Other Seasons
Harold J. Recinos
Other Seasons
Copyright © 2017 Harold J. Recinos. All rights reserved. Except for brief quotations in critical publications or reviews, no part of this book may be reproduced in any manner without prior written permission from the publisher. Write: Permissions, Wipf and Stock Publishers, 199 W. 8th Ave., Suite 3, Eugene, OR 97401.
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paperback isbn: 978-1-5326-1104-9
hardcover isbn: 978-1-5326-1106-3
ebook isbn: 978-1-5326-1105-6
Grateful thanks is made to David E. Schmersal, Reference and Digital Services Librarian of the Bridwell Library, Perkins School of Theology, Southern Methodist University, for assisting with the book cover.
Manufactured in the U.S.A.
[The Lost Season]
I will read you the lost words
of the ancient texts that turned
the earth, made the hoarse birds
sing, and gave us tongues to speak
in ways to make even the sly devil
sick. I will read to you of the warming
sun, the wide-mouthed sky, the silver
speckled night, the beauty of the moon
the very first eyes on earth to see. I will
read to you the stories of the singing rain,
the flowing rivers it loves, the vast seas
that never say enough. I will read about
the ageless blowing wind, the trees standing
serene, the flowers like sweet lovers generous
with time, and you will know before we
close the book life once had no complaints,
not a drop of blood was shed, there was no
war, or corpses bundled on the corner of
village streets. I will read to you with my
trembling lips the whole and brilliant spell
of original peace.
[For You]
for you who labor hard all day
then go home to bend your knees
in prayer for the dispossessed with
beautiful dark skin. for you who
struggle in the solemn houses of
God, are discriminated on the job,
in the schools, the local shops, the
doctor’s office, the hospitals, the cops,
on the buses, and trains, yet are never
chained by it. for you who have the
strength to sweep the halls, empty rubbish
bins, trim the lawns, plant flowers, harvest
crops, care for children, wash clothes, iron
shirts, and cook to make life easier for others
with means who never think to make you
a little more rich. for you who grow up to
become Supreme Court judges, astronauts,
scientists, Senators, composers, musicians,
novelists, artists, poets, ballerinas, actors,
teachers, therapists, plumbers, electricians,
masons, carpenters, preachers, athletes, priests
and nuns, high achievers in all the fields kept
closed to us, even president. for you who walk
the shady streets spreading joy, who rest homeless
on the park benches still drinking to confess, shoot
dope on rooftops to find home, who manage laughter
no matter how tangled life becomes with bunched
up crap. for you I cry to all the Gods in heaven
with a raised triumphant fist.
[China Town]
I walked down Canal Street
where grocers sell fish from iced
tables in front of their stores that
have strange Chinese names. a sign
nearly unseen behind a plump Buddha
in one of them read se habla español.
three Puerto Rican ladies were inside
the place smiling beside a tank with live
catch saying names unheard by the
merchant’s tongue that came to New York
from the Far East. I stopped on the loud
sidewalk in front of the shop to smile at
them from the ordinary shadows of
the market street. I walked further along
the block aware it was nearly night and
soon the stars would turn on above the
city’s rooftops daring us to sleep and
stroking park vagrant’s hair with a gentle
breeze. I walked by a man playing blue
melodies on a worn violin to the banks
where the Hudson River spreads to enjoy her
flashy current rushing swiftly, there I imagined
lives past, present and still to come to share in
this world. I sat to catch my breath looking across
the brown waters and allowed the coming
night to drop peace on me like Bronx Angels’
sing.
[Lost Key]
I was walking on a quiet day thinking
of a lost key listening to Mourning Doves
announce the rising light with song. I could
smell a faint touch of perfume on the lady
with long black hair in a white dress walking
in front of me waking me up. I decided to
stroll long enough to remember the whereabouts
of the key to the apartment with heckling grey
radiators in the building none of the neighbors
liked. I walked by St. John’s Chrysostom