemen even see it coming

pill’s effect reached pandemic proportions
infected earth could not reverse its course

contamination, impossible thought 
communication, puzzling at best

left on the moon, safest place at the time
until the oxygen and food ran out

the age of all space traveling glimmer
it was glorious for a short moment

SPRING

spring, a time for re-growing and flowers
budding like the blossoms of coming warmth
are the extremities reaching for me
through the four-inch by four-inch wire squares
of the vast fence line of a former farm
stretching as if to touch my inner soul

spring, a time for brand new relationships
to enrapture the next humanity
grabbing as if to grasp understanding
tugging as if to tear away this reality
taking whatever is left fresh in me
gurgling not for air but from eating

spring, a time of continued vigilance
springing into whatever hell this is