A Year and a Day - Grace Cappella

My brother embarked for the port of Bombay
He said, “I'll be back in a year and a day.”
I waved my farewell, I whispered a prayer,
Wished that once more he would tousle my hair;
“Bring him back, bring him back,” pleaded I of the sea,
Return thou my brother to me, to me,
Return thou my brother to me.”

All through the summer I minded the house,
Mother was ill; the cat caught not a mouse
Then a letter arrived from him, brightened my day,
He wrote he was well and halfway to Bombay.
I gazed at the waves and repeated my plea,
“Return thou my brother to me, to me,
Return thou my brother to me.”

When in Autumn a ship did come in, flag half-mast,
I trembled for fear that cruel Death had flown past.
A sailor, cap off and downcast at our door—
Then—“Annie, thy brother is, sadly, no more.”
I said it can't be and ran down to the sea;
“Return thou my brother to me, to me,
Return thou my brother to me!”

As time went on I heard more of the tale:
A captain had seen him go down in a gale.
No survivors; to that he could surely attest,
But it could not extinguish hope's fire in my breast!
Not a day let I pass without voicing my plea:
“Return thou my brother to me, O sea,
Return thou my brother to me!”

I waited and watched though the snow did fly,
Recalled his last whisper, embrace, his goodbye,
Stared toward the horizon till my eyes grew sore
Then walked home, in despair, to my room, shut the door.
And once more did I offer my plea to the sea:
“Return thou, I charge thee, my brother to me!
Return thou my brother to me!”

Wild winter swept by and became a warm spring
Still kept I my vigil, though hope was fading.
Folks called me crazy and bade me forget,
But I couldn't give up, I just couldn't—not yet.
Resuming my plea, I did beg of the sea,
“Return thou my brother to me, to me,
Return thou my brother to me!”

Twelve months it had been; he had but one day left
'Fore I would believe truly he'd gone adrift.
Once more did I strain to catch sight of his ship,
But it did not appear, and my hopes took a dip.
For the last time I offered my plea to the sea,
“Return thou my brother to me, to me,
Please return thou my brother to me.”

All night I kept tryst on the shore of the bay
Till the stars faded out at the breaking of day,
And there was his ship! He was back from Bombay!
He'd returned, as promised, in a year and a day!
I gasped in surprise, I danced in my glee,
“O sea, you have brought back my brother to me!
You have brought back my brother to me!”

As soon as they anchored he rushed out to me,
Embraced me as when he'd first left for the sea—
“I've returned, as I said, in a year and a day!
Why then dost thou look at me fearfully, pray?”
I replied, “I had heard you were lost in the sea,
Yet I hoped every day that thee'd come back to me,
That thou wouldst return unto me.”

The village still slept; not a sound broke the peace
But our whispers and muffled steps in booted feet.
I could not contain my great joy anymore;
With a shout I proclaimed as we reached our own door:
“My brother is back, he is back from the sea!
The sea has returned my own brother to me!
At last he's returned unto me!”

The Phoenix - Kawana L. Smith

Jadedly winging his way toward the west,

His breast  a dull red,

And his drooping head

Looking to find his belated rest.

A scented nest,

Cinnamon and myrrh,

Become his sepulcher;

Here, Death shall have its conquest.

He sings a song of the sun setting old,

The fragrant pyre

A requiem of fire,

Until third morn when embers are cold.

Then arise, Phoenix, arise!

Death's gate is rift!

Now from the ashes lift

A flame coloured wing toward the skies!

The Thirsty Washing - Nathan R. Petrie

“And a woman in the town who was a sinner…stood behind Him at His feet, weeping, and began to wash His feet with her tears.”- Luke, the physician

I skipped across rocks, and balanced
on concrete paths across the water.
My two hundred dollar sneakers
gripped crap-covered stones.
I leapt off a tire for dry gravel
and fell short, left foot sinking
into the river of sludge—
into the dark, fizzing pool, miles
from my camp.

Then silently, she came from the rubble
with a basin like we use to wash our dog.
She skipped over tires floating
in rain, trash, and sewage,
careful not to slide
into the bubbling black muck
as I had moments before.

She offered her rarest,
clear, drinking water
so my rich-white-man shoes could be cleaned.
But the grime clung
like the wealthy to their cash,
and I could not wash
it myself.

So, she took my shoe
and meticulously scraped
mud, waste, and mire
from its tongue, top, and sole
until it shined like Caribbean ocean.
Like grace and its fountain
rain down on the dirty,
the gift of her water
made my black shoe white.

I came to help the thirsty,
and the thirsty washed my feet.