Subj : [CHRISTIA] new poetry, "See Her Better"
To   : Practical Christian Life
From : Mark
Date : Sun Jun 14 2020 12:57:45

From: lamppoet@CENTURYTEL.NET (Mark)

For the poor.

 

"See Her Better"

 

("If there are poor among you, in one of the towns of the land the Lord your
God is giving you, do not be selfish or greedy toward them.  But give freely
to them, and freely lend them whatever they need." Deuteronomy 15:7-8)

 

What do I know, you know;
what have I seen behind the screen,
the half-closed eyes of the mother, (I assume)
the grandmother, (yes, once again)
those eyes, cleansed by the crying of endless
days sitting in the same spot above the boulevard
where passersby take the pedestrian bridge.
Yes, those eyes reddened by countless tears;
her face pulpy and sallow and barely seen.

 

On the Mexican winter she rides on the hopes
that those who know her will not miss her. We barely
see beauty of cascades tipping over rocky cliffs after
a month of walking by. So we see even less this
disturbance to our soul
after a week of crossing.

 

Does she pin her hopes on tourists in this fishing village
filled with spring breakers and old couple romance seekers?
Will they see her better, covered in her native best; hues
bleeding across the shawl and stopping at the holes worn by
constant wear? Or did they cut their budget so close that
dropping pesos in her cup means one night sober,
or one less souvenir?

 

Or perhaps, it is often true, there is enough left, but we
hear the religious impulse from our idols of self-advancement,
"You, get a job". We are jesters in the court of 
capital palaces and advancement.

 

But some, hearing the words of the better God, hear words
spoken to them, "Give. Do not let your left hand know
what your right hand has done." And quietly,
they slip their hand inside their pockets, grab a wad of
what they will,
and slightly, and sleight of hand,
silent as they can, slide the bills into the cup
without breaking stride.

 

Milk, a roast, diapers, or one more week
with power; the hearts of an aged widow and 
an unknown traveler meet once,
and only once. But again love has leapt
over hurdles and past benches of cultural inertia.

 

Hurdling,

mark p.

lamppoet@centurytel.net

 

Mark's Blog

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