Tuesday, October 9, 2012
Life Moments
Life Moments
10/09/2012
A ball pitched.
A bat swung.
Small hands grasp a chain link backstop.
Summer’s sacred rituals.
A cloud drifts,
wandering,
in an endless blue sky.
Dust rises,
hanging in the air,
life moments,
forever captured in time.
Monday, May 28, 2012
San Juan
San Juan
In the leaves of an ancient cypress tree
the afternoon breeze gently winds itself.
Above the crowded Zocalo,
the great canopy softly weeps.
An old man sits, where he has always sat,
gazing at a weathered board strewn with thirty-two pieces.
An opening move, and the hourglass is turned,
underneath a sweltering Mexican sun.
In the shadow of the old church beggars and crows seek relief.
Children run, helter-skelter,
chasing and crying among red poppies
in the corner of the yard.
Beneath a frayed and faded hat,
a tear carves a path down a weather-worn face.
The gnarled hand of the fishmonger points to forty-nine pairs of shoes.
Seven rows of seven, under the sweltering Mexican sun.
Forty-three pairs of men's shoes and six pairs of women's shoes,
go unfilled at the base of two stone steps,
beneath a wrought iron rail,
in the Mexican rain.
Candles have been lit,
prayers have been offered.
But forty-nine pairs of shoes,
are in the corner of the empty Zocalo,
underneath a moonless Mexican night.
May 28, 2012
In the leaves of an ancient cypress tree
the afternoon breeze gently winds itself.
Above the crowded Zocalo,
the great canopy softly weeps.
An old man sits, where he has always sat,
gazing at a weathered board strewn with thirty-two pieces.
An opening move, and the hourglass is turned,
underneath a sweltering Mexican sun.
In the shadow of the old church beggars and crows seek relief.
Children run, helter-skelter,
chasing and crying among red poppies
in the corner of the yard.
Beneath a frayed and faded hat,
a tear carves a path down a weather-worn face.
The gnarled hand of the fishmonger points to forty-nine pairs of shoes.
Seven rows of seven, under the sweltering Mexican sun.
Forty-three pairs of men's shoes and six pairs of women's shoes,
go unfilled at the base of two stone steps,
beneath a wrought iron rail,
in the Mexican rain.
Candles have been lit,
prayers have been offered.
But forty-nine pairs of shoes,
are in the corner of the empty Zocalo,
underneath a moonless Mexican night.
May 28, 2012
Tuesday, May 8, 2012
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