Roberto Clemente

On December 31, 1972, one of the greatest baseball players of all time and, moreover, a tremendous humanitarian, Puerto Rico's Roberto Clemente was killed. His airplane, carrying relief supplies, including food, clothing and other support for Nicaraguan people displaced after a recent earthquake, crashed off of the Puerto Rican coast. His body was never found. The next day this story was, of course, reported in newspapers all over the world. I read about this as a seven year-old boy on that New Years' Day, the day my mom endeavored to take down our then artificial Christmas tree. When she did so, she took some of the newspaper of that day -- including the headlines, photos and story of Clemente's death -- and used it to line and/or pad the bottom of the fraying box in which we'd put the parts and limbs of our tree year after year. And so, year after year, every December we'd break out our Christmas tree and I would behold the story of Roberto Clemente's death as if it had happened yesterday. I recall this plot repeating itself well into my teens. I wrote the following last night:

"Roberto Clemente (21)"

yellow newspapers;

auld lang syne

again and again...

we cower 'neath the light

of a dead star.

are we sad

the holidays secede

yet again

from the grasp of our anticipation;

our blind waltz with euphoria?

aren't we sad

we fail to fill the boots

of our resolutions?

pale faces

aimless gazes

under the star light

that bends our knees

sullies our palms

supplicant....

broken down to be rechanneled

and bear witness

to a new light,

and then take flight

over seas

over mountains

to rain good

snow charity

and dispel clouds

to reveal love

in bold relief

in the stead of endless days

of waiting

wanting

of wondering.

teach us

to teach,

there is no time

for opened eyes;

no passion

in the shadow of the light.

the star disappeared

before we knew how to speak

and do;

disappeared

shooting star

but never forgotten.