Word Simple. Harold J. Recinos

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СКАЧАТЬ held petty-wage jobs longer

      it seemed than her bitter life in a

      country that only called her spic.

      my old man died a veteran of

      a foreign war for a country never

      home, freedom not ever his, and

      that fine White House not taking

      calls now from people with dark

      skin. my old mother died nearly

      alone in a convalescent home, crying

      the nurses said every night to get

      hell out, hearing the scratchy

      sounds of her first born son laid

      for final rest too young in a Staten

      Island grave, alone. I see them

      clearly in my slice of the world,

      pray forgiveness for cursing them,

      plead their cause present in the faces

      of new immigrants, terrified refugees,

      Black, Red, Yellow and poor White

      lives. they told me one day a long box

      would fall out of heaven to collect people

      full of hate who dance around lynching

      trees—I promised to do my part to hasten

      the drop!

      Salsa Night

      in the café the salsa band

      charms the crowd, the eyes

      are on the little man running

      his stubby fingers over the keys

      of an upright piano, trombones

      slide notes to the corners of the

      room, two trumpets have a long

      conversation with the congas still

      showing a tiny overlooked price

      tag dangling from a lug, and at a

      table next to the bass player sit a pious

      looking couple ready to write Psalms

      on the dance floor. life everywhere

      in the club can easily be seen through

      the window facing the street, felt by

      aching souls, bleeding feet, colorless

      dreams, and the spinning high places

      never seen. in the café the salsa players

      offer oil for childish days, harmonies

      that set us free, and songs that make us

      glad to weep—come and see!

      The Future

      the future is the long sidewalk

      with grandmothers pulling simple

      wheeled grocery carts, kids playing

      on the street, single mothers disappearing

      in church, and Nuyorican youth trying

      hard to please the old Irish priest’s God.

      the future is quietly kneeling in the dark,

      praying for fathers to hold their liquor each

      Friday night, waking up for another day of

      school, and leaving the classroom not saying

      that sucked. the future is reaching for the

      ones who are gone like a miracle crawling

      from the flower garden on the empty lot

      of the block with its own procession of

      house birds. the future is a matter

      of Spanish shouting in tongues, Angels

      loudly clapping, time without so much

      public strife, and the precious browning

      of these streets. the future in a drop of

      light, shows our lovely colored faces

      on this block where nations meet—so I’ll

      sit a little longer on this stoop watching

      a new world spinning into shape.

      Passages

      one by one the memories

      stored the length of many

      years rise in unexpected

      places to walk you back in

      time and help you feel the

      sustaining mystery of each

      simple day. you laugh alone

      on a favorite park bench lost

      in dreamy things in a body

      pushing an age each week

      more tattered than the favorite

      book you carry to page in the

      caressing wind. you look up

      at the heavens wondering what

      the sky looked like the day you

      were born, who told stories of

      the distant moon and stars, the

      feeling of that first night with

      breath. you recall playing on

      the streets, the first time you

      delighted touching brown earth,

      and seeing childish things you

      still СКАЧАТЬ