JAIMANITAS , CUBA
(My Hometown)
The story was going to be written in prose
But the words started coming out in
Patterns
With rhythm
And cadence
And not like prose at all
And pretty soon the story wasn’t
Important anymore
Just the words
And their patterns
Drizzling slowly
Across that damn sheet of paper
Yellow paper
And it’s hurting my eyes
And still the thoughts and feelings keep coming
If I try really hard and hold each to my heart
For I have all the time in the world
It ought to keep me busy for a while.
There is for each of us
A paradise that was
A time to which we steal away
When too much of the present
Starts filling our day
When nothing but pleasure seemed
To matter
And no one obstructed pursuit of the latter
A time when I lived in the land
That I loved:
The curling face of each wave
Gently stroking the crunching sand
Licking the turret I could not save
That stood near the sea wall half-claimed by decay.
While the water reflecting the sun on each swell
Echoed the laughter of children at play
Casting the sound to the wind in the palms.
So the scene unfolds before me
Memories that never will fade
Ever strong, ever bright-
The paradise that was.
Come, be close.
I need your warming eyes
To spur me with my story,
And if you smile, I’ll tell you
Of the views of the past
From the windows of my soul.
The first one goes back
To the long, long ago.
When unhampered by glass
My hand, outstretched, reached the sea.
All was green palms, quite near,
A pebble-strewn beach.
To the right and afar.
Curved a finger of land
With houses and churches, all facing towards me.
I could linger forever at this.
My first window
But the salt-spray is heavy
And time has no pause.
So come, be close.
Those aren’t tears in my eyes,
It’s the spray from the ocean
Of my long, long ago.
Next I’ll show you a window
That was one wall of glass,
And within, all mundane
Just an office to me;
And all that I needed
To be lifted, transported,
Was slowly to turn
With fixed gaze to the window.
Remember in fairytales,
How roads cut through forests?
To the left was a fairyland road
such as those.
The sun as it sparkled on the glass
of hotels
Jewel-scattered the landscape
Settling down on the wave swells.
Distracting, this window,
Especially when sailboats
Hove whitely and roundly into view.
Then at dusk, a still moment,
The city was captured, the bay and the islands,
All linked by my longing
It was perfect this window,
Joining man’s hand to God’s.
Even as darkening thunder-clouds billowed
And the fairyland, wetly, was hidden from view.
Yet stay,
I’m not done.
Only one more is left.
And this one the strangest, yet brightest to me.
For the orange and white of small planes fill the air
Breaking the pattern of blue and white sky
And this window has bars
Yet it opens quite wide,
To let in the roar of machines made by man,
While on the horizon, trees fringe the runways
And occasional birds fly companions to airplanes.
Idyllic? No baby,
Not this patch of color-
It’s the view from my prison
For I can’t hear the sea.
So come, reach close,
Let your hand wipe away
These teardrops that cling
Like the salt-spray to me.
