My Suffering

They say suffering kills you slowly --
Right now I’m dying
Just seeing his face
Unfocused eyes
Looking at no one
Not even me
I’m dying a death
Forever mine
Deep, intense
Right now I’m crying
And in my selfishness
I still try to reach for
that which was never there,
was never mine to share.

Excerpt from my autobiography-in-progress in honor of daddy (II)

“Porque estan llorando?” Mami wanted to know the reason my sisters were crying. As if she didn’t know . . .

“You know very well that that is the Devil’s box. Didn’t you hear Pastor preaching last night?”

Mami herself sounded like a preacher today. Papi nodded his head slowly, assenting what she was saying. He agreed with everything Mami said, even when he knew she was way off base. I held back my tears, failing to understand why our television set was being taken away. Why had it become a sin all of a sudden? We watched as our black and white friend wobbled its way out the door and down the stairs. Then we rushed to the window and stuck our heads out. We watched the heartbreaking scenario unfolding five stories below.

They hauled the television set into the back of Papi’s mud-colored station wagon. Papi went over to the driver’s side, got in and started the engine. Black exhaust smoke burst from the rear of the vehicle rising slowly towards us, but we didn’t turn away. Papi must have felt the warmth of our tear-inundated eyes upon him because he looked up at us, slightly. But he quickly turned away, his eyes fixed on the road ahead of him, steering the car away from us, mercilessly ignoring our pain, or so he pretended.

We knew him better. If it had been up to him, I’m sure that Papi would have turned his station wagon around and carried that black-and-white up the stairs, all by himself, right back to his crying nenas.

Excerpt from my aubiography-in-progress to honor daddy

Just a few hours ago I picked Papi up from the emergency room at Jacobi Hospital. He had hoped to get a steroid shot for his pain but instead the doctor gave him a dose of Percocet. These days, narcotics such as Percocet and Darbucet are all Papi has to hold on to. It breaks my heart to see him so groggy, totally dependent on painkillers. His weakened knees are wobbling uncontrollably; every otherwise simple step has become an enormous struggle. If you had only seen him way back when he used to be nice and strong!

“Papi, dame una peseta.”

I would constantly bug Papi for loose change to buy snacks. His olive green eyes would slightly wrinkle around the edges as he proudly reached into his pockets and pour a tinkling storm of coins into my expanded eager hands.

Papi used to drive a “gypsy cab,” providing “sub-legal” taxi service that catered to those who welcomed a fast and cheap alternative to the expensive and often unreliable transportation in the Bronx. Sometimes Papi would put in an “all-nighter,” arriving home just in time to take his nenas to school the next day. I have always perceived Papi as an ambitious, hardworking man -- The true essence of a “go-getter” who knew the Bronx inside out.

“Just like the back of my hand!” Papi likes to boast.

Sadly, Papi’s beginning to realize that he can’t remember many things as he used to. On those instances when he does recall a street name or some other memory from the past, he gets emotional and starts to cry.

Today when we arrived home I offered him a ripe yellow banana because he hasn’t eaten for hours. He holds out his hand and has hardly enough strength to grasp the fruit. Mami quips,

"You should've bought him an 'Egg Foo Yong'."

I sigh, for the hundredth time today, as I feel the stress pressing relentlessly against my temples. My chest is weary. How I wish I could ease Mami and Papi’s discomfort, their seemingly endless pain. I take Papi upstairs to my kid’s bed where he’s been sleeping since he came to our home. He removes his shirt and drops like a fly onto the smiling snowmen that adorn the flannel mattress cover . . .

Yesterday

Pink hues arouse blues:
perfunctory tears,
sachet-ed nostalgia.
How intricate to reminiscence!

Sick

She lays there
A tear nestled in the crease
Of her weary eyes,
Wondering if today is
Yesterday --
Has morning yet arrived?

“Where’s your staff?" I ask,
"The iron rod whose
welts have long survived?”
“Where’s the fort –
once abhorred --
the lion’s mighty roar?"

Simpletons

a simple world
with simpletons
hard working
folk who care
for others
no judgement
in their words
just simple,
smiling simpletons
slightly learned
slightly prided
courtesy abounds
in burly handshakes
no time to outshine
or outgrow
or distrust outsiders
tiny homes, lovely gardens
devoid of cabled boxes
simpletons
powerless lie
glad regardless

Girl

Let her
Ease her mind
Flow in breezes
freshly sent
Her way

Let her
Dream
of sails
Laugh out loud
As she wakes

Let her
Find,
Amazed,
Flowing streams
at her steps

Let her
See
And hear
your selfless
Silence

Working Mom

Tonight
When I go home
Towards the sacred
I will
As I often do
Be tolerant
Of what renders
Me
Powerless

Shall Hope Remain?

After you’ve laughed
as a child
Then grown to be
woman
Felled by love
Left by the wayside,
Brain bleeding,
Heart dissolved
then recomposed
After you’ve grown some more
given forth life
nurtured, loved
kept the home
After you’ve reached heavenward
Dreamt extensively
(Yet barely touched a spark)
After you laid awake infinite nights
Greeting morning’s waves of amber
With sunken eyes
After all your hand
has given --
You turn to gather—
expect to gather—
and failing to gather—
Shall hope remain?

Honores

Hoy intente capturar su atencion.
Por un segundo, un mili-segundo.
“Mami, me graduo con honores”
“Que?”
“Con Honores!” le repeti.
Pero ella mondaba un mango -- y lo repartia a todos en la sala.
“Toma, Diana.”
Extendia una gaja de la suculenta fruta,
mientras apenas lograba yo hacerla entender
la importancia de mis palabras.
“Mami! No me interrumpas mas!”
Esta vez capture su vista, con esperanzas de que por fin me escuchara.
“Dime. Dime ahora.”
“Dos sociedades de honor me extendieron su invitacion.”“Soy el top 10% de mi clase.”
Logre que escuchara tan solo unas gotas de mis palabras.
“Ire! Su voz rompio el hilo de mi historia, irreverente.
Su interes permanecia en el repartimiento del mango.
“Yo no te di? Y Joseph, quiere mango?” Jeremy!”
“Mami, Jeremy no come Mango.”
“Porque No?”
“Porque no le gusta! Y no te voy a decir nada mas porque tu tienes la mania de interrumpir. Y lo que te estoy diciendo es mucho mas importqnte que el contrajao mango!”
Resonaron mis frustradas palabras, desbordaba de mis labios la impaciencia.
Se esfumaba el deseo de compartir con ella mi alegria.
Pero las mismas palabras, y quizas su espeso sentimiento, lograron su magia.
“Contrajao mango? Que forma de hablar es esa, Edi?”
Me senti vencida.
“Olvidalo. No te voy a decir nada mas. Olvidalo,” dije con finalidad.
Pero ella insistia,
“Dime Ahora.”
Y enlazaadas en mis palabras fue tambien mi orgullo.
El orgullo que ella sembro en mi. Y valio la pena intentarlo otra vez.
“Me voy a graduar con honores. Me eligieron para el Phi Beta Kappa y tengo el honor de graduarme Cum Laude.”
Esta vez en su rostro observe un movimiento sutil, un noble orgullo parecido al mio.
“Que bueno,” susurro lentamente.

Still Man

From the unscrupulous hem
to the delicate border of his brow
a man, seasoned, elegant
unyielding to his weight
no longer steel --
still harvested --
fully windowed by dawn (Reckless the path he chose)
Eyes half shut to swimming hues pushing,
crowding in his midst
Exhales in awe
Exits in awe
He knows, he knows
He’s still man.

Cold Night Haiku

Young blossoms
shivering –
below the tireless moon

Springtime Haiku

Springtime—
So why are the trees
crying?

Jibara

Jibara
by H. Diaz

eres un campo
de memorias tropicas, fructuoso arbol
eres nina despierta
escondida entre ramas frondosas
trizte, inquieta, curiosa

Eres camino
vasto, extensivo
bordado de polvorin y pedregales
pies descalzos pisando lo inundado

Unsearched

Unsearched

By Heriberta Diaz
(September 15, 2004)


Beaming triumph, arch reversed,
In Autumn’s silent streets forever etched
porcelain eyes hush the cursed,
fossiled forte, yet unsearched

Who can tell of winter’s arctic veil
dined alone with swallowed pride,
and sung of Summer’s rapid hale
whose mighty storms have lain defied

Layered palette, thriving reds
Ornamenting her parade
Feathered blues, scattered shreds
splintered, tacit serenades

In sparrows’ shallow wings, is there
A candle’s flame, though dim?
Or sultry notes to quell the glare
and lift a heart, so grim?

Beaming triumphs arise to sing
piercing thundered, shivering skies
gracefully dances, courting spring
to wilt the frame of she who cries

I'm a Poet . . .

The way I see

and feel life

the way I touch

a word escaped

from unsuspecting lips

the way I hurt

for strangers far away

and those whose troubled souls

I meet each day

The way I see

the hidden paths

of my ancestors

listen to their every breath

and gasp as our souls

violently collide

I'm a poet

there's so much here

to explain

to laugh at, to free

to refrain

No longer will I

seek paths which lead away

from this my fate