Word Simple. Harold J. Recinos
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 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
with lips that never
move but
you can plainly
hear them, and
they swear
the poor are
never
overlooked
and
all the
Spanish speaking
junkies are
cured.
The Wall
there
was a time in
history
that never
loved a wall,
the fear
that builds
it tall,
the gloom
it so pretends,
the weeping
on the other side
unheard by those
who sleep.
there
was a time in
history