cafe
once again, they say. it’s Latino town and Julia
and Tito have opened their first-floor window
real wide listening to the music they put on la
radiola while rehearsing the moves for tonight’s big
baile. it’s Latino town and in front of the bodega
sit Don Carlo, Don Pepe, Don Wilfredo, and Charly
on milk boxes emptied of treats, playing dominoes.
it’s Latino town, and all the smiles are in
Spanish. . . .
Madness
gazing into the distance,
the wind pressing against
our shoulders, the black
crows thickly flock in the
darkness of a world strutting
intolerance of difference in
an endless season of religious
madness. in the procession
of the dead, the hell hung for
us by pious killers for view
in the bloody public squares,
speak the end. under this
threatening cloud lives
whisper through the deafening
silence stories of unrecognizable
human beings who mount truth
with violence in the name of
blood-spilling Gods. you born
beneath the bright enormous star,
why not come to us now?
The Traveler
you walked past the colossal
gate with barred windows these
days adorned to say no praying,
kneeling, worshiping, spitting or
eulogizing allowed. emaciated
with travel, words scattered along
the way sparkled with your tale
of heading to a land full of those
who daily rouse to applaud the end
of senseless days that suffocate life.
you carried small bags with all your
possessions in them, firm memories
wrapped for the trip in scraps of paper,
family photos for trying times, even a
note from the village priest. more
than once you paused along the way
hiding from the moon to catch your
breath in the dark, eyes filling with tears
for those left behind in ruined places.
faintly, you laughed about the coming
change at the border’s edge, and heaven
on wings you dreamed would meet you.
The Bell
ring the bells a little longer
for the fading year with the
carols that sweetly play of
peace on earth. with this
forgotten sound let all nations
ring uplifting cries against
the crime of war, the faithless
times, the hearts turned away
from your coming crown
of thorns. ring the bells for the
spilled blood where God lives,
for the clamoring throng beneath
the light of the spirit fed Star, for
the helpless of sight, the broken
mouths, the bloodied heads, wrinkled
laborers hands, and beggars cold tonight.
ring the bells above the graves, in
darkened homes, and hardened hearts,
yes, ring the bells, let them witness
Christ in mercy has come.
The Visit
I walked the block today
past the corner barbershop
with speakers over the front
door that played the music
of our world and made
walkers stand quietly to
ponder thickly the past
year like it was another
time. wandering in dreams
was the stained-glass window
on the big church familiar
to the mothers who work
like servants downtown
from five to nine each
day for little kids who should
not spend a lifetime on these
streets. I walked
