Voices on the Corner. Harold J. Recinos

Voices on the Corner - Harold J. Recinos


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      Voices on the Corner

      Harold J. Recinos

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      Voices on the Corner

      Copyright © 2015 Harold J. Recinos. All rights reserved. Except for brief quotations in critical publications or reviews, no part of this book may be reproduced in any manner without prior written permission from the publisher. Write: Permissions. Wipf and Stock Publishers, 199 W. 8th Ave., Suite 3, Eugene, OR 97401.

      Resource Publications

      An Imprint of Wipf and Stock Publishers

      199 W. 8th Ave., Suite 3

      Eugene, OR 97401

      www.wipfandstock.com

      ISBN 13: 978-1-4982-2902-9

      Manufactured in the U.S.A.

      Acknowledgements

      Grateful acknowledgement is made to Westminster John Knox Press and Abingdon Press in which some of my poems have appeared.

      Excerpted from Jesus Weeps, Published by Abingdon Press (c) 1992.Used by permission. All rights reserved.

      Latino Town

      Been Waiting

       14th Street

      Excerpted from Who Comes in the Name of the Lord? Published by Abingdon Press (c) 1997.Used by permission. All rights reserved.

      Burning in Heaven

      The Witness

      The Crucified

      Excerpted from Good News from the Barrio: Prophetic Witness for the Church (c) 2006. Used by Permission. All rights reserved.

      Suspects

      Games

      The Church

      Piece Work

      Excerpted from Harold J. Recinos and Hugo Magallanes, eds. Jesus in the Hispanic Community: Images of Christ from Theology to Popular Religion (c)2009.

      The Water

      The Kiss

      Speak

      Finally, this book was made possible by support from Perkins School of Theology’s Center for the Study of Latino/a Christianity and Religions, and funds provided by the Henry Luce Foundation.

      King

      the night falls into

      brightly colored light

      that streams down the

      mountain passes, rolls

      along the city streets and

      touches people he never

      knew, while each radiant

      moment turns hate into stone

      with the weight of simple

      words that tell the truth.

      beloved, you the people in

      King’s dream, the sadness in

      his daily gaze, the immense

      travail deeply felt that steered

      his step along a different

      path, must echo now the

      righteous dream. shout

      even in the places you

      cannot reach, scream on

      this road so long ago begun

      the magnificent sound of

      free at last, free at last.

      The Walk

      we came this way before

      afraid of the dark, looking up

      at the stars that know nothing

      of what lies ahead, or a world

      in need of heaven, or the cries

      on all the corners, or the need

      to make truth out of all the

      faulty things that make our

      trembling self. we came this

      way before frightened by the

      falling tears left by people utterly

      against the loud voices that quarrel

      on the sidewalk and drag us into

      their empty pits. we came this way

      before hoping to find light lingering

      some place not yet seen that calls

      us over to it.

      The Cathedral

      they depart the Cathedral

      feeling history not their own,

      touched by the mysterious

      grace that made your church

      a foe of money, military

      and might. each day they

      come to pray for you,

      the pastor who dared

      to speak the long view

      of a new promised land

      in a time of sorrow and

      death. they come to the

      Cathedral to stand even now

      beside you recalling those who

      bathed the earth with blood

      could 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


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