the old
who longed for distant lands, the
stones still pounded by footsteps
keeping time with the hard labor of
the poor, and their children who never
grow tired of skipping on them without
touching a single crack. some nights
on a probing stroll guided by weak
light coming from tenement windows,
we offered scathing prayers to heaven
trusting it would motivate a serious
conversation with the Maker who doled
out more than a few mistakes without
giving a simple explanation. one night, we
decided to walk dragging our feet over the
stone, sing a few songs to stray dogs scavenging
rubbish cans, look into the dark until our eyes
adjusted to clearly see, and then listen closely for
strange words that came prancing up the street
in a well-traveled body sharing wisdom about the
beginning, end and whole damn big thing.
Night
last night, I woke to the sound
of the wind gusting outside the
apartment window, listened to
it searching for a message to
borrow from the other side of
the border, where laughter is
still more real than the tears
pouring to the city sidewalks,
I prayed in the shivering arms of
night, a quick word would float
into the room that you somehow
would see in the walk north a light
in front of the building and then
make your way to it. in the mournful
village you left behind, on the soft lips
that kissed you farewell, across a shrinking
distance, I could almost hear the wildly
shouted praise of the tiny church offering
you the company of a border crossing God
to carry on the weary trip. I will stay awake
waiting for the telephone to ring and
in the bare night hear your sweet brown
lips declare, I am here!
The Fire
there are flashes to make
you wonder who reads the
history books packed with
screams hurled from brown
skinned and despised people
like me. we have lived for
centuries on these American
shores with flesh counted a
reason to fear, absorbed by
your need to deny this land
is not home for us. how long
must we endure fighting about
who belongs, mocking pale faces
dressed up with disobedient love
and blind to every sacred colored
face? when the next moon shines
and you allow the broken world
to make you think remember the
ticking clocks across the nation
speak the language of a thicker
past, tales about our brown bent
backs tilting toward equality where
freedom begins!
First Light
do not be afraid of the
haywire head of state
who eats the innocent
for breakfast with sinful
tweets. shake the trembling
from your dark skin while
you march and pray to end
the fatal days steering national
life. don’t feel anxious about
the pale light advancing, the
mouths of his kind filled with
flies, the lingering rhetoric of
hate, the repugnant words taking
your beloved country far from
God. with each step taken on
this dusty earth today recall the
scent of sweeter times, the goodness
sliding in the dark to crack open
the sealed doors keeping peace
and justice in prison. keep looking
straight ahead for those who carry
the familiar Cross that in this young
democracy says the least of these like
