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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      An Imprint of 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