I Pine

I Pine

I know the craziness will pass,
and that it’s all just a moment in time
and all I need do is bide my time inside.

Yet, I pine for the feel of soil under my feet,
between my fingers and under my nails,
and I wash my hands,
not because I fear Covid,
the microbial menace I cannot see
until it is too late,
because I do.

I long for the isolation of my little garden
but not the separation from my friends.

In my garden, social distance doesn’t matter
unless it is to give a wide birth
to a friendly bee
who I envy the way it spends its time
caressing the stigma and pistils of blossoms
soon to be fruit.

I pine for a warm embrace
as I video chat with my children
and am one sad story away from a river of tears
as I worry if we will be the next tale of grief.

My son, in a mask, does a doorway visit
to drop off masks he has crafted for our use

He says,
“Use them so others feel safe when you and mom need to shop”.
We are the Tuesday morning shoppers between seven and eight,
the time allotted for the elderly to shop,
a sign of the times.
Wishing it would all go away,
and once again I can pat my neighbor on the back
or sit across from friends and chat.

The Farmer Calls For The Migrant

The Farmer Calls For The Migrant.

La pisca los busca,
y la siguen.

They follow the crops like hungry sheep,
who seek greener pastures, only they
must feed first the shepherds
with the labor of their hands
and wash the feet of the patrón, with the sweat of their brow.

They face the cold and dampness of the early morn,
no reluctance in their hastened steps.
The midday sun lashes them with rays of heat
that roasts them to a coper brown

The brown that those in town resent.

The essential worker that picks from dawn to dusk
and sleeps in rundown shacks approved by
USDA.

They exist but are non-existent to the squeezer of the melon
or watermelon thumper.
A penny a pound to face the dangers of the field.
Five pair of hands, five sets of legs, five aching backs.
Mother, father, sister and brothers,
it takes a family to make ends meet and feed the belly.
Vacations are for gringos and their kids.

Some migrants get to stay,
some run away when the migra shouts,
“Show me your papers.” and “Como te llamas?”

In a poetic refrain, we feel the pain of Jesus, Maria y Jose,
but they are invisible,
to the buyer of the apple or the peach, those who carefully select from the abundant shelves
of uptown grocers,
the fruits of the migrant’s labor.

Who Is The Beacon For

Who is the Beacon For

On a stage,
wrapped in Old, glory,
to a crowd as white as driven snow.
Those, who claim the reflection of supreme perfection,
the color without hue.

With hope in hand, they listen,
and like a hollow wind through vacant canyon,
they bellow: “We will protect and preserve what is rightfully ours!”
And the crowd cheers.
The only contrast in the jungle of chalk, is a singularity, a fly in milk that taints the snow.
And in those numbers, they will stay.

The rest, from afar,
hear the loud thunder of Aryan-like men.
Elected white-hopes,
who are wrapped in a promise
to re-claim from its shores, the America of old.
The America,
of WHITE, red, and blue.

But what of the yellow, black, and brown?
The back of the bus crowd.
Those, who labor in her shops,
shelter in her shacks,
sleep in her streets.
They claim her too!

But they are drained of tears—if any remained,
They’d share, with the complxionless, callous politician,
tyrannical men who lack contrition,

They’d lend them their pain,
hoping to sway the pale face
that leads the race
to strip them of their rights,
and line their prisons with their young,
so they may sit peacefully, in the serenity,
of White pews, singing the hymns of white gods.

Secure in their station, full of erudition,
they hammer-out their fate
in hallowed halls of justice,
wearing hearts that match the marble of the pillars,
and are as hollow as its chambers.

New Masters,
of old familiar legislation,
their vision obscured by plenty,
colored faces are hidden from their sight.
The abandoned children of the nation, those fathered by many,
who by an embarrassed mother,
are swaddled tightly in blankets of red, white, and blue,
to hide their yellow, black, and brown.

They, the people who make the Red of the White, blue and uneasy.
They, who plead to thee, O sweet land of liberty
to let thy crown of brotherhood be good,
for under one nation we are all blanketed.

They pledge allegiance to you!

They labor for you!
And they die for you.
In many wars, they shared their blood with thee, O sweet land of liberty!
And they know—you will call on them again,
to raise the banner, and pour-out the contents of their veins.
Is it only then, that they are son or daughter?

O America, the land that they love, it’s their home too,
for they are brave as well!

They will not wallow in pity long.
for they are a great crowd who hunger and long to be of thee from sea to shining sea,
to sing a kind refrain, but they are in pain, and wonder:
For who, is the land that they love?
For who, is the protective banner
whose broad stripes and bright stars
thru the perilous fight,
won the right,
to place on its shore, a welcome mat at its door,
for the tired and the poor,
for the huddled masses who yearn to breathe free,
the wretched refuse of teeming shores,
the America who said: Send these—
the homeless tempest-tost to me
.

Yes!
For who did you lift a lamp beside the golden door?

Who is the beacon for?

What I Learned When I Turned Nine

What I learned When I Turned Nine pdf

The bathroom mirror affirmed the innocence,
of my ignorance.

The only color a child should see,
is reflected in a maple tree of fall
or the coral and pastel hues of roses in spring.

But on my name’s day, my friend said,
“Let’s go to the movies, we’ll have ice-cream on the way.”
A soft concoction of chocolate and vanilla swirl,
the sweetness blended and inseparable,
like we once were.
Our goodness to be soon consumed.

My first movie.

He said that he would pay,
because he had a little but I had less.
You see—my friend was sparrow-rich,
and I was church-mouse poor.

101 Dalmatians was in town.
It was exciting to be in line.

And then a boy my size,
Lassie’s Timmy came to mind.
Who like a lion, snarled and roared.
He bore his teeth and spat at me
because I was brown and he was not,
he spat at me and cursed my friend,
because he was white and I was not.

With his father’s voice—
he changed my name to Spic.

He caused the candles of my cake to die,
the maple leaves to fall and roses fade.

Then I saw the world in painful clarity,
like magnets in reverse polarity.
My color repels and casts away.

Back then, I thought I was the same,
that one boy brown and one boy white were all alike.
That one and one was one,
a blended concoction of chocolate and vanilla swirl,
the sweetness mingled and inseparable.

But what I learned when I turned nine—
is they were white,
and I was not,
that one boy brown and one boy white were not alike.
That blended and inseparable goodness
was consumed like tissue on a fire—
the day my innocence, lay on the funeral-pyre.