The Apostles of Humboldt Park (I, Apostle)
-Tony Fitzpatrick

I.

I, Apostle of Humboldt Park,
Of the stately elms, the weeping oaks,
and nestled Pines.

Of Wood Ducks, Wild Geese,
And Great Horned Owls.
Of salsa music served up with pork and black beans. Of old men accompanying cement benches,
and listening to the still music of the Lagoon, the wind, and the slow swaying of branches.

I, Apostle of the Paleteros – dispensing coconut,
lemon, melon, or passion fruit.
And for an extra buck or two, he’ll pour a shot of rum into a coconut ice.

I, Apostle of the radiant sunlight,
the slow and steady thrum of insect songs,
the drone of dragonflies hovering over water.

The Medicine is present
in each of these musics,
in every attending ghost.

II.

I, Apostle of the Green Heron,
Standing as still as a ballerina made from ice
at the edge of the Lagoon, waiting for bluegills.

I, Apostle of Woodpeckers:
Downy and Red-Bellied that
jitterbug from tree to tree.

Of Barn Swallows dancing and diving on air,
under the Bridge, nestled next to Humboldt Boulevard.
Of giant fiberglass swan pedal-boats and bicycle cops.

Of the holy joggers,
flinging sweat willy-nilly with their
furious and satisfied exhaustion.

I Apostle of the Cardinals,
Red Winged Blackbirds, and visiting Oriole
in a grassy puddle eating a discarded orange.

I , Apostle of Tito Puente, Drake, and
Teddy Pendergrass songs, all to be heard
in one walk around the Lagoon.

Of the healing greenery
washing away our dances of cruelty
and consequences.

Of the roaring whispers of summer
sounds and touch.
Heat and light.

III.

We see them, the Canada Geese
in winter, walking across the frozen Lagoon;
We call them “The Jesus Geese”

We bring them cracked corn, and peanuts.
I drop handfuls of corn and nuts
at the webbed feet of a familiar bird
and he rubs his head against my leg.

I, Apostle of the winter Geese,
of bundled old ladies and Dark Eyed Juncos.
Of random kindnesses from dog walkers.

I, Apostle of Baron Alexander von Humboldt
for whom this glorious Park is named.
Naturalist, Botanist, Teutonic
lover of all things that the dirt and earth give to us.

I, Apostle of Frederick Law Olmstead
the man who designed Humboldt Park.
The poor bastard came here for dentistry—
and got hustled into designing the Park.

See, that’s how we do it in Chicago.
Little something for you? Lots of things for me.
Old as Moses and common as dirt.

I, Apostle of the winter stillness,
the paring down to white, gray, and black lines.
The cold communion of radiant and hidden lights.

IV.

I, Apostle of the Nuthatches, charging madly
up and down the branches urgent as commuters;
flashing their slate-blue and black and white plumage
the perfect Winter dress.

I , Apostle the jibarito trailer; its summer smells wafting through
the music and cannabis scents,
a sweet cologne of community:
The jibarito tastes like Puerto Rico,
the trailer smells like someone else’s faraway home.

One pork jibarito and one lemon paleta
and We the People are good.
In winter, I miss nothing like I miss this.
In winter, this magic place can
be as sad as a bus station at two in the morning.

Winter baffles the voice of the Park, with her endless palette of color.
Winter renders her in gray and white
unending murky darknesses,
She is the Queen in waiting for spring
for the bursts of umbers, ochres, and exploding greens.

I, Apostle of a Puerto Rican beloved bird, La Reina Mora
A bird so ubiquitous it became the national bird.
I long to see one in Humboldt Park,
to watch the elderly Puerto Ricans smile and remember the Island.

I, Apostle of the bramble and trees and lush greenery,
throughout the acreage, generous spades of magnificent bushes.
Places to hide and be revealed, kiss and be kissed.
Places to wonder.

I, Apostle of North Avenue, where it all stops, or all begins,
depending on where you come from.
It matters where you live, and how you live, and what you treasure,
and what you fear.

The Park is an endless collection of riddles and stories.
So?
Solve them.

V.

I, Apostle of Humboldt Park, a garden of endless
Ecstasies: of birds and slider turtles.
Of cattails and milkweed,
and forsythia, dressed in pregnant yellow.

I, Apostle of home-made hammocks strung
surreptitiously in thickets throughout the Park.
Of bicycles with training wheels
piloted by helmeted 5-year old racers.

Of Sunlight, enough to be drunk on,
licking my face.
Of Sunlight, enough be bathed in
conducting silent musics of blooming flowers
and emergent leaves of every color.

I, Apostle of the busy Nuthatches hurrying to and fro
beating other birds to the food.
They stay busy, infinitely busy.

I, Apostle of the smallmouth bass, bluegill, and crappie stocked in the Lagoon.
The catfish , and tiny bait fish
the Green Herons feast upon.

Of the weed-smoking kids fishing lazily
with their cans of Modelo and wide smiles.

I, Apostle of the park walkers, trudging the paths happily
for the communion of green world and warm air,
as necessary as breathing.

I, Apostle of the Boom boxes,
with their Salsa and unstoppable beat.

I, Apostle of the morning.
At the Lagoon with a bag full of cracked corn
And the Mallards, the Wood Ducks, and the Canada Geese,
all greet me.

VI.

I, Apostle of the Autumn Humboldt Park
When the leaves turn to pure fire.
They drop in December winds like starving yellow birds in a cave.

I, Apostle of the killer visitors:
the Snowy Owls, the Cooper’s Hawks,
the coyotes and red foxes,
all lean hunger and predator longing.
Yips, yelps, and howls.

I, Apostle of the coming spring, and the return of
blooming lilacs that have somehow taken hold here and there
among the thickets, as intoxicating as ether.

I, Apostle of the whistling acres of green living things;
Trees, leaves, bushes, thickets, algae, and grass.
Of grasshoppers, crickets, and orb-weavers spiders.

I, Apostle of the Red-winged Blackbirds dive bombing anyone.
near their nests.

I, Apostle the Flickers, of Grackles
that will take an unsalted shelled peanut from my hand.
Of Cardinals, perched in the dead of February
like a lone drop of winter blood.

VII.

I, Apostle of the Northern Flicker, with the sun captured under his wings.
A bolt of yellow that blazes in the morning sun; exploding into the day.

I, Apostle of the visiting Tanager, alive in the euphony of Spring’s music.

I, Apostle of the Children in dinosaur helmets, speeding on tricycles and
skateboards.
Of the old dogs dragging their leashes behind them.
Of the Black Headed Gulls foraging in the garbage cans.

I, Apostle of the Bridge over the Lagoon
Barn Swallows nesting underneath.
Of the kids slinging “Eighth’s” and sucking Vape- Pens.
Of the old Cuban man selling bootleg cigarettes from Indiana.

I, Apostle of the Goldfinch
surprised in early Spring by a late winter’s snow.
Flitting between feeders on California Avenue
and the low branches of the Park’s thickets
looking for millet, or safflower, or black sunflower seeds .

Of the cigar-smokers
isolating themselves far away from anyone
who might would complain of the smell.

I, Apostle of my memories, and the cigar smoke that happily wafts
through them .

VIII.

I, Apostle of the lost Sea Birds, the Terns and Ring-Billed Gulls,
that drop by for a meal from the shallows of the lagoon
bread, nuts, and crusts tossed to them
by laughing children, and stolen from them by Canada Geese.

I, Apostle of the card games played by old Puerto Rican men
on the Division street end of the Park;
Poker--stud and five-card draw,--
with a little Rum and Reefer anted up for good measure.

Of the solitary woman reading,
sitting on one of the giant rocks that line the Lagoon
The water and the book offering silent solace.

I, Apostle of the Boat House, where yoga classes and jazz shows
alight the summer evenings;
where children sing in Spanish and slowly sway,
sailing in place on melody.

I, Apostle of the countless disposable lighters disposed of on the paths.

I, Apostle of Nature’s odd music of chance.
Of the Flickers back from migration in the chilly spring.
Of the Caspian Tern wondering why he landed here.

IX.

I, Apostle of the Woodcock
whose stutter-dance brings to mind sharp-dressed men at the Stepper’s ball.
A seductive step forward-- and then back
To inform the hens he is both smitten and ready.

I, Apostle of the sweet smell of reefer wafting through Humboldt Park
An atmosphere of smiling thoughts and glazed rhyming songs.

Of Dark Eyed Juncos foraging the melting snow for seeds and grubs.
Of visiting Cowbirds eating everything in sight.
Of purple sheened Grackles strutting like gangsters with bright yellow eyes
Spearing crusts of bread tossed to them by kindly old people
who believe them to be good luck.

I, Apostle of the barbeque smoke, even though winter snow has yet to melt;
Pork chops, Bratwurst, and Barese Sausage from
Bari’s IItalian Grocery.
The Bread from D’Amato’s Bakery on Grand Avenue.

I, Apostle of this Garden of all of Humboldt’s ecstasies
They shimmer in the late afternoon like bright angels,
Like an answered prayer
at play in the bright and eternal music of Sparrows.
I, Apostle of this radiant place; I cast my bread upon your waters.