Other Seasons. Harold J. Recinos
stopped, the six friends popped their eyes open
and dashed to happiness waiting on the other side of
the church front door. despite the raggedy sermon
not one of them felt mortified, the slightest bit lost
or need for Christ’s salvation—maybe next year the
priest will convince them to forget the sinful times
at Palisades Amusement Park and see things,
otherwise.
[The Blue Note]
I liked coming out of the Blue Note
that autumn night with the long slow
walk past people sitting on the slanted
benches of Washington Square Park,
the occasional leaf tumbling down on
the heads of kids riding skateboards,
students marking pages in their books,
the middle-aged chess players focused
on a game, and on the south end of the park
toddlers shrieking with attempted swings on
a jungle gym. I looked up at the night sky
convinced I could reach out to polish the
stars to help them cast more gracious light
on every toiler here. slowly, I made my
way down half-deserted streets trying not
to step on the sidewalk cracks, nearing
home, I prayed for Eden’s distant friends
led astray and looked on all the quiet corners
for stirs of sweet life.
[Yard Sale]
early one morning in front of Leroy’s
ground floor apartment a sidewalk sale
was underway with a baby crib, records, two
chairs, a desk lamp, an old bicycle, worn clothes,
a broken-handle toaster and a checker set. the
Irish lady who put the sale together hoped to
get a little business from the new Puerto Rican
residents pouring out of a storefront church, though
they never heard a Doris Day record, asked what is
checkers, and reserved an entirely different taste in
clothes. Leroy told me his mother hatched the idea
to earn a little money to help pay the rent before the
family lost its roof and had to sleep beneath a street
of stars. I never imagined pale faced poor till then, so
I gathered the Nuyorican shoe shine boys on the block,
told them they best pray up better days for redheaded
Leroy with Saint Patty’s name, then convinced them
to drop a quarter in a cup to buy the life line checker
set. when somebody bought the desk lamp the look
in the Irish mother’s eyes was like an Angel came by
saying do not be afraid you will be paid with scanty
Spanish speaking cash, instead of city dust. on that
day, I swear the multicolored poor on the block
could not have loved each other more with the very
simple kindness the rest of the world did not care
to give.
[Breakfast]
she starts the day listening to the
news in the tiny kitchen of a two
room apartment, the motions of
her hand stirring Oatmeal her kids
will eat for breakfast before walking a
long way to school in the company
of the morning wind. without thinking
about her misery she manages to say a
little pray to the Mother of Peace to
request mercy for the ladies on the
block who look into the faces of their
children every day hoping they will know
years of perfect life. when you look deeply
into her eyes you will find in them something
no one on the block can completely give, a thing
in her that never fades, an ancient presence like
the stones on the empty lot about to speak, the
clouds crowning school children’s heads, or Angel’s
come to earth for play—the simple miracle of love.
[Evening Prayer]
in the wilderness of the soul, God is present.
in human imperfection, God is present.
in the mystery of consciousness, God is present.
in the forgiveness of things, God is present.
in the kind gesture of welcoming love, God is present.
in the simplicity of childish things, God is present.
in the incurable laughter of being, God is present.
in misery turned hope, God is present.
If not here, then nowhere.
[The Return]
I don’t understand a thing about yesterday
though it must be around somewhere the
eye simply cannot see. sometimes I wonder
if it will catch up to me with a strong rain, reach
out from a dim place in the middle of the night insisting
on talking about domestic affairs, or have me simply sit in
a chair to listen to bygone events like they were happening
fresh over again. I don’t understand a thing about the way
yesterday takes on light to appear with missing friends risen
again who slowly walk up a road broadening in my mind where
they meet me like it’s the first time. I don’t understand why
nearly everything swallowed by yesterday is nearly forgotten,
like the six transistor radio that fit in a pocket, the cheap
wine kids drank to ritually spew, the wide-eyed mornings
with rice soup eaten before long walks to the English only
school, the box full of books about other worlds that vanished
into air, and the small good things that