Consider the Niño

(This is the opening poem from my collection, "American Ofrenda," a poetic history of my immigrant famila.  I'll be posting addition pieces from the collection each week.)

Consider the niño

at the formica mesa

in his abuelita’s 1950’s cocina.

Español y inglés are bouncing around him

from the chisme his tias are stirring

into the salsas and frijoles,

from the gritos his tios are shouting 

at the LA Rams on the black and white tv

in that suburban sala.

Consider the chico 

who’s keeping the pan dulce 

and the naranjas company

as he plays primo poker

with Olga and Becky and Freddy,

using matchsticks for chips,

while he keeps his radar focused 

on the palabras that are zinging off 

the cupboards and ventanas,

the palabras that are rattling 

the canary cage and chicken knicknacks,

the palabras that are rolling through

like another LA quake, 

big enough to notice,

sneaky enough to mistake.

Consider the muchacho,

Mexicano, Irish, Spanish,

French, Indigenous, Americano,

already knowing the loneliness of difference

when he’s not sitting at that table,

already noticing how his brown arms

stand out in the crowded Catholic classroom,

already seeing how his dark face

finds no likeness 

in the million dollar movies

on the magic box tv.

Consider the boy

who’s basking in the warm glow

and raucous comfort of that cocina,

in its scents of grilling tortillas

and its songs of clashing idiomas

while he has no hint of what’s to come:

the Twist and Shout, Hard Rain’s A Gonna Fall,

Black Magic Woman, What’s Going On; 

the burn baby burn that will light

the neighborhood streets on fire;

the selective service war 

that will napalm faraway jungles 

and fill his youth with funerals;

the highways he will travel 

looking for some home:

Samoan Islands, Puget Sound, 

Land of Enchantment,

high seas, high plains, corn fields, 

deserts and borders, redwoods and rivers,

Paris, Switzerland, Germany, Spain,

till he rediscovers finally this kitchen mesa.

Consider this persona,

this young mosaic, 

this latino, this chicano,

this beaner, this greaser,

this mixed blood 

mexican americano.

It’s there in that cocina

while he raising the stakes

on his aces and eights

and listening to the shouts and whispers

of old and young, of dead and gone,

of secretive and sensitive, 

of hellish and celestial

that he’s becoming our star witness,

our familia detective,

our clandestine ancestral spy

recording fact and fiction

in his cabeza database.

Consider this niño,

consider his cuentos,

consider his flights of fancy

and non-fiction imaginings,

consider his recuerdos,

consider his palabras,

consider his familia,

consider the recipe,

the nature and nurture, 

the journey and fire,

the suburb and border,

the chaos and order

that has made him,

that has made us.

Consider…

 

Let's Begin Our Singing

         (The second in a series of poetic songs...)

      Let’s Begin Our Singing

Let’s begin our singing 

with a morning song.

Lying beneath the covers

as the sun’s first whispers

peek through the curtains,

as the sun’s light

leads us out of dreams,

out of dreams

and home to waking

let’s begin our singing

with a morning song.

My old thin skin,

my clacking bones,

my stiffened joints

welcome his fiery comfort,

welcome his fiery comfort now,

with a morning song.

Just like the little naked squalling self

shaking his mysterious limbs

with amazement at awakenings

welcomed his fiery comfort,

welcomed his fiery comfort then

with a morning song.

Just like the hot blooded 

welter of desire

whose hands and bone 

caressed and rode

her passionate yes

to a fiery welcome,

a fiery welcome 

yes yes yes,

with a morning song.

Let’s begin our singing 

with a morning song.

Stand at the window,

stand in the garden,

stand in the street,

stand on the beach,

stand in the office,

stand on the stage,

stand on the bed,

or chair,

or table,

or ladder,

or ceiling,

arms wide and face high

at sun’s shout and striving,

with a morning song.

With children beside us,

then tiny and rambunctious,

now big and towering above us

let’s welcome old sol,

his light, 

his dawn,

his surge, 

his sprawling orange gown,

let’s welcome his fiery comfort,

his fiery comfort now,

with a morning song,

let’s welcome his fiery comfort now

with a morning song.

Wooden Flute, Sing

From a series of poetic songs...

Wooden Flute, Sing

Wooden flute, sing,

sing the sunrise,

sing the cold orange light

flooding hillside,

oak grove,

suburban home,

garden path,

elm grove

and freeway,

sing the fire 

on my face.

Wooden flute, sing,

sing the wind 

that shakes 

the manzanita,

sing the icy river

flashing over rocky bed,

sing the mountains

in the distance,

sing the waves

pounding the beach,

sing the storm clouds

piling high.

Wooden flute, sing,

sing the branch’s grain,

sing the striving green,

sing the memory 

of cell

and sap

and leaf 

and limb

in sunlight

on cedar or pine,

on redwood or oak

that gifted the music

to you

and to us.

Wooden flute, sing,

sing the player’s 

lips and lungs, 

sing her breath,

her blood,

her hands,

her journey,

sing her fingers

that dance your song

from the hollowed branch,

sing feet that romance

the breathing ground.

Wooden flute, sing,

sing the sunrise,

sing the moon phase,

and sky of stars.

Wooden flute,

sing heart,

sing eyes,

sing tears,

sing street,

sing singer’s voice.

Sing ocean

and storm.

sing river 

of asphalt,

sing skyline

of city,

sing canyon 

of antiquity,

sing rise and fall

of forest and stream,

sing world

in search of wisdom

sing world

in search of peace.

Wooden flute, sing.

Wooden flute, sing.