Word Simple. Harold J. Recinos

Word Simple - Harold J. Recinos


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      that could not

      tolerate the hand-made

      bricks laid on quiet

      earth

      convening

      mindless hate

      that falls like

      hail from the

      darkest sky

      to make compassion

      bleed.

      there

      was a time in

      history

      that dared not

      imagine

      the border

      snapped shut

      by a president

      who never groaned

      with guilt for

      God.

      there

      was a time in

      history

      that

      rejected all

      goose-stepping

      dreams.

      rejoice,

      there

      will be a time

      when

      heaven’s

      trumpets will

      sound

      to tumble

      the wall

      and

      the fool

      of all these

      thing.

      Been Gone

      spent a whole lot of years gone

      from here, disappeared in a pale

      world that never gave a welcome

      mat to people like me, and out

      of pure spite leveled point-blank

      hate my way. walked in too many

      places that turned from created human

      beings that wanted to secure sinister

      damnation for the brown skinned poor,

      lowly, excluded, left out and fucked up.

      knocked on a whole lot of doors never

      opened, lived the innocent years pursued

      by unmentionable fear, the relentless odor

      of death, and condemning threats from a white

      world with dark seeping in its heart. closed

      my eyes with every step, lined up in a few

      special places for bread, listened to the old

      women on the block with shrinking spines

      tell me don’t give up, and carried the kindness

      of Julia, Sonia, Joseph, Rudy, Tito, Carmen,

      Tony, Shorty and Lefty now become

      names on a block wall. spent a whole lot of

      years gone from here, never forgetting to

      scream for the tiny bones we buried and

      the people the world refuses to see that

      are so sweetly mine!

      Follow Me

      if you would walk with me

      down this wide street into

      another world, the people who

      know how to prowl in the darkness,

      who speak outright in the daylight,

      and take God with them, will greet

      you with smiles bright like flames. you’ll

      be surprised to know they have been

      looking for you, since the night an

      old Brown lady yelled in the storefront

      church on the corner gloria a Dios change

      is coming, soon. if you like, we can stop

      in to see this old woman who knows how

      to pull apart the gods people have carefully

      made, she will listen to the stories you

      care to conjure, and then she will tell you

      to face the closed door her children have

      pounded for years. if you walk with me

      a little further, to the bodega where the old

      men once soldiers sit, you will discover from

      them the stains on our democracy were

      made with blood and all kinds of colored

      skin. you may be surprised, by the close

      of this stroll beneath the fat moon, you

      may end up talking with new depth

      into our light and dreams.

      Rising Up

      quietly,

      I sat in the rising

      light of this day absorbed

      by news of a new president

      who hardly gives a thought

      to a future of peace, the people

      who sing their children to sleep in

      Spanish, the blameless refugees who

      recall with prayer the God who lives

      in the Middle East, the shouting eyes

      of women marching the streets, and

      the Black lives rising up to chase away

      darkness from every side.

      quietly,

      I listened to the chirping birds around me

      say in their very gentle ways, the great

      Maker filled the lot of us with life to rob

      the moron in power a lengthy Oval Office

      stay, their songs filled me with the most

      peculiar joy for in the faces of all those the

      bellicose leader scorns with his indecorous

      rhetoric of hate the richer light of the One

      crowned with thorns staggers from the dark

      to make a loving case.

      quietly,

      I recollected while pushing hope into the

      tormented day, the new White House clay

      will one day also turn to dust, have to reckon

      with the angry breathe of God, and wonder

      on the road to Peter’s Gate past the great

      hills folding above the life settled from sea

      to shining sea what awaits him—I chuckled

      at the thought: A Wall!

      The Stripper


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