O Beautiful! & Santa Cruz, Abandonada

O Beautiful!

O beautiful, we sing.
From innocence to grave,
we extol mountainsides
and their purple majesty.

With raptured hearts
we praise grain-filled waves
and laud valleys garlanded
with fruited pageantry.

In this our homeland
of templed peaks, we pay
homage to gentle seas
of amber and we chant
with patriotic ardor

how pilgrim fathers
their glorious end did meet.
Should we not also sing
of the labor of the chained,

and of the weary hands and feet
that even now move fruit
and grain to hearth from
sun-drenched acres?

Beat the drums, yes,
but beat also for those who
risk it all as they head north.
Let the songs heap praise on

pioneers crossing mountain gaps
but let’s also sing of those
who walked across entire countries
to get to where the desert begins.

 

Santa Cruz, Abandonada

I came upon you in a ghetto
  of long-forsaken
  gravesites at the edge
  of Cemeterio Benito Juárez:             two fragile slabs
                                                           of weathered wood,
                                                           cracked and delicate,
                                                           united by a single nail.

Wrapped around you, a rickety chain
    safeguarded by a small roundish lock
    and a stiff strand of triple-strength
    wire securing two delicate
    rose-like blossoms:                          petals and pistils pounded
                                                           out of thin sheets
                                                           and strands of metal.

Your chain, lock, cord
  and flowers had long ago
  been covered by rust:                        layers of orange,
                                                           and umber
                                                           burnt and raw.

But the tarnish had left the keyhole
  on your lock clean, unclogged,
  as if hope existed, after all
  these years:                                       for the return
                                                           of the person
                                                           with the key. 

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Juan R. Palomo grew up in South Texas and earned a BS in art from Texas State University and an MA in journalism from American University. He worked at The Houston Post, Austin American Statesman and USA TODAY. His poems have appeared in The Acentos Review and The Account Magazine.