Word Simple. Harold J. Recinos

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СКАЧАТЬ putting up

      the fancy neighborhood mansions,

      the wounded who sob emptying

      the rubbish bins in the offices that

      make this country rich, the children

      who long for their deported parents

      from unimaginable depths are like

      you in the settling night searching

      simply for a place to call sweet, sweet

      home. in the ordinary days when you

      cannot find time to listen to the words

      shouting of another world, when you

      turn away from dark hands that offer to

      set you free, in the silences across

      this earth, the revelations of detested

      refugees, remember these lives and

      all their other tongues more than the

      management’s present inhumanity.

      Say

      the children

      cry justice

      beneath

      heaven’s

      dimming light,

      a thing in

      cruelty past

      so many did

      see. the older

      generation with

      near forgotten

      dreams reaches

      with the darkest

      hands

      for signs

      that read

      Lord of Mercy,

      tell these

      people

      full of

      hate, America,

      the beautiful,

      so beautiful

      too with me.

      The Place

      they read the English clocks made

      in China, always go to work on time,

      play the lottery for a big hit, never complain

      of a thing, walk the unknown streets, send their

      kids to schools offering books with a hundred pages

      missing, bury their dead in cheap wood with grief

      fixed to their wrinkled faces, breathe the angry air

      telling them how to misspell their names, live to

      see poverty abounding from generation to the

      next, know hunger, illness, fatigue, work that keeps

      them close to death, and listen to the devilish cries

      of hate that surrounds them in a forgotten place so

      carefully slighted by all your Gods. they lean into

      the light of day, stand in the quiet of night, kneel

      in prayer in sparsely furnished rooms, talk

      with ghostly listeners, and wait for an answer to

      their cries from a world unwilling to deliver even

      a hint of slanting light. when the children ask what

      dreams will come for them, what will you whisper

      into their beautiful innocent ears?

      Night

      every night she sat

      at the kitchen table

      eating bread, her old age

      telling me not to close

      the door, and listen to her

      closely for truth. she was

      like a book checked out of

      an old library before my eyes

      with a soul deeper than a

      city beggar’s cup. we sat

      quietly at the table listening

      to the wind howl outside the

      window, the radiator talking in

      the cold space like it was reading

      a Charles Dickens’ novel. then,

      in silence beyond help, the elderly

      woman told me she dreamed her

      teen son alive again in the apartment

      saying to her, “mother.” I remember

      that night so clearly, we looked at old

      photographs that adored hearing her

      speak, images frozen in time, with

      sounds of crying and laughter roaming

      in the old ladies heart. that night, I

      pleaded to God above let this woman

      know sweet love and everlasting

      peace.

      Old Revolutionaries

      there is a place for times like this

      where old revolutionaries thought

      gone still gather to talk about how

      they overcame persecuting days in

      another country. for decades they

      have СКАЧАТЬ