Rosh Hashanah - Tashlich - L'shonah Tovah-

 -

 

Tikkun Olam
 

May we learn justice 
without which there is no peace;
may we learn compassion 
without which there is no justice.

                -Tashlich


 
These are the days of awe —
time of inventory----- 
    and a new beginning
when harvest of what we sowed-----
        comes in.
(What have we sown 
    of discord and terror?
Where have we fallen short 
    of justice?)

The scales dip and teeter;
there is so much
to discard,
so much to atone.

When our temples stood
we loaded a goat
    with our transgressions
        and sent it to the wild.
Now we must search our pockets
for crumbs of our trespasses,
our sins to cast upon the rivers.

The days are upon us
    to take stock of our hearts.
        It is time to dust
the images of our household gods, 
        our teraphim,-
                                our lares.



                        © Rafael Jesús González 2022


(Arabesques Review, vol. 3 no . 3, 2007; author’s copyrights) 




 

Que aprendamos justicia 
sin la cual no hay paz;
que aprendamos compasión 
sin la cual no hay justicia.

  

                    -Tashlij


 
Estos son los días de temor —
tiempo del inventario
    y un nuevo comienzo
cuando la cosecha de lo que sembramos
    entra.
(¿Qué hemos sembrado 
    de discordia y terror?
¿Dónde hemos fallado
    en la justicia?)

Las balanzas se inclinan y columpian;
hay tanto de que deshacerse,
tanto por lo cual expiar.

Cuando estaban en pie nuestros templos
cargábamos a una cabra
    con nuestros pecados 
        y la echábamos al desierto.
Ahora tenemos que buscar en los bolsillos
las migas de nuestras faltas,
nuestros pecados para echarlos a los ríos.

Están sobre nosotros los días
    para hacer inventario del corazón. 
        Es tiempo de sacudir
las imagines de nuestros dioses domésticos, 
    nuestros térafines,
                                    nuestros lares.



                                      © Rafael Jesús González 2022

--

Libra & Autumn Equinox

-

Libra y el Equinoccio Otoñal

 

La balanza se tambalea entre la vida y la muerte.

Cuando reces al Sol y a la Tierra

reconoce que tú eres la respuesta de la Madre

cuando actúas como sanador, sanadora 

y obras por la Tierra, la justicia, la paz.

Libra & Autumn Equinox

The balance teeters between life and death.

When you pray to the Sun and the Earth,

know that you are her answer 

when you act as healer

and work for the Earth, justice, peace.
  

 

-

 
                            Libra


Alumbran a la balanza del día y la noche,
el zafiro temprano del amanecer
y el ópalo tardío del atardecer.
Se alza en obelisco de jade, de nefrita
al punto cardinal del aire,
el apoyo del viento,
    y en cada platillo de cobre
se miden el arte y las consecuencias
        (el amor pesa en la ijada
        de la indecisión,
        en los lomos del deseo.)
La alzaprima del otoño
sostiene sobre el caos,
trémulos y vacilantes
    el sentir, el pensar —
        amor, belleza, verdad —
sueños, siempre sueños, justos sueños. 



                            © Rafael Jesús González 2022

---------------- Libra

 
The balance of day and night
is lit by the early sapphire of dawn
    and the late opal of dusk.
It rises on obelisk of nephrite, of jade
to the cardinal point of the air,
the lever of the wind,
    and on each copper plate
    are measured art and consequences
        (love weighs on the back
        of indecision,
        on the loins of desire.)
The fulcrum of autumn
holds over chaos
tremulous and irresolute
    feeling, thought —
        love, beauty, truth —
dreams, always dreams, just dreams.



                        © Rafael Jesús González 2022

- 

Día de independencia mexicana/Mexican Independence Day

   -

   Breve historia de un grito

Trescientos años después 

de la conquista se alzó el grito 

de dolores, grito de un pueblo
adolorido por independencia
del imperio. Veinte y unos años
después de ser independiente 
México perdió mas de la mitad 
de sus tierras al más joven 
impero del norte.
Y expulsando otra invasión
y sufridas otras tiranías
se hizo por revolución el grito
dolorido. De eso hace cien
y más años. ¿Qué puede decir 
una historia del hambre, la sed,
el dolor, la pena, el sufrir 
de la que se hace?
La injusticia echa raíces muy largas. 
Deshacerse de un yugo no es ser
libre, deshacerse de un yugo no es
lo mismo que lograr la justicia.
La lucha sigue. Pues ¡adelante!
mexican@s, chicano@s adelante mundo. 

La lucha sigue hasta la justicia.

¡Hasta la justicia sigue la lucha!

                                

                        © Rafael Jesús González 2022

(Somos en escrito, septiembre 2021; derechos reservados del autor)

                                     


         Brief History of a Cry

Three hundred years after 
the conquest, the cry of Dolores 
was raised, the cry of a hurt people
for independence from the empire. 
Twenty & some years
after being independent 
Mexico lost more than half 
of its land to the younger 
empire of the north.
And expelling another invasion
and suffering other tyrannies
the painful cry was made
for revolution. That was a hundred
and more years ago. What can a history 
say of the hunger, the thirst,
the pain, the sorrow, the suffering 
of which it is made?
Injustice sends very long roots. 
Throwing off a yoke is not to be
free; throwing off a yoke is not
the same as attaining justice.
The struggle goes on. So, onward
Mexicans, Chican@s onward world!
The struggle goes on until justice.
Until justice, the struggle goes on!

                             © Rafael Jesús González 2022

(Somos en escrito, septiembre 2021; author’s copyrights)

-

September 11

   -

-

The date of September 11 

is a day of tragedy 

for more than one reason.

photo by Marty Lederhandler AP

The eleventh day of the ninth month is a day painful to mark. On this day in 1973 the duly elected government of Chile was overthrown by instigation and with the active support of our government and the CIA, bringing a reign of terror that lasted for almost twenty years. On this day in 1991 my beloved comadre Guillermina Valdés de Villalva, founder of the Colegios de la frontera, was killed in a Continental Airlines plane crash near Houston, Texas. Ten years later on this day in 2001, twenty-one years ago, the twin towers of the World Trade Center in New York were brought down by terrorists.

With the destruction of the Towers went a great part of our slowly developing democracy, an accomplishment, not of foreign terrorists, but of our own government, a plutocracy* closer to fascism* than to anything else.

Now, twenty-one years later, after a series of criminal wars, the world economy depressed by the knavery of the corporations and banks, great abuse of human rights, facing climatic disaster, living a terrible pandemic, fascism has never been more real in the nation. We are faced with the terrifying threat of an absolute fascism (backed by the corporations, the wealthy 1%, and hoards of the unsatisfied, resentful, racist, violent) and a challenged hope of democracy. The options presented to us by the establishment are real but dismaying — and so many of us in state of denial.

The day of September 11, 2001, I wrote the following words — and, vindicated by the events of the intervening years, I stand by them:

Love and Thoughts to my Friends 

on a Dark Day

Since early this morning when a friend from New England called with the news of the destruction of the World Trade Center towers in New York, I have been in a daze, too stunned to sort out my feelings, my thoughts except for confirmation of my deep abhorrence of violence. Certainly pain and anger are there — and great fear.

I have not been able to get through to my friends in New York nor to my friends in Washington, D.C.; I do not know if they are well or not.

And despite the images on television, there is disbelief. How could it happen here? How could it happen to us? The mightiest contemporary nation, the current most powerful empire is vulnerable. Seeing the images of the twin towers, symbol of the greatest wealth and power on Earth, flaming, smoking, and finally collapsing against the skyline of monoliths that is New York made me think, in the midst of the horror of it all, of Goliaths falling in the plain. The Earth is shaken by their fall; the death, the pain suffered by so many through their fall wrings the heart. I am stunned by the pain of it.

But who the Davids are we do not know. Certainly not heroes to me nor to any one I know; villains rather. Davids in size only. But still, seeing some televised images of jubilation in parts of Palestine/Israel, they must be heroes to some — and to some in other places of the world as well.

Terrorism is a frightful term; even more horrible is its reality. What does it mean? Webster’s New World Dictionary succinctly defines it as: 1) use of terror and violence to intimidate, subjugate, etc., especially as a political weapon or policy; and 2) intimidation and subjugation produced in this way. Terror.

I see those images of jubilation on the television and I wonder what could induce such elation at such destruction, such death, such suffering. Terror. Terror like that in New York today except on a smaller scale, day to day terror at the hands of Israeli soldiers, and terror in response, and then more terror in retaliation — a story without end.

The day to day terror in Iraq with children ill and no medicine with which to treat them, little food to give them. The day to day terror in Nigeria and other parts of Africa. The day to day terror in so many parts of Latin America, of Asia, of everywhere. A policy, a political weapon to subjugate.

And who has most to gain by it? A hundred images come to mind, but a simple, nagging cipher blinks on and off against them all: we in the United States are six percent (6%) of the world’s people and yet we consume sixty percent (60%) of what the Earth gives. (And, we hold the highest proportion of our people in prison.) These are formulas of terror.

And we are vulnerable. And I think — the only protection is justice. The only protection is to be so just, so fair that none would wish us ill. No, not even the gods are so just, but if only we tried. If only we concerned ourselves with sharing the Earth’s wealth with everyone of our brothers and sisters. If only we honored the Earth and protected her so that she might continue to sustain us. If only we honored each other. If only we honored life.

I would like to think that we could respond to this horror in New York and Washington, D.C. with a commitment to justice for the world. Not merely the primitive, crude vengeance and retaliation I hear demanded, but true justice that would put an end to terror, not only the terror such as that of this day in New York and in the Capital, but the day to day terror of hunger, of lack of medicine, lack of shelter, of education, of freedom and the violence all that brings. Terror.

But what I see does not make me hopeful. I am afraid. I am afraid of our institutionalized terrorism, our policies of terror that hold the world in thrall. I am afraid of the man in the office of President of the United States who was not elected into office, afraid of his associates, afraid of the Supreme Court which has broken its trust as impartial interpreter of the law of the land. I am afraid of this President who would destroy the Earth for the profit of it, who insists upon an insane system of nuclear “defense” to further enforce a policy of terror.

I am afraid for the peoples of the world. I am just as afraid for us citizens of this United States. I am afraid that the tragedy of today will be used to justify the destruction of what freedom, what civil liberties we have, of a democracy for which clearly the President of the United States and his ilk have no respect.

I am afraid of Goliaths and of the Davids they breed.

But still, more deeply rooted than my fear is my love of the Earth and of its people and of all our relations. Because of this, I trust that our work toward justice and peace will go on in joy of life and that, for all the darkness, it will prevail.

Berkeley, September 11, 2001

--------------- The Towers

------------September 11, 2001

The towers fall as if,
-----seen through crossed eyes,
a Goliath fell brought down by a David.

Behind the myths
-----who of us is the guilty?
---------Who the innocent?
What is the distance
-----between justice and vengeance?

Death is inevitable, not fair.
And when the innocent are caught
in the webs of violence, it is terrible.

May the Earth hold them in rest.
If we would make a monument
worthy of their deaths,
in honor and memory of them,
let us pledge ourselves
----- to freedom,
----- true justice,
------world peace.

For if death be not just
let just be our lives.



----------~ Rafael Jesús González 


(Abalone Moon, Nov. 6, 2007; author's copyrights)


 

photo by Marty Lederhandler AP

------------Las Torres
 
---------11 septiembre 2001

Se derriban las torres como
-----si visto por ojos cruzados,
cayera un Goliat abatido por un David.

Detrás de los mitos
-----¿quiénes somos los culpables?
----------¿quiénes los inocentes?
¿Cual es la distancia
------entre la justicia y la venganza?

La muerte es inevitable, no justa.
Y cuando los inocentes caen
en las redes de la violencia, es terrible.

Que la Tierra los tenga en descanso.
Si monumento hiciéramos
digno de sus muertes
en honor y memoria de ellos
comprometámonos
-----a la libertad,
-----a la justicia verdadera,
-----a la paz mundial.

Que si la muerte no es justa,
justas sean nuestras vidas.

----------~ Rafael Jesús González 


(Abalone Moon, noviembre 6, 2007;
derechos reservados del autor)

New York skyline, 9/11/01

On a more personal level, it was on September 11, 1991 that my beloved comadre, scholar, organizer, activist, founder of the Colegios de la Frontera Guillermina Valdés de Villalva was killed when a Continental Airlines airplane crashed near Houston, Texas. Sick with pain and rage, I wrote: 

Huehuecóyotl

---Advertencia De Coyote

-----------------------para Guille

Siempre lucharé por lo bueno,
corazón en el hocico,
un grito en el corazón
y el corazón en el grito.
Por eso anoche bailé,
-----tiré la chancla,
---------wriggled my butt,
--------------meneé el culo
hasta las horas escuincles
de la madrugada
porque tal como a algunos nos toca
hacer penitencia por otros
a otros nos toca hacer
la gracia por los demás
y por eso les prometo
que seguiré meneando el culo
hasta que ya no lo pueda
y mantendré verde el rabo
hasta que me lo tape la tierra.


---------~ Rafael Jesús González 

(Siete escritores comprometidos: obra y perfil; Fausto Avendaño, director; 

Explicación de Textos Literarios vol. 34 anejo 1; diciembre 2007; 

Dept. of Foreign Languages; California State University Sacramento; 

derechos reservados del autor.)

Guillermina Valdés

---------Coyote’s Notice

--------------------------for Guille


I will always struggle for the good,
heart in the snout,
a cry in the heart
and the heart in the shout.
Thus I danced last night,
-----tiré la chancla,
---------wriggled my butt,
--------------meneé el culo
until the puppy hours
of the morning
because such as it is for some
to do penance for others
for others it is up to us
to make grace for the rest
and so I promise
I will continue to wriggle my butt
until I cannot
and I will keep my tail green
until it is covered by dust.


---------~ Rafael Jesús González 



It was on September 11, 1973 that the U. S. C.I.A.-instigated military coup in Chile overthrew the legally elected and popular government of Salvador Allende initiating an era of brutal dictatorship and bloodshed.  President Allende was murdered as was the poet-composer Víctor Jara among thousands of others. The aging poet Pablo Neruda was held under house arrest where he died soon after.

bombing of the Palacio de la Moneda, the Presidential headquarters 

--------Rastro de la gota
----------------------a Pablo Neruda

------------------I

Te recuerdo en Holanda
donde las rosas carecen de olor
y el alma que le diste a la máquina
no conoce a la gente.
Tu vicio es vicio de amar
y en tu lengua hasta el cardo
-----sabe dar miel —
hay sangre como la de Federico
-----que sabe doler.
Pero aquí las pupilas son de vidrio
y la desesperación es una gota de agua
que se escurre por los canales dorados,
no de limones sino de hojas muertas.

---------------------II

Hace nueve años que en Holanda
te compuse un verso —
----lleno de agua, hojas secas
----y visión de limones.

Era noviembre —
--------------------es ahora octubre —
el diez cuento mis treinta y ocho
y te has muerto.

Te pienso amapolas y geranios —
el cuero de España y Chile ensangrentado —
hambre, sed,
---------------uvas y luceros.
Hay inventarios en mis huesos
y ortigas en los surcos de mis dedos.

Poeta — me faltan azucenas de consuelo.
------Poeta — me duele Chile
-----------como una punzada en el cerebro.
------Poeta — estoy entumido;
lo único que siento es que has muerto.



-----------------~ Rafael Jesús González 


------(El hacedor de juegos/The maker of Games;
-------Casa Editorial, San Francisco 1977;
-------derechos reservados del autor.)  




---------Track of the Drop

---------------------------to Pablo Neruda

----------------------I

I remember you in Holland
where the roses lack color
and the soul you gave the machine
does not know the people.
Yours is the vice of loving
and on your tongue even the thistle
----knows how to give honey —
there is blood like that of Federico
----that knows how to hurt.
But here the pupils are of glass
and despair is a drop of water
that runs through the canals golden,
not with lemons but dead leaves.

---------------------II

It has been nine years that in Holland,
I wrote you a poem —
------full of water, dry leaves
------and a vision of lemons.

It was November —
--------------------now it is October —
on the tenth I count my thirty-eighth
and you have died.

I think you poppies and geraniums —
the skin of Spain and bloodied Chile —
hunger, thirst,
----------------grapes and stars.
There are inventories in my bones
and nettles in the furrows of my fingers.

Poet — I lack lilies of consolation.
-----Poet — Chile pains me
--------------like a sting in the brain.
-----Poet — I am numb;
the only thing I feel is that you are dead.


--------------~ Rafael Jesús González 

(Laughing Unicorn, Fall 1980; author’s copyrights)

Pablo Neruda

The death of poet musician Víctor Jara has become a legend, almost a popular myth. It is told that being held in the Stadium of Santiago de Chile among the multitude of political prisoners, he took his guitar and began to sing. His songs being so popular, the other prisoners accompanied him. The guards then grabbed his guitar and stomped it to pieces under their boots. Then with their bayonets they cut off Victor’s hands. According to the story, Victor continued singing until, his blood draining into the sand, he died.

jacket of one of Víctor Jara's albums

-----------Las manos

-----------------------a Víctor Jara

Cada cuerda rota
una de seis flechas pintadas
que el arco de tu voz lanza
contra la injuria —
cada dedo un punzón
en la conciencia

---cada gota una nota contra el silencio.

Caen las aves negras,
sus plumas nieve enlutada,
en la memoria
donde la sangre hierve

---cada gota una nota contra el silencio.

Las manos caen en la arena,
cada una una fuente roja
que corre hacia un mar sin islas

---cada gota una nota contra el silencio.

Hermano, los gorriones se espichan;
se han roto los cántaros del tiempo
y tu canto corre por el mundo entero

---cada gota una nota contra el silencio:

---cuando la sangre crece alas
---se le llama libertad

---cada gota una nota contra el silencio.


--------------~ Rafael Jesús González 

(Siete escritores comprometidos: obra y perfil; Fausto Avendaño, director; 

Explicación de Textos Literarios vol. 34 anejo 1; diciembre 2007; 

Dept. of Foreign Languages; California State University Sacramento; 

derechos reservados del autor.)

Víctor Jara

----------The Hands

----------------------to Víctor Jara


Each broken string
one of six painted arrows
the bow of your voice sends
against outrage —
each finger a lance
in the conscience

---each drop a note against silence.

The black birds fall,
their feathers snow in mourning,
upon memory
where the blood boils

---each drop a note against silence.

The hands fall on the sand,
each a red fountain
that runs toward a sea without islands

---each drop a note against silence.

Brother, the sparrows grow shy;
the jars of time have broken
and your song runs through the world

---each drop a note against silence:

---when the blood grows wings
---it is called freedom

---each drop a note against silence.


---------------------~ Rafael Jesús González 



(Second Coming, Vol. 14 no. 1, 1986;
The Montserrat Review #4, 2002;
nominated for Pushcart Prize;
author’s copyrights)

* * *

Now September 11 is to be celebrated as a day of pain and infamy which only our work for a whole Earth,  justice, and peace may redeem.

-

-
-

full moon: Moon in Sweltering Night

 

-

Moon in Sweltering Night

 

for Barbara Ehrenreich

 

 

The glaciers melt, forests burn, storms flood the cities, some rivers flood, some dry, the oceans rise, grow warm, species disappear, the Earth is fevered. 

 

Tonight the moon rises full and her soft light seems to sooth the sweltering night. 

 

Once symbol of chastity, I read that she is to be violated once again by the kleptocracy and its minions that rule the country. It is necessary, they say, as a first step to reaching Mars. Besides, the ice in its craters could be turned into drinking water, oxygen, or fuel for permanent bases on the moon. 

 

We have to get ahead of China, they say at NASA, pushed by the likes of Elon Musk and Jeff Bezos who would turn space travel into jaunts for tourists of their class who could afford it. For which, as a capitalist kleptocracy works, Musk and Bezos have support and funding from NASA. 

 It will cost a mere $100 billion. Meanwhile, many of us are without healthcare, without education, without homes, without food and potable water, suffer devastating storms and wildfires. We need to reverse climate change that threatens life itself. 

 

And the violators of the Earth, killers and enslavers of others of our kind, of all that lives, having raped the Mother of whom they came, invaders and colonizers, squander their ill-gotten wealth to perhaps build their dream Mar-a-Lago on Mars when Earth, because of them, can no longer support life. Having fucked-up the Earth, they now fuck up the heavens. 

 

I look at the moon so maligned for being the cause of madness, poor sterile sister of the Earth, midwife and madrina, and thank her for her borrowed light. 

 

 

 

© Rafael Jesús González 2022

 

 

 

Luna en noche sofocante

 

a Barbara Ehrenreich

 

 

Los glaciares se derriten, los bosques arden, las tormentas inundan las ciudades, algunos ríos se inundan, otros se secan, los océanos se elevan, se calientan, especies desaparecen, la Tierra está febril.

 

Esta noche sale la luna llena y su suave luz parece aliviar la noche sofocante.

 

Una vez símbolo de castidad, leí que será violada una vez más por la cleptocracia y sus secuaces que gobiernan el país. Es necesario, dicen, como primer paso para llegar a Marte. Además, el hielo de sus cráteres podría convertirse en agua potable, oxígeno o combustible para bases permanentes en la Luna.

 

Tenemos que adelantarnos a China, dicen en la NASA, empujados por tales como Elon Musk y Jeff Bezos, que convertirían los viajes espaciales en excursiones para los turistas de su clase que pudieran pagarlas. Para lo cual, como tal funciona una cleptocracia capitalista, Musk y Bezos cuentan con el apoyo y financiamiento de la NASA.

 

Costará apenas 100.000 millones de dólares. Mientras tanto, muchos de nosotros estamos sin atención médica, sin educación, sin hogar, sin comida y sin agua potable, sufriendo tormentas e incendios arrasadores.

Necesitamos revertir el cambio climático que amenaza la vida misma.

 

Y los violadores de la Tierra, asesinos y esclavizadores de otros de nuestra especie, de todo lo que vive, habiendo violado a la Madre de la que vinieron, invasores y colonizadores, derrochan sus riquezas mal ganadas para tal vez construir su sueño Mar-a-Lago en Marte cuando la Tierra, por su culpa de ellos, ya no pueda sostener la vida. Habiendo jodido a la Tierra ahora jodan a los cielos.

 

Miro a la luna tan difamada por ser la causa de la locura, pobre hermana estéril de la Tierra, partera y madrina, y le agradezco su luz prestada.

 

 

 

© Rafael Jesús González 2022

-

Life is a complicated dance

 -

La vida es baile complicado
 
 
La vida es baile complicado
Y cuando nuestras parejas de baile son
Hermes, Alegua o coyote
un paso en falso nos puede hacer caer
en una tina de mierda — o fuego, 
cagada ardiente más probable 
y ahogarnos en lástima y remordimiento.
O podemos seguir a Shiva 
en su bailar y encontrar sanar
en sus llamas purificantes. 

                                © Rafael Jesús González 2022

Life Is a Complicated Dance
 
 
Life is a complicated dance
and when our dance partners are
Hermes, Alegba, or coyote
a misstep can land us
in a vat of shit — or fire,

burning dung most likely,
and drown in pity and remorse.
Or we can follow Shiva 
in his dance and find healing 
in his purifying flames. 

 

                © Rafael Jesús González 2022  

         

-

Labor Day — thank you all workers

 --

-

                            Trabajor(a)

 

El que trabaja con sus manos es obrero,

el que trabaja con sus manos y su cabeza 

es artesano, el que trabaja con sus manos

y su cabeza y su corazón es artista, 

    así dijiste hermano Francisco.

¿Eras artista entonces, hermano,

reconstruyendo San Damián y 

la capilla de Ntra. Sra. Reina de los Ángeles?

No conozco hombre o mujer que trabaje

sólo con las manos sin la cabeza

agobiada que sea o sin el corazón

aunque esté amargo y doliente.

Son la circunstancias injustas que separan

las manos de la cabeza y del corazón. 

Obreros, artesanos, artistas 

somos todos trabajadores — 

nos ganamos el pan y ponemos

el pan, y el vino, en las mesas.

Si pobreza hay no es culpa nuestra;

es generosa la Tierra cuando no cae 

en las manos de los avaros. 

Si bautizo hay de agua y de sangre

también la hay del sudor.

 

                                © Rafael Jesús González 2022

(Fighting Fascism; Jack Hirschman, John Curl, Lisbit Bailey Eds; 

San Francisco 2021; derechos reservados del autor.)

 

 

                                Worker

 

He who works with his hands is a laborer,

He who works with his hands & his head 

is a craftsman, he who works with his hands

& his head and his heart is an artist, 

-----so you said, brother Francis.

Were you then an artist, brother,

rebuilding St. Damian & 

the chapel of Our Lady Queen of the Angels?

I do not know man or woman who works

only with the hands without the head 

weighed down as it be or without heart

though it be bitter & hurting.

It is unjust circumstances that separate

the hands from the head & the heart. 

Laborers, crafts-folk, artists

we are all workers — 

we earn our bread & put

bread, & wine, on the tables.

If poverty there be it is no fault of ours;

the Earth is generous when it does not fall

into the hands of the greedy.

If there is baptism of water & blood

so also there is of sweat.

 

                                        © Rafael Jesús González 2022

(Fighting Fascism;  Jack Hirschman, John Curl, Lisbit Bailey Eds; 

San Francisco 2021; author's copy rights.)

 

 

 

 

 

  

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