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Best Poems Written by Greg Jr Torres

Below are the all-time best Greg Jr Torres poems as chosen by PoetrySoup members

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Recourse

Recourse

The old man bends his   
knees- 
to the graveyard of 
speech.
His barren stretched arms  
raise up. 
Orates the last 
of his unpronounced 
plea, 
for a piece of sky,
for a grip of dust.
Unresolved. 

Like that of a master 
and his beast 
unwilling 
to pull the bondage 
of labour and grin. 
The latter's breath 
of unspelled words 
reveals a stealth 
of cracked soil, 
a labyrinth of deep  
and shallow wounds- 
of the earth. Touch-
me-not grows 
and blooms and suckles 
from these breasts of hardened 
inaudible numbness. 

The quiet morning  dew, 
splinters over the barrow
a thousand bits, a handful of stain.
Gone is the deafening 
first flight 
of light, salvages, salvages-
a gentle sigh, the slightest 
of touch, 
from an old and cunning 
man, to the silhoutte of  
scorched earth; an impasse  
between the obvious 
and the pale.

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Haiku 3

i
   edge of a hill
   spring

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Leak

L	  E	   A	    K

                   And
	      you  fixed
              its    shaft
 for  how   many  times  now?
Would   this   be    the    last?
                   	     
                          Sedating me
		          with       that

			        

                                 old
		              familiar
                  	    distinctive
		        tread             of 
	                your    absence,
		         a               tear
		            escaped.

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Euclid's Fifth

Euclid's Fifth

i. In Motion

It was your pale glance, like a 
frame frozen for a second and then 
unfreezes, the cold moist from 
melting, biting my thoughts of 
breaking into your ice-walled 
dullness. Tonight the frigid span 
of time, muteness, between the 
divorce of time and space, thaws 
folds and creases of the ice-cold 
pause of a scene. While like a 
half-frozen mime reflected from a 
broken reel, scratchy, fallacious 
and recurring, creeps upon its 
numbed screen, my rigid, 
frostbitten flesh.

ii. On Parallelism

Suckled in the wounds of regret, 
better that all these fruits fall, the 
green ones no more, bitter 
to taste, unripened and dictated to 
full, proving you are closest to me, 
better that all these fruits fall, than 
to pluck them, flick through under 
tremulous limbs, with glimpse, with 
crave quickening each pauses, I'll 
point at them falling, slow and one 
at a time.

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The Flamenco Dancer and the Bull

The Flamenco Dancer and The Bull

The acoustics of your snuffle
 is an absolution 
of a descending staccato 
in an E chord.
Behold, my lancing third, 
an urgency to trick you 
with my jalapeño-colored capote,
to mask the stains of your blood 
as it oozes,  while I thrust 
these Romani banderillas 
in your neck.
Tease me with impulsive pretence
of your Berber-like invincibility,
while I magnify 
your monotonous habits,
triggering the sequel
with the mutiny of these senses
in a most soulful manner.
Beware, my gitano-inspired estoque, 
hidden and within a rhythmic beat cycle
in sync with a Moorish chant,
while my arms obliquely stretched
plunging to your bosom, 
as I dare to move my hips 
in a sultry fashion, to anchor it 
in your Andalusian-unceasing being,
Oh! My Iberian-bred tragedy,
consummating my tableau
with your immortal inexistence.

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And I Will Till the Soil Triumphant

And I Will Till the Soil Triumphant

And it came with the rain,
A golden plough soaked in Nectar
		Till the soil, the cracks of the soil,
		Till the soil, let us pull the dead roots loose.

Are there, am too- let us tear each other's rags,
You lost once, twice- left an open scar,
		Bled until no more blood to dry,
		The scorched earth has more to yield.

Were there, was too- we were but torn pieces of sweat,
You lost the war under our feet and met the Temptress,
		Hail! Your crushed bones and teeth and Seed.
		Unhealed wound of parched land seems deathless. 
		 
Am triumphant, are not- and will till the soil I have,
I will harvest the bloom of the soil- the good earth, 
		I will pluck the full fruit now or never,
		And it was your thirst for the rain.

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Haiku 2

Love is
sweet   Like honey    So are
		             your lips

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Amidst the Blue

Amidst the Blue

Blue is the sea. 
Like your eyes 
stealing glances at 
me. As rough 
whenever a frown go 
ashore between the 
expanse and an open 
space, within the 
bounds of your most 
hidden ire. And as 
turbulent like 
thoughts of being 
alone above water. 
Your waves, carried me 
away from you, away 
from the ripples 
which connect me to 
you. I'll marry the 
sea. I'll tie your 
edgeless 
extremeties around my 
waist and never 
look down to the 
depths. Too scared 
to submerge for I 
might loose sight 
of you. Only your 
fickle surface keeps 
me afloat now, 
just enough to 
realize that the 
sky is also as blue 
as you.

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Erratum

Erratum

Dedicated to the women and children at war.

Room unlit, sshe graps the 
         familiarityy in blackness, 
                    as herr eyes slowly adapt to 
             reach the siill and peek out the window, 
                        the daark is deeper outside, the 
                      thin glass betweenn her and the dark got 
                                             thickeer, awaits the falling ash 
                                    from a mill neearby, begins counting, starts with an odd for 
                                  her lips got tiredd of murmuring 
                      even, her pace becomes fasster and faster, digits piling up followed by
                   three dots and a flatline, can't hhold of it much steps backward, 
                                            found the edge of thee bed, and lets the weight of 
                her body fall flat on the mattress, delliberately and intensed, still her 
                               eyes fixed at the window, the "ppouring" halted, the ashes  

from where it fell gather turned flesh, rises and 
clings at the pane like silhouette of hands, 
big and small, like footsteps imprinted on 
grey slates that in one stroke will return to ash, 
thoughts begin to baffle her, 
where are they going now?

Details | Greg Jr Torres Poem

Shapes

Shapes

Different shapes were 
stick on the wall. All 
made from paper, though the 
powdery texture will make 
you wonder if they were 
plasters. Circles inside 
the squares. Triangles 
linked to form chains. You 
sat at the couch. Waiting 
for your turn. The lady 
receptionist near the 
window gave you a frown. 
The magazines, untouched, 
transforms long wait to 
boredom. The people in line 
are chained with a 
monotonous ticking of the 
clock. Some took a nap. 
Some just stared blank. You 
joined them half-way. You 
neither asleep nor awake, 
caught between the gaps of 
the distant wall. You 
talking to yourself, or a 
daydream, as a race from 
start to finish, delays, 
pit stops, and advances, a 
loud horn from a nearby 
alley and someone breaking 
glasses from the other 
room, closing in, noise 
echoing from walls, 
ceilings, like a second-
hand smoke, as if to tell 
you that not all diseases 
are self-inflicted, you 
with your left hand hidden 
in your pocket. All you can 
do is to glance at the 
wall, examine the shapes, 
draw them with your 
fingers, repeatedly, until 
the last one.