Can I sing you, Brother Martin,
saint whose hands know work, like mine?
Would that we could sit together,
tell our cuentos, sip some wine.
Soon I'll close the church till morning.
Please guide me walking home alone.
Not a safe place for a woman.
Justice this old world postpones.
Speaking to our sweeping rhythms,
let us plot for those in need.
Can't you scare these stubborn faithful,
with your powers intercede?
Bread you gave to those in hunger,
kindness to the child alone,
held the trembling hand that suffered,
kindness from a man disowned.
Is it true when you were sweeping,
cats and dogs would come to chat,
telepathically you'd answer,
query disbelieving rats?
Brother Broom, with just a handshake,
you could cure a soul in pain.
Oh, I wish that you could touch me,
make these old joints fresh again.
Would that you had time to teach me
bilocation, such a trick,
not that I deserve the honor
and pleading seems impolitic.
You liked flying and liked gardens,
so practice aerial delights.
Come see roses, tulips, daisies.
Can't I whet your appetite?
Ay, that I had seen the shining,
from your oratorio,
in your habit, man so prayerful,
that your very self would glow.
How we come, the dark-skinned faithful,
comforted to see you here,
able to confide our sorrows
to a black man's willing ear.
Your corrido I must finish
for priests frown at such casual songs,
frowning is their special talent,
but still, protect them all night long.
Help me listen to my garden,
cease wrinkled judgments based on skin,
our colored sacks like bulbs or seeds
that hold our fragrant selves within.
* That's Martin de Porres...ahem!
Biretta-tip to Archistrategos at Ecce Ego, Quia Vocasi Me for posting this, and graciously allowing me to repost it here.
St. Martin's Feast Day: November 3; November 5 or so, in Piqua...