The author was born at home, on Carmine Street, New York City, N.Y., May 29,1938 to Concetta and Carlo Serra. He is the sixth son of seven and one sister. As a child the family moved to Spring Valley, N. Y., in Rockland County, where he attended a four room country school, Brick Church. He later graduated Spring Valley High. A graduate of Rockland Community College, class of 1961, AA; Fairleigh Dickinson University, class of 1968, BA; Montclair State University MA, Sociology, 1976. An educator by profession and an operative mason by trade. His teaching career included classes as an adjunct instructor of Sociology at SUNY Rockland, Professor of Sociology at SUNY Orange, and Secondary Education, Ramapo Central, Suffern, N.Y. He is a retired member of The International Union of Bricklayers and Allied Craftworkers, Local 5 NY.

Perceptions

By Paul B. Serra

AuthorHouse

Copyright © 2011 Paul B. Serra
All right reserved.
ISBN: 978-1-4685-0828-4

Chapter One

      Freedom


    On this hollowed ground, on the banks of this great river,
    For a second time raise again a votive stone to me.
    Do not forget me, don't ever forget me,
    So long as you breathe, love, touch, laugh, weep,
    Not to forget, for as long as you know the price freedom
    demands, of what waiting alone is like to broken lovers,
    As long as you own the soul—heart of humanity,
    As long as you resemble the image, in any disguise,
    In any color, do not forget me.

    But some have forgotten, for some too often forget
    The bitter taste of fear, blood, fire, murder, war;
    The inevitable sweeping sword of truth and justice.
    But do not forget me, as long as you live remember.
    Let me see it in your face, in your handshake,
    In each sip of soup and bite of daily bread;
    You will not forget me!

    You will not forget God lives in each of us,
    If but for a moment:
    The child torn apart, the unmolested doll in a
    Tiny severed hand, each wound, each shattered body
    Or turned to dust, each crying lung yelling do not forget;
    For me.


      Something About The Color

    Where the house divided against itself
    Could not stand, leaves a bloody legacy
    Of relentless feuds fought no-longer
    In silent desperations concerning
    Something about the color.

    Capital pin-strip suits reveal warring games,
    Exposing disguised life long quarrels
    Of self against another color of self.
    Creating nothingness.

    Razor words like secret weapons wait to humble
    Our humiliated humanity.
    The child's dead black triumph in weary labor
    echo the chant of crimson crying outs.
    We clothe them still, in what science pretends is race.

    Human reason replies with distain at being defined
    By width of nose, strand of hair,
    Rather than our inner wear.
    If we're satisfied by what anthropologist theorize is true,
    Then zoologist need to redefine chicken, lobster and the stew.


    Arlington, Virginia, July 1976

    Their white aging heads are beautiful
    Above the full grace of ended youth.
    Standing sentinels unforgotten, silent
    Flag draped earthen mounds.
    Decorations of patina eagles, crosses
    An high relief emblazon stars.
    Witness to so vast a destruction, neatly,
    In steadfast precision, stretch rank
    Upon gleaming rank into the long
    Shadowed violet-crimson dusk.

    We give praise to you our youth,
    Whose hot blood will not discover
    The coinage of having lived through youth,
    Given time to wait, remember.
    For you the unrevealed nothing extra,
    We believe is eternal peace, upon
    The honored isle of youth.
    Where you will never share infirmities,
    Possess forever our burning glory.


      Fallen American Soldier

    That life would be forever in contract signed,
    Yet we know all will pass in time.
    To lawyers consternation is its will,
    In speed of light or standing still.

    In swiftness or in burning haste embrace,
    Like the stone deflects the bullet's trace
    With energy lost in waste.
    Holding the power to stand at will
    Cannot be parted or die disgraced.

    Now they sleep, sink, return to dust and rest.
    Kneel all countrymen in farewell bless.
    In some returning Spring may their dress be white,
    More decked in grace standing in His light.

    In trumpet song their glory being,
    In unknown forms their gift to sing;
    In honor carry them in Pilgrim grey,
    May God bless the ground for each this day.
    In hope their precious gift to us declare,
    May we always keep a lamplight guarded there.


      Mother Nature's Doubt

    Did our invented heavens understand the child
    Whose gregarious voice load and courageous,
    With returning fullness, an undefiled,
    Echo through the silent city streets and mountains;
    Raise them up unbound.

    Could this earth tell the sons she possessed.
    The wounded beasts and men whose trails
    Of blood into her breast she bore;
    To each she gave a blessing best at hand.

    How soon she comes to call us out,
    As each year becomes us trim or stout.
    She does not linger or stand about,
    But strips our time down to the bone.

    She has no aim but to forget, leave us in peace;
    Spread our ashes such to forget the years,
    Millenniums yet unknown, unknowable
    And forever anonymous.

    Once marked for perfection, but tarnished by greed,
    Trading countryman and truth for a temporary
    Warm bank account upon which to rest.
    A sense of comfort not easily acquiesced.


      Forms

    For those who know the gift of light
    See darkness and light as equal things.
    Sometimes it's...