In Honor Of A Puerto Rican-American War Hero Dead In Somalia

Nancy Mercado    

I guess it's important to honor our dead
Even if they died for no true cause at all
I guess it's important to remember
One less young man on this earth
Even though he wasn't missed alive
I guess plaques and flowers
and scholarships are important
Even though it takes the snuffing out of a life
To recognize a life
I guess it's safe to cry after the fact
To pat our hero on his back
For a job well done while he lies in his coffin.

Memories are not a dangerous thing,
Memories can be replayed over & over
At no corporate expense,
Memories can be easily forgotten as such.

I guess the mayor done the right thing
Dedicating a community room
In the projects as an honor
A room that feels more like a concrete tomb
A room already erased from everyone's mind
A room, frigid, poor lit
Dark with broken down furniture.
We shouldn't complain
His mother received letters
From everyone and their mother
Expressing condolences
We shouldn't complain,
She became a television star
On the local cable station
Receiving all those plaques and proclamations
We shouldn't complain,
Even though the President couldn't attend
He sent his representative
Even though the Senator couldn't attend
He sent his representative
Even though the Governor of Puerto Rico couldn't attend
He sent his representative
We shouldn't complain,
His mother was given a chance
To come up to the podium
To say a few things in Spanish
That were never translated
She gets to keep all her photo albums
And all of those plaques and letters
Even though they'll fade
In time-

I Have Seen

I have witnessed the demise that is ours,
The brutal ways of the minute,
The selfishness of zooming wealth.
I've seen the land invaded,
Smashed beyond repair,
Smelled the air of smoke stacks
Towering bellows of babbling businessmen.
I have witnessed bone-ridden children
Who's flesh seems stretched, almost transparent,
Falling off lifeless
And know in some small town excess crop burns
In the name of profit.
I have heard the word
Of many-a-gold-laced pastor
Spewing forth psychological manipulations,
Digging his own grave with every breath.
I have swum inanimate oceans blanketed with fish
Who were my friends
And look up to see a grave hole in the dome
That protects us
And wonder how such a great species
Lies dormant of the mind in things that matter.
My eyes see and pity the petty creatures
That roam the stock exchanges of the earth.
My eyes, weep in an effort to understand our foolishness.
My eyes search for the natives who were once here,
For that which can move wretched tyrants towards
Knowing the importance of what is invisible.