Best Barrio Poems
He has no poetic garden to gaze upon
no outside to the inside of this room
Soft breaths of brothers 1, 2 and 3
like the breeze on the asphalt playground
of his tiny school, one mile away.
No light shines in his window
No birds sing hymns from leafing trees
No sign of spring or fall or summer
display beyond the sill.
In this place where nothing grows
is life, but hidden from the world
and the grand and stylish homes
(with their fruit trees and fancy lawns)
Within these walls with brothers 1, 2 and 3
mama collapses, exhausted on the sofa
and papa snores loudly from the floor.
He prevails with dreams and plans and sadness
in leaps and bounds and setbacks
between school lunches and cafe con leche for breakfast.
In the place where nothing grows, he lives.
Some Paris Hilton wannabe laughed
At my cell phone
(which was missing the battery cover)
As if to say
"How pathetic!"
As if to suggest
"He'll never get laid!"
The day was too gloriously
Autumn
For me to care
About the trivialities of some
Electronic set of shackles
And the status of their condition
But(t)
I was tempted to throw out some quips
Toss some facetiousness around
Like feces
Just a little something to mentally gnaw on
While mockingly handing her the phone
"Oh, your girlfriend has something to admit to you."
While overanalysing her face
"Oh, nice 1986 pink skiing googles that you call sunglasses."
But
Alas
Why feed the absurdity with more
Of the same
The leaves were showing signs of new color
The air was crisp
The hummingbirds were in Mexico
The music in my head was excellent as
The breeze blew over my neurons
Adios
La muchacha con no alma
Buenos dias
Para la Tierra
No one laughs as loudly or as exuberantly as a child
from the ghetto or the barrio.
I know, for I have worked with children
from a ghetto for six years, and from a barrio for five.
They have learned to laugh with absolute pure flat out sugar joy.
Their excited piercing scream-laugh can go from zero to sixty in seconds.
Every good moment for them is a victory lap.
For it is a moment when they realize their brothers and sisters are all alive.
No one has been shot in a drive by.
No one has found a dead body in the park today.
It might be a moment that Mom is not shooting up heroin.
It may be a moment that Dad comes home and does not beat on anyone.
But these children know how to celebrate a good moment.
Sure, they can be loud, but they have earned this right.
They might be dancing with pure joy because you gave them a piece of sausage pizza.
They might be jumping up and down with pure happy because you ate lunch with them.
I relish creating moments like these with the children I work with.
There is no laughter more boisterous, more happy, or more joyous than the laughter
of a child who knows how to cherish a moment.
If I can give one child a day, this moment, it is enough.
My job is done.
I’m the heartbeat of salsa, the rhythm of the conga,
Where Tito Puente’s spirit still dances on Third Avenue.
My murals speak louder than words—
Che Guevara, Celia Cruz, and the Spirit of East Harlem
Painted on every wall, telling stories of pride.
El Museo del Barrio stands tall,
A testament to our Latinx heritage,
While La Marqueta bustles with flavors of the island.
Oh, you think you’ve got the soul?
I birthed the Harlem Renaissance,
Langston Hughes and Zora Neale Hurston walked my streets.
The Apollo Theater echoes with the voices of legends,
And Rucker Park? It’s where streetball met the NBA.
My brownstones whisper tales of Strivers’ Row,
And Marcus Garvey Park stands as a monument to our history.
But have you seen my festivals?
The Puerto Rican Day Parade lights up 116th,
A sea of flags and music filling the air.
My bodegas hum with reggaeton beats,
And the scent of arroz con gandules wafts through the streets.
We honor our roots with pride and passion,
A community united by rhythm and tradition.
I’ve got my own rhythm, my own flair,
From the sounds of jazz to the gospel in the air.
Sylvia’s serves up soul food with a side of history,
And the Studio Museum showcases Black artistry.
My streets are lined with stories of resilience and grace,
A tapestry woven with every face.
True, our paths have crossed and intertwined,
But our spirits remain distinct, uniquely defined.
El Barrio pulses with a Latin beat,
While Harlem’s heart echoes with African roots beneath.
Together, we form a mosaic so grand,
A testament to the cultures that built this land.
Do you remember
when we left the baraylehan
early
at midnight
.
It was my alibi,
I really meant to
walk with you
I smiled when you held
my hand.
The nipa leaves
let go of the moon
as the music at the dance
went silent,
I kissed you.
The road was cold
the grass beside it moist
my heart was singing
and dancing
It stopped.