LITMIR.BIZ

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faces. tomorrow, we

      will awaken within the four walls

      of the country’s hate, kept from

      choice white spaces, trembling

      at the image of a cropped-hair

      Christ descending from the steeple

      of respectable wealthy churches

      and wondering how exactly does

      God bless this America to which

      our kids too sing? Does anyone hear

      the varied carols in the nation’s

      voice, anymore? Does anyone

      hear 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 refrigerator where tiny

      Puerto Rican flags fill a small box

      pushed to a corner. Henry’s widow

      briefly smiles in his direction moved

      to know that every Friday Hector

      enters the bodega to buy the prettiest

      flowers on hand to show his devotion

      to a beloved grandmother living in his

      apartment who has never bothered to

      learn a lick of English. the place is

      jumping with people who never consult

      academics happy in their far away

      homes, theologians offering seminars

      about a distant God, and fancy uptown

      philosophers

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