Voices on the Corner. Harold J. Recinos

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СКАЧАТЬ not stop you from

      resurrecting to guide them.

      daily they come to look

      upon you more certain now

      of the meaning of love and

      the magnificence of the God

      who never left you.

      Games

      I saw children playing

      on the corner wearing

      the smiles old prayers

      often bid for the whole

      block. abuelitas came

      out of tired buildings

      to sit on stoops tying

      unlaced sneakers with

      wrinkled hands made

      before time. they looked

      up smiling at the old

      man with stories that

      cough up on all the

      corners loud enough

      to raise blinds and

      open eyes in all the

      windows. kids who

      think games never

      end made the street

      sing a babble of

      fun that left imprints

      on the crowds on the

      well-kept sidewalks.

      we drew nearer to the

      truth that sabado

      afternoon simply

      to drink it still.

      The Water

      when the city was

      new to me faces

      smiled on all the

      corners, the fire

      hydrants in summer

      opened, kids undid

      cans at each end

      for water games,

      skinny old men ran

      through puddles, bag

      carrying abuelas laughed

      in rainbow vapors, wet

      kids ran to bodegas

      with nickels in hand

      for five cookies, records

      played loud music

      on Saturday, domino

      games were unending,

      girls jumped roped,

      the church bells kept

      time, nights were not

      wounded by fear, we

      believed, loved, lived,

      with such risa, and there

      were no strangers.

      Speak

      I sit and hear

      about the man

      from Guatemala

      shot last week

      by cops who never

      sob about wrong

      doing. I see

      bony children in

      unlit apartments

      neglected, abused,

      desperately crying

      in beaten mothers’

      arms. I hear people

      talk about martyrs, agony

      without end, the death

      of the world, the vain

      cries everywhere, the

      churches unable to see

      and hear beyond their

      sullen Sabbath. I dwell

      on the silence of God.

      The Place

      we have come

      into the church

      after years of death

      lived in a world

      no longer listening

      to God. the incense

      cleanses our wounds

      as flickering candles

      on a crystal moon night

      carry us to you. we sit

      before two sore eyes

      on a saint never suspicious

      of strangers, full of acceptance,

      sleeplessly waiting, and find

      rest. we light candles for those

      turned dusty ash to raise

      them once again from the

      terrible silence.

      The Drowning

      you СКАЧАТЬ