black, brown, yellow and
red faces sing about freedom
and equality too? beloved country
how long will your costly promises
bleed? what will history say about
the disfigured wrong skin bodies
left by white hate to rot with nooses
fixed to their necks? beloved country
I am the murdered, assaulted, raped
and wronged history your very own
God will tell you is blessed!
Mountain Top
a memory of a perfect morning
is filled with early Spring scents
that carry you to high mountains
and back, again. the frail flowers
there gently touched by raindrops
from gods in play will draw you
toward the great design where Eden
still gives herself to unmake your
nightmares. the color of our skin and
crisping hair is flawless beauty from
the kindest God. the hands we hold
and magic words pouring from our
fulsome lips sweet elegance to see and
hear. before I die the wind will pull
down the marching white sheets, the
loveless visions and rudderless men
who blow out the candles at heavenly
saint’s feet to keep the world dim. I
will not live long enough to cross the
Jordan but when the darkness settles
I will stir from the grave to see it
come.
Heavenly
the moon came to the night
in a silvery dress dangling
like a pearl on a necklace in
the heavens. you could hear
the hearts beating on the city
rooftops, the eyelids walked
on the sidewalk slipping into
dreams, the little girls yet on
the stoops taken by the hand
to cross the ancient sky to
shout in the wind. down the
hill by the east river shores the
faint singing of night birds on
the banks could be heard all
night. the raised heads in prayer
understood magnificent times like
this remind us nothing can keep us
from rites of Spring and how they
cough up memories of departed
loves.
Enchanted
on Riverside Drive above the
Hudson River a little girl drags
her long skirt along the dusty
sidewalk, an old couple stroll
by looking at the night slowly
climb into heaven and the air
smells like Spring. the benches
along the strip play host to the
city’s paupers, pampered dogs
exit the fancy buildings, a few
done up to show, and a kid in
a stroller loosens a huge smile
at the English boxer that licked
his tiny feet. by Grant’s tomb
on 122nd Street, a Jazz ensemble
is playing it right, a song people
know better than church, and
that jive about joy coming in the
morning seems true. tonight, the
old city lets us walk up to our waist
in dreams and to these delicious
charms we will return again to
translate inward sorrows into
honied peace.
La Bodega
the black dressed old women
in the bodega talk with the grocer
about the days when they feel
like the Holy Mother buying herbs
to make meals for aging boys on
the block, near balding men who
place big food orders for storefront
social clubs, and even a few honest
gumshoe Puerto Rican cops who
spend long nights watching over the
kids on the block. a young man stops
in the corner grocery store to buy
flowers resting in a lonely vase inside
a glass-door
