Word Simple. Harold J. Recinos

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СКАЧАТЬ dream to glimpse. in more

      than a thousand ways your brittle

      bones want to shout all around

      I live glorious in interior might,

      with soul too deep for sight, and

      drenched with the blessings of

      falling stars. I promise, whenever

      you gaze upward, I too will take a

      a look at the great mystery always

      making your wrinkled face smile

      without end.

      Unshaken

      we are not

      shaken no

      matter how the

      day is

      split in two by

      raids conducted

      in the name of

      the pathetic vanity

      of a White House

      that goes to

      lengthy ends

      to convince us all to

      hate.

      the liberating light

      coming from

      above

      does even now

      lift the threatening

      grime tossed from

      the filthy lips

      souring our State

      rooms.

      we are not shaken

      by the senile

      blame,

      the scolding that

      roams

      along the Southern border,

      echoes in our

      homes,

      and

      bounces against

      open

      church doors.

      we are not shaken,

      by all the curses

      the men of

      single breed

      conceive to

      sire everything

      unwanted by

      America’s most

      deep-hearted

      dream.

      Cold Day

      the first cold days in the early

      morning hinting winter, leaves

      twirling around in the chilly air,

      the sun now a cool distant friend,

      a walk in the woods not knowing

      the names of trees, down a winding

      path where there are no questions, to

      places never seen, birds that will show

      up tonight to rest on the city lampposts

      performing gracious flight and wordless

      songs. a bark far off on the other side of

      the woods for no reason breaks the silence

      like the blades of grass pushing up without

      warning on cracked sidewalks. the time

      of day no longer matters, the name of things

      a reminisced convention, inhaling with each

      step the scent of the air, reaching the banks

      of the slow river, resting with no regret in

      the company of the tide that gently scratches

      its back on the shore—a lumbering truth waits

      here!

      Believe

      there

      is a land of

      make believe

      in a place

      not everyone

      can fit,

      where

      you never sleep,

      and time is ever so

      slowly

      spent dreaming

      of things.

      everyone

      who visits it

      comes back

      to the block full

      of all kinds of tales

      like Angels surrounded

      by the universe

      squeezed into a field

      made from crown-rimmed

      bottle caps, and

      raised Lazarus

      doing Simpson Street

      raps to put

      listeners in love

      with

      God.

      people,

      talk there

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