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Listen

you did not hear me

calling your name in

the evenings that held

you close miles away

in a Spanish speaking

world where the dew

each morning I recall

spoke your name. the

distance was sadness,

the civil war terrifying

and quietly I tossed prayers

to heaven. listen, I love

you like the winds that

blow in Central American

valleys and on city streets.

for years, you have held

me fair, my dreams are

made of songs about you

and the children we call

ours to whom I am known

by heart are a blessing like...

Village Walk

the road narrowly stretched

out in a long line toward the

place of hidden secrets sleeping

in a church where light clustered

like fireflies in June. the voices

singing in the sanctuary came

clearly and sweetly to me so

I closed my eyes and allowed

the sounds to lengthen into the

night. upon that mystery in the

little village church I rested my

heart troubled by trodden paths

taken in a civil war world with

too many youths perishing. the

long walk made me wonder what

was won, who is living...

ICE

they are killing us at

the bus stops, on the

sidewalks, apartment

buildings, during traffic

stops, detention centers,

in front of our children,

and always in the name

of hate. they are killing

us while too many look

the other way, churches

roll away their Bibles

and those of us not yet

murdered remain to wipe

away the bitter tears. they

are killing us in the Midwest,

from coast to coast and in

the places the goodness of

God appears unable to reach.

they are killing the young

Brown men, little kids,...

Echo

in nightly hours, I had a

dream that should have

been paradise for people

on the block nostalgic for

the pulse of peaceful days

by the sea. I did not say

a single word of prayer in

it to God wearing a human

face with a long beard and

robes, life was not governed

by lies, no one was attacked

with police batons, the pious

did not imagine who next to

stone and the practices of

widows reminded everyone

to dream of lands across the

border and rocks way out at

sea. an elegant table in the

dream was spread with...

The Frescoes

the stoop was made into a

place of joy without money,

bricks, wood, paint, furniture,

and the things needed to build

such a space. we gathered on

thick hot days to tell slow stories,

and laugh about things arising in

time and space. unseen dealings

were exposed in dreams, memories

of bygone days and celebrations

enjoyed of how far in life we’ve

come. beneath a field of stars, we

never lived in darkness, no one

was diminished and feelings passed

between stoop sitters like candle

flames...

Night Walk

I am familiar with the night

on village streets that no one

walked, the soldiers on watch

beneath raining clouds, the nuns

in habit making haste and old

women bent over stoves that

feed hungry faces. I have walked

by churches delivering street songs,

passing the saddest alleys where the

homeless rest, paused beneath the

brightest lampposts to look up at a

twilight sky searching it for divine

signs. I have greeted children playing

football on the street, listened to them

in loudest laughs,...

America the Beautiful

in a beautiful country the day

dreams of nobodies come to life,

one inhales the fragrant breath

of justice the petulant will never

understand, the peace of heaven

rains blessings on those who hear

the loud cries of the despised and

publics love their new country more

than anyone yet alive in memories

or family stories veiled inside home

walls. in a beautiful country with

many languages explaining ecstasy

and tears, names are not forgotten,

the poor owe the world nothing and

freedom is...

Lament

in the face of state sponsored

violence with agents nearing

with bloodstained uniforms,

in a country younger than the

swirl of stars holding dreams

bubbling in us, what can I say

for certain about equality and

freedom? fear like children’s

weeping behind shrubs grips

us, nothing about the vision

for the country paraded by

the men cosplaying gestapo

bootlickers is welcomed. I

have never had more time to

cry for my country moving on

all fours to delight the barbed

wired mouth of the man who

gives...

The Pear

he was eating a pear

on the village street

the day the Bishop

of the poor came to

visit. the fruit tasted

delicious to him and

though he had taken

a bite of it the loving

campesino handed

what was left to the

Bishop imagining it

would invite the priest

to surrender to the same

sweetness that made its

way into his soul.

h. j. Recinos

The Miracle

the catechism class on

Hoe Avenue led by the

Irish priest was a place

the kids heard stories of

the wondrous ways of

God, tales of miracles

that opened the eyes

of beautiful faces and

left the Puerto Rican

kids desiring to hear

more of better days to

come with hope and

light for them. we left

public school in the

middle of the week for

religious instruction but

sometimes it was too easy

to take a pizza shop detour

on the way to the priest’s

office. the pizza man who

tossed pies for a living said

on...

Poetry looked for me in the barrio, on the subway, city parks, streets, stoops, corners, churches, and overlooked public spaces. I have always thought of this craft as graffiti on public culture, lines about the mixed feelings of learned truth that originate from the permanent Spanglish knot in my throat. The blank page received me without question, always open to barrio reveries and ready to heal wounds inflicted by those who cannot speak the mother tongue of marginal Latinx human beings. I...

Vision

heaven came around here

last week when happiness

was on the faces of the old

women who walked to the

block years ago across the

Sonoran Desert. they have

been peeling away darkness

on the block ever since and

telling all the little kids to see

in them hope, freedom, stones

that speak and the wholeness

of undocumented worlds that

dream.

h. j. Recinos

Homeless

I walked down many streets

searching for the company of

other homeless kids threatened

like me with shorter lives. often,

I waved to the winos sitting at

the recessed entrances to aging

tenements that had forgotten how

to be themselves. I observed craggy

coffee cups showing in pockets

used no doubt for hustling change

at the subway station from kind

souls. the sidewalks cried out to

me, the clocks displayed in the

store windows did not tick and

the bruising night reminded me

home was no more...

Harvest

the day of labor was heavy

on the backs of migrants in

the field who looked up at

the sky and across the land

from where worry comes.

for several years, single

young mothers on the run

have engaged in the same

old dance in harvest fields

reminding them the wider

world of things will be kept

from reach. at night, a few

mothers would silently walk

to the cathedral entrance and

sitting beneath its arches they

would scream without making

a sound. the world goes on

reciting lines and raising its

hand...

Theology

there is enough theology just

walking down Saint Mark’s

Place with the winos on the

corner just feet from where

Auden once lived and near

to the Pizza shop on First

Avenue where Nuyorican

poets on the way to lyrical

café would grab a slice. By

the time you reach the park

across the street from the old

Ukrainian restaurant the idea

of God, creation, the soul and

the meaning of things starts

to pull you into the foggiest

mystery traveled the streets

on the lower east side. you

wonder about the...

The Midwest

I went to college in

the Midwest that had

never seen a Latinx

face, classmates laughed

whenever I let Spanish

fly like pigeons from my

mouth and starched shirt

pastors sighed when I

kneeled at the altar rail

to pray in my first and

mother tongue. the cops

threw me in jail simply

for looking too Puerto

Rican in their bigoted

little town and making

me out to be everything

they decided I had to be

save a student at a Lilly

white school. they did

not know I came from

a place where even the

little...

Playing

the sound of playful kids

attaches itself to the night

on the block. the gaiety in

the air is like the restless

hope of walks begun months

ago in places far away. they

deliciously touch our hearts

lifting hours of misfortune

and shield everyone awake

waiting for peace doves to

fly overhead.

h. j. Recinos

https://www.htiopenplaza.org/contributors/harold-recinos

Waiting

a girl alone sits on the

stoop caressed by the

gentle morning breeze.

the sun leaning over the

edge of the rooftop comes

to reunite the barrio with an

exquisite light. little by little

life happens on the sidewalks,

the shadows begin to breathe,

and hope arises from weeping

that has been with us since the

day the world went dark.

h. j. Recinos

For me life began unfolding on Home Street—the South Bronx. A tough place. My Puerto Rican mother and Guatemalan father came to the United States motivated by their desperate flight from a life of poverty and despair. Their story like that of so many Latinx families new to the United States was one of social exclusion and marginality. They remained strangers in America. Although welcomed as a source of cheap and exploitable labor, cultural acceptance and the so-called good life eluded them....