The angels walk along the shore
where sparks of Heaven
reach down to light
the rippling fragments that dance on top of each small wave,
washing back & forth on the
white beach the tiny shells & dark grains
that cling to strangers´ feet during
elementary travels, appreciating the sun,
grasping the hands of a child ready to play just
one more time in the shallow pools.

It is only a bright quiet.

In the heart songs of heroes, big is the operative word.
Soldiers travel leagues to fight legions
& return spoiled in riches
washed in blood.
The eye of vision lights up at promises
of glory, & glory means big,
& more blood.
It did then & it does now.

But tender are the steps of earthly angels
& smaller heroes traveling closer shores
to paint the faces of the young
vacationing for the first time,
soaking the tropical sun:
The grass is bright green & neatly trimmed
around El Morro.
Colorful kites fly high; strollers are watched, down the hill
barefoot children run from tracking fathers
gleefully enraged at their impudence.
Sweaty tourists enjoy elados near squat palms
long battered by the Gulf´s streaming.
When the fountain walkways shoot up,
girls wiggle, boys jump.
Here the heat is a welcome madness, tolerable for the
inspired love of sun gods long forgotten.

The Poet dreamed of bliss, & came up full of angels.


Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in: Logo

You are commenting using your account. Log Out /  Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s