The teacher writ him a memorable rote,

The prosecutor wrote a writ to note:

“He committed very horrible crimes,

And then insisted they were rhymes.”

Poet read the writ and then he stated;

“Dear prosecutor, if only you had waited,

“Teacher told Mother I was, “very bright,”

That’s the main reason that I write.”

Crimes against humanity “simply awful,”

Writ the prosecutor, “quite unlawful,”

“Assault and battery on the public ears,

raising trepidation and auditory fears.”

Poet’s crafty counsel quickly replied,

“My dear client, he was roped and tied,

“He is innocent like you and me,

He wished to please, can’t you see?”

Prosecutor demanded, with a curse,

“Why didn’t he try to write ‘free verse’?”

Poet stood up and addressed the jury,

“Do I look like I’m in a hurry?”

Continuing on Poet said,

“Free verse writers are not too kind,

memories should remain within the mind.

I am not concerned with saving

‘Time – – – in a Bottle’

to borrow words from another being,

the time is lost, hear ‘Cat in the Cradle’  or

‘Tears That Stain’,

in the East; maybe even more so than the West.

Can’t you hear? Can’t you hear?

The songs continue to beat my mind.

Beat my mind, beat my – – – – oh God – – – tunes beat my mind.”

And silence fell on the courtroom of memories.

The prosecutor made a second plea;

“Then we must charge you with crimes of the heart.”

Poet replied “Then let us start, I have never stolen love – – – let alone a heart;   

– – – – – – that I remember.”

Memories flowed, the voids in Poets mind suddenly filled with guilt.

 

“Where are the pleasant memories?”  Poet beseeched the empty courtroom

Where are all the Spanish songs we used to hear, and love, and then play again

– – – – – – and then make love once more?

Where is my Chicatita?  Where did our song go?

You are here,        yet you are not.

Did 1962 disappear?    –      –     –     –    –                 

Not to me, not to me, not to me.

The Caribbean,   did it disappear?    Neither that,    nor our music,     nor my love.

 

 

You are here and yet somewhere else.

Maybe you are in some other time, long ago.

Is that where you are? Have you returned to the sugar cane fields in Hormigeros with Mamacita and Popi?

Or are you in the fuzzy remnants of playing with friends on Calle Victoria?

 

Pury

Prosecutor sat back and thought aloud,

“Boy this poet is really proud,

He thinks he can, and then he does,

Free verse, strangely, just because.

It is in his heart and in his mind,

I’ll drop the charges; I’m so kind!”

Poet thanked him, then went out the door,

With tears on his cheeks, and on the floor.

Sometimes silly, at other times sad,

I think the Poet, is going quite mad.

 

© Copyright – Waldo Tomosky

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