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Network Aztlan Latino Chicano Comunidades Transnacionales | |||
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(1) rivers and oceans
by Charles Mariano
rivers and oceans
after a week of excitement, dread, nailbiting anxiety, i've returned. the wedding, the son, the trip that threatened to knock me all to hell, falls calmly to my yesterdays. survived, by the skin my teeth. i look in the mirror, see all my parts intact. things are still not right. things are far from right, just moved to another starting point. today begins the latest regrouping. another plan of attack. scratch and crawl to the next day. who's wedding this time, didn't matter. it was a direction to take, to bask and endure. the anticipation of all the things that could go wrong, didn't. a short trip, that followed the longer trip, and hardly a breather in between. i'm the one that put me there. the dread, the worry, the imagined problems.
the week before, was even worse. what to do? how do i pull this off? the slimmest margins. one false word. no, many false words. the week, the day, unfolded, and was upon me. tried not to think. sweating, shaking. you see, i was to go there, when really i was here. there were fish, and there were oceans, only not necessarily of the same water. there were mornings sitting at the edge of the world, putting the words down. endless waves of guilt and doubt. i let myself drift into the peacefulness, the vast rolling tides. i needed to breathe, and i was breathing.
there will always be the pains of my deeds. the reasons go deeper than the ocean. the cold wind bites, the fog lingers. waves rolling, unfolding, under thick smoky clouds. there was infinity there, but i couldn't see. waves, thundering from miles back, miles deep. i questioned every reason, every doubt, and came up empty. i hid, just as i'm hiding now, never really exposing, spreading out. i'm here, under the fog, between the lines. i'm here. not there.
after days coasting, drifting in that sea, i aimed myself south to the country, and a long, winding river. the fishing i was doing, not doing, beckoned. the son, i had seen, hardly recognized, waited. yes, i'm ashamed to admit, i dreaded the thought. being with him, a lesson in futility. but he is my son, still reaching, still needing. even if his personality, his habits, grate. even if his love is strong, yet distorted. i'm here to heal the years. i'm here, to fish, but not really fish. the rivers, the oceans where we stand, are invisible. surely you understand.
when my father died, he never left me. i am my father's son. his fire, his heart. that's why i couldn't see. that's why it cut so deep. my son, the years of trouble, a strain, an untreated wound. i go there, because i must. to my surprise, i found him. gone was the face of arrogance and rage. in its place, calm. i stepped carefully, knowing well the burns of previous battles. that night, and the next, after years of holding, not holding, we held. this is why fathers wait. this is why we never give up. somewhere in there, under layers and layers of heartache, are sons and fathers. a deep river.
there were promises. this time without the burden of guilt and dread. promises to make up for lost time, for the years i couldn't. promises, to return down that country road, the cornfields, the smell of cows, horses, and chickens, to gather our gear, our hearts,and finally go fishing.
there are places that i've hidden, and never been found. i've gone there, not gone there, and survived. i don't claim to have answers. i can only say, i've made it to this day, this morning, and somehow, it's ok.
i needed to breathe, and i'm breathing.
c.mariano Copyright © 1999 c.mariano. All rights reserved.
the color of words
(listening to other poets) the voices, the eyes, fill the room and i find myself alone in the crowd again
the hours go by the days the weeks who are these people?
nothing here but words and words have no color unless you put them in, on purpose
in my case tortillas, or beans i guess, would be appropriate identify the speaker
play the type make them believe culture is your precious space your right,
because it is
"oh no sir, that's not a pinata, thats my head, and these hands, are field-tested, ripped with pain, not so very long ago, and the food on your table, brought to you, by the backs of many brown faces, for peanuts" Continued to top right ≠ Continued from prev column.
brown faces my little brown faces raised on welfare and crime, or so the jokes go always smiling, able to take alot of pain
you see i talk like me like you don't listen for an accent the color, the songs,
are in my heart
color, i lost it once put it aside one day to suit me so i could hide in a crowded, pale place the invisible man
but i've learned
the shame reminded me who i am and to never forget culture is pride a treasure
and i've learned to dismiss fools like tonight who make racial jokes at our expense
let them talk
hate, is for cowards ignorance, provides ammunition for my notes
my time will come my voice, for now waits
let them talk
gives me reason to go home to my room,
to reload.....my words
c.mariano | ||
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