Real eyes see truth where the neon dies,
real lies get sold in the tourist guides.
I realize Harlem’s still beating inside,
though condos creep up and the rents multiply.
Real highs in the drums on a Saturday night,
real cries in the dark when the bills get tight.
Surreal eyes dream past the gentrified scene,
where bodegas were kingdoms and the block was a queen.
Reel lies keep playing on the subway wall,
but real ties still gather when the elders call.
I realize Harlem’s a poem, a hymn,
no matter who’s moving out or who’s moving in.
Real eyes catch the cracks in the concrete,
real lies get whispered where the landlords meet.
I realize Harlem ain’t sleeping—it fights,
its pulse in the corner, its soul in the nights.
Real highs in the jazz spilling out of a door,
real cries when the system don’t love us no more.
Reel lies keep spinning on a flashing screen,
but surreal eyes still guard the unseen.
Real ties in the roots of this sacred ground,
real wise in the stories the elders pass down.
I realize Harlem’s not fading away—
it’s stitched in my blood, it’s here to stay.
Categories:
bodegas, inspirational, slam,
Form: Free verse
Did you hear about the rose
that bloomed in Harlem-
through concrete cracks, through chaos,
through prayers gone thin in steam?
A winter rose
shouldn’t bloom in this blaze-
but you, baby girl, unfold anyway.
Concrete beneath you,
sirens above,
a million ghosts whispering tough love.
You glide past bodegas and busted swings,
past aunties hollering from painted stoops,
past brothers pacing—palms tight with truth.
I watch your curls bounce down One-One-Four,
your laugh a lavender miracle,
soft, sure,
still surviving-
thriving-
in a garden that forgets to welcome
delicate things.
Still, I worry-
that the city might carve its name
into your softness
before you know
you are sacred.
That the sidewalk might swallow you
before you burst.
But Wynter,
you are no damsel,
no flower waiting for rescue.
You are named for frost,
raised in fire,
rooted in rhythms older than this street.
You rise with sunlight,
spin storms into dance,
and grow wild-
like you’ve always known
you could.
Categories:
bodegas, beauty, child, daughter, identity,
Form: Free verse
Past the bodegas
the House of Sages
Past the children playing
in the yard
Past the drugstore
chains
Past the basketball
hoops - - which remind
me
of a class at Brooklyn College
Past the ice cream trucks
and the kosher bakery
Past the supermarkets
Hearing people
discuss old politics
I head to my home
The Lower East Side
seeing my friends, avoiding my enemies
Looking for peace - as night falls
on Losaida - my home on the Lower East Side
Categories:
bodegas, urban, home, home, drug,
Form: Chant Royal
Old men and red wine (Portugal)
In the bodega old men drink red wine (never white)
They are proud of their elderliness and solves
The worlds many problems; something about keeping
your head down and work hard.
Then as shadows fall and night approaches, they go
home to wives who scold them gently for smelling of wine
but they do hope to meet their old friends tomorrow
afternoon at the bodega.
Not many bodegas left now, big wooden caskets of wine,
sink counter and stone floors, wine bars are taking over,
bottles of showy wine with posh labels like that should
have anything to do with friendship.
Categories:
bodegas, art, dedication, depression, devotion,
Form: Ode