José M. Tirado is a Puertorican poet, Buddhist priest, psychologist, and political writer living in Hafnarfjordur, Iceland, known for its elves, “hidden people” and lava fields. His articles and poetry have been featured in CounterPunch, The International Journal of Transpersonal Studies, Dissident Voice, The Endless Search, Op-Ed News, and others. He can be reached at jm.tirado@yahoo.com.
THE THEOPHANY AT BASKETBALL PRACTICE
It doesn´t take long to notice either
the half-thuds, or thwarted thwacks on polished wood floor
with the waxed sheen and painted lines,
the paltry bounces by the tired and uninspired,
or the happy giggles when hit just right,
both sound glorious.
A breath catches, holds a bit,
deflates.
Water tastes good then, cold, efficient.
He turns his head to see the father’s smiling face.
It´s alright, the eyes seem to say (he´ll say it later).
Across the expanse of the Cosmos, whole universes
will come and go, novas will go super,
giant stars will get prime colors,
and in the vacuum of space,
great clouds will absorb star systems
destined for mythological significance, somewhere.
But one exchange of smiles
will stand out in the history of one boy.
His father too, will take the moment with him
when he joins the dust.
It was written in the Heavens,
marked and recorded by two small lives
just as Grand.
UNWELCOME REMINDER
Spare me the cold air kisses, or
Worn down, see-through sad lies of condolence,
We both know one thing: I am invisible.
I have no job.
I make you nervous.
We pass the same eateries-
You enter, I long,
If I go in,
Only one gets served with smiles—
I get stares.
We walk the same streets-
You amble,
I shuffle, scared, and shifty.
In stores, we try the same clothes-
You for fit, me for memory.
We each have shadows after noon-
Mine stays close,
(Can´t afford to lose anything anymore),
Yours is free to lengthen with the hours.
Down, deep down in my soul
somewhere
I know
I am still something.
In yours, you are warmly rewarded for just the thought,
I can barely sustain mine.
Among the crowds, we sometimes stand close together, later
I observe the cool crescendo of your gait,
Mine stutters in lessening imitation of a life once full of meaning.
There´s a locket I squeeze
I found somewhere.
One time it held a face,
now, it will get me coffee and a train ride to a printers,
where the résumé will be taken and
displayed
again, weekly,
futilely,
to another faceless, well-meaning suit who
doesn´t really see me
Yet prays each day
I stop reminding him how
Lucky he is.
ANOTHER SILHOUETTED END
Be glad beginnings end,
Shadows recede into light, and
The rain, into rolling ditches along the roof.
A continuous stream of solid sequences,
Cyclopean events, singular and focused is seen otherwise, like
Summer mornings arching their way inevitably to noon.
Seated behind the wheel, pen on paper,
Parked sullenly against the angled curb, he thinks:
To endure a fresh start is to wander
Awkwardly between the eaves and sighs,
Catching the glistening water across a windshield,
Returning attention back to yet another silhouetted end.
The Galway Review 