Poem | |
Bright yellow sparks glisten around the landscape
Sheer environment expose
Warmth slinks down every step
Spur like rays muster in long light
The wolves wait to howl
Soon--Bunch of flowers
Huddle in with sunlit love
Poem | |
At the moment
Of my restless teenage run
Your eyes emanated lights of million stars
Many times the size of our Sun.
Frenzy feeling for clinging to you, singularity.
But I was taken aback by sudden bars,
Though I could sense the gravity.
I should keep firing my rocket
Against all odds, unhoped for
Real fact was too much ferine to the prior.
I would eventually lose my goal:
That was my closest buddies'safest bet.
They described you as a black-hole,
They said, " she is not your girl."
They said, "For you, she is evil incarnate."
But, how could I ignore you,
Embodied in such amazing curve and curl?
So, before my eyes you appeared as an Event-horizon.
Yeah, it was you
My teenage beauty-paragon.
Beyond this nothing can escape
Not even light,
I kept travelling towards you,
The universe looked somewhere dim and somewhere bright.
But my clock slowed down
Now, I've to keep my feet on the ground
I feel like, a king without a crown.
To this nostalgic journey my consciousness's been bound.
For a black-hole
There's a whole universe to devour
But I'm absorbed in my amour.
A time travel
A story of incompleteness to tell.
But no need
I've reached a brand-new universe!
I could never get
My first love, remains insatiate.
I've no regret, it cann't be a curse.
I can bend
The story is not end.
I'll not bore anyone with my reminiscence.
But, I've gathered a vast time travel experience.
Here I feel no delight, no pain,
I'm ready to fall in another love once again.
Poem | |
"The Immigration Officer Asked Me."
I was asked where are you coming from?
I answered I ran away from the war in my
I was asked how many years the war lasted?
I answered there was war for sixteen years
we were bombarded daily attacked by militia
on our way to work when we could go to work.
I was asked why did you choose this country?
I answered because they accept political refugees
and i heard that Canadians are helping us.
I was asked why do you look so pale and slim?
I answered because we had no food to eat when
we were bombarded we could not go out to buy
food, and when we were in the shelter nobody
brought us any food.
I was asked why are you wearing dark glasses?
I answered because i am not used to see the light.
We rarely had electricity, always using a candle
and staying in the dark for days my eye sight
I was asked why don't you hear well?
I answered because of the arterially shelling.
And we had a bomb falling on our ceiling when
i was sitting in our home before the bomb fell.
I was asked why do you look shabby?
I answered because we never had water.
We never had water running in our tapes
we had to buy water to have a shower or
rain to fill utensils in plastic for many days.
He asked why don't you have any luggage?
I answered because i have nothing to wear.
My kids education needed all the money and
i worked 2 jobs to bring in some money.
He asked what kind of work did you do?
I answered i was working in the hospital.
And working in a Boutique for mens clothing.
He asked were you working as a nurse?
I answered no i was cleaning the floors
and bathrooms i was everywhere for years
in that hospital.
He asked do you have any money on you?
I answered no the militia took everything.
When i arrived to the boat to leave the
country as the airport was closed for
years sometimes, at the port, one militia
guy just snatched the few dollars i had.
He asked did you leave your home behind?
I answered no they bombarded my home
its in rebels i have nothing left in Lebanon.
He noticed my tears tumbling down my cheeks.
He asked where were you living then?
I answered i lived underground with many
people, for months sometimes we were
underground sleeping on the floor somedays
we had no food given by the enemy, the cry`s
of children hungry was unbearable.
He asked do you have any family with you?
I answered no i have been alone since the war.
I had to send away my children after they
were able to graduate not to be snatched by
the militia. They both went to the US to work.
He asked how many children do you have?
I answered i have two boys one is a lawyer
and my other son is an interior designer.
He asked and where are they now?
I answered they ran away from the militia
to the US as we had very close friends who
took them until they could find work to pay
a rented room.
He asked how may languages do you speak?
I answered i speak three languages.
Arabic English and French.
He asked do you want to stay here?
I answered with my tears blinding
my eyes, please, i have nowhere
to go and i heard so much about
the Canadians how human and
generous they are.
He looked at me with a painful look
I will accept you as a political refugee
we will give you some money every
month you will have a bed to sleep
you will have food to eat work to do
water to drink shower and clothes
to wear and you can ask your
children to come, are you happy now.
He stamped my passport and wished
me a good luck with a huge smile.
The beginning of a new life.
Poem | |
She has eyes that have seen all the sky
a smile that is both knowing and shy
Her brow is humble and also proud
Expressions as soft as a shifting cloud.
She is tall and frail like a river reed
Up until now the forest has been her creed
And words that once flowed like a river stream
Now she must search for what they mean
Where once the forest taught her each simple rule
Now she is thrust to study in a Western school
So her body conveys her intentions devout
She stays rooted despite her desire for flight
She absorbs new knowledge like sunlight itself
All her tears are like rain on this hard gained wealth
This shy forest spirit has blossomed and grown
In quiet moments we know where her thoughts have flown
This is my friend's daughter they adopted from Thailand at age 11.
In one year she was speaking fluent English.
She received-american-veterans jrotc-cadet--outstanding-cadet-award/ last year.
Only one cadet per detachment receives the award annually.
She is also a girl guide and on the Volley Ball Team.
I taught her papercrafts and she makes all her own beautiful greeting cards.
She is a true example of a girl rising.
She misses her sister in Thailand who was kept by the family and often thinks of them all
and is torn between the two worlds but understands she has more opportunity here.
Poem | |
Light falters in through the cracks
of an ancient wall
While the moss grows lime green on
stones near the shore
In another land
people are filled with bright expectations
Over the sounding sea
the sound of sea horns can be heard
The broad expanse of the ocean
will be crossed
As new wayfarers come to our land
Bringing with them shards of memory
of cultures unknown to these shores
Bringing with them shards of "storied pomp"
Poem | |
Fifteen tiny swallows
Fifteen tiny swallows
All perched upon a fence
Oh what handsome fellows
But here, let me commence
To speak of all their beauty
These tiny little birds
All black and cream with a reddish throat
Oh how my heart they stirred
A lady walking with her dog
Disturbed these little guys
So from the fence these birds take wing
And head towards the skies
It seems that they are dancing
In the way they fly around
They always seem to fly in circles
And nearly touch the ground.
I walk around these wetlands
And wonder at it all
Everyday it’s something else
And it’s all so beautiful
Ducks and swallows, parrots too
And the beauty of the lake
I love to walk there most of all
At the coming of the daybreak.
16 August 2013 @ 1510hrs.
Poem | |
I couldn’t understand the language she spoke,
at least not all of it,
but the emotion pouring past her lips,
the tears in her eyes, her clenched and shaking fists
enunciated more clearly,
than any piece of English Poetry I had ever read,
and grabbed me, held me still.
…In that moment, her soul was in my arms.
In that finite, tender breath of our lives,
she was my mother, my best friend…
but I could not console her.
I didn’t have the words;
and my heart sank into the
concrete between us,
wet with the pain of God’s rain
and her tears.
…Were my tears
So, I simply opened my palms
toward her crouched form and
spoke the only words I could
fathom, that would be accepted
by a stranger on a dangerous street.
"I am sorry, It will be okay. God will bless you."
I knew she did not understand…
“que va a estar bien”
“Dios te bendecira’ “
the words were as messy as the overturned
duffle bag at her feet…and fumbled, slowly
from my lips, as my knees hit the street.
Two strangers, cried in the rain,
knowing nothing of each other’s suffering,
and yet we shared the weight,
together, for those few moments;
the barrier of language was broken.
Love spoke for us.
-James Kelley 2014, All rights reserved.
…Love transcends any language
Poem | |
• New Hampshire
• New York
• New Jersey
• North Carolina
• South Carolina
• Rhode Island
Poem | |
The musty, foul smelling
The room is dim
Everyone is waiting
For the shores of Ellis Island
They hope to have a new life
Start over in America
The room awakens
When the captain yells
I see the gleaming copper Statue of Liberty
I can smell the fresh salty air
My heart is filled with optimism
My dreams are so close to coming true
But the same cannot be said for others
Some are sent back for illness
Or not enough money
Or no ride
They send you back
To that hopeless land
Back on the dim boat
Where dreams once lived but now are lost
Yet others are let through
To the country of America
Where a better life awaits
Filled with hope
In the land of opportunity
I smile a happy smile
I am almost there
Poem | |
My new home is in a new country.
I know very little of the language and culture.
Memories of my old country will be in my heart forever
The love of my old country will always remain.
I leave for a better life and new opportunities
Hoping to make a bright future for me and my family.
Poem | |
In the country of my forefathers,
Economy is friendless and upset,
Politics are sleeping with labour,
Justice is seducing foreign crime,
Poetry is turned on, but it fears,
Traditions keeps history hostage,
Religions are attempting suicide,
Nature is busy biting its tongues,
Fruits are swearing at their trees,
Education shows God axis finger,
Seas gets shallow, graves deepen,
Life confront its first nightmares,
Death is satisfying its final desire,
Future is stinking nothing but lies,
June 13, 2003
By Mohlouoa Ntsasa
Poem | |
"Mi primo" means my cousin in Spanish.
He calls me his "primita"- little cousin.
This is the story of how mi primo
Taught me about the meaning of bread;
Of the meaning of tortillas...
He and I are exchanging languages
Over Dairy Queen chicken strips;
I repeat the words he teaches me
Back to him in my all-american
White girl accent,
Trying to learn how to Salsa
With a tongue that only knows
How to stumble over the trills
And rapid-fire hot-sauce syllables-
He makes me say them again and
Again until I sound like a distorted
Calle 13 track on repeat...
Mi primo offers me the bread
That came with his meal;
I ask him why he doesn't want it.
He says he doesn't eat bread;
He is Hispanic; he eats tortillas-
Do I know tortillas?-
He gestures, indicates the
Flat, full moon-shaped
Circle of a torilla with his hands.
Si, I know tortillas.
What I want to know is-
What the heck do tortillas have to do
With whether you eat bread or not?
So mi primo tells me una historia
About a guy he knows,
20-something and something else...
All his family came from Guatemala;
He was brought up going to a church
With a pastor that preached sermons
That trilled like heavenly trumpets;
He has skin that was colored warm
As if he had grown up kissed by
The sun of his family's homeland;
He knew how to speak English but
His mother tongue was always Spanish-
His cousins were his best friends
Because being "un Guate" means
Knowing the meaning of "la familia"...
He learned at age 21
That he was born in America.
Eagerly, he shed his Hispanicness like
A snake skin that had grown too tight,
Clutching at the revelation of his birthplace
Like a get-out-of-jail free card,
Hides the color of his face behind
The red, white, and blue of his
He doesn't go to church anymore,
Because American guys don't
Have time for God;
He buys big, fancy cars he doesn't have
A prayer of paying off because
American girls are supposed to like
That kind of thing;
He tries not to remember
The meaning of la familia...
And he always eats bread-
His tongue has suddenly turned
Too American to abide the taste,
The flatness, of las tortillas...
He is the reason that mi primo cannot
Abide the taste of bread, too thick
With the flavor of betrayed heritage
To sit easy in his stomach...
Mi primo offers me,
His little blonde all-American cousin,
The bread he doesn't want.
I wonder if one day he'll
Mean the word "primita" enough
To offer me a tortilla.
Poem | |
Oppressed by you, your state, your religion
So you think you good, kind and Superior
But I find you cruel, arrogant and callous
But that is just in my view, what do I know?
You control the language that describes pain
But there is no for me in its grid, or how I feel
My soul is ripped from my body and bound,
On to your machines on which I slave and toil.
You say it has to be this way, no room for doubt
Master and slave, it is only a matter of degrees
But it is my kind that is always tied to the rack
While you sip vintage wine in the lap of luxury.
Everything has its time and its place, yours is over
End is near, for you and everything you hold dear
Everything carries with it the root of its own destruction
And I will rejoice now that your has very nearly come.
Poem | |
"If she loves you," they tell you,
"This will be a problem."
I am una niña, a little girl-
And you are too old for me,
Too young to know
What you're doing,
Too careless to be cautious,
Too Hispanic to be safe
In a place so diverse that
Are always classified by race-
You are too beautiful
To be resistible.
But I promise not to love you.
I promise not to need you.
I won't kiss you where
Anyone can see, and I
Won't cry when you leave me-
Yes, I know you will,
I'm not so young as idiocy-
I can be your secret,
As long as you are mine...
And if I write you love poems...
I'll write them in the dark.
I'll recite them to the shadows,
And no one has to know.
You never have to know
I ever lied.
Poem | |
Land of the free???
Give me your tired, your poor
Your huddled masses, yearning to breath free,
The wretched refuse of your teeming shores,
Send those, the homeless,
Tempest-toss to me,
I lift my lamp besides the golden door
Enter welcome to liberty
Come enjoy this land
A nation built by the sweat and blood of immigrates
A chance for freedom
A chance for the American dream
We come along a way from that statement
From embracing arms to protest rallies
Hate spells from the top down
Laws passed to shut down the boarders
If the dream is to live America
Like those who came many years ago
Why is it now
That we do no longer want
The tired, the poor, the homeless
The children who suffer the most
Scared of the mob formed
Chatting slogans on hate
It is the norm to make fun of this situation
Who will do the work Americans will not do?
They are stealing jobs from Americans
God’s presence is sprinkled over the founding fathers
From their beliefs
To our constitution
Where has the love gone?
Why do we now not practice what god taught us
Love thy neighbor as you would love thy self
Are we now a loveless nation?
Are we now a Godless nation?
Here in America you must speak English first
If that is the case
Then why do I not hear us speaking the language of Native American
Go back where you come from
We do not want you here
Send back lady liberty
We seemed to have forgot her message
We have Forgot the nation that embraced the lost.
Poem | |
America is not a Free Buffet
Loch David Crane, M. Ed.
Border Patrol Auxiliary
22 September 2008
America is not a free buffet
for benefit of those from far away.
We have our borders, customs, laws, and rules
securing our posterity from fools,
criminals, diseased people, and those
who mean us harm and carry bombs.
Malaria and leprosy are brought
by the undocumented who aren't caught.
The dumb, the desperate, or the diseased,
those lacking skills and schooling from "back home,"
all feel entitled through our fence to roam.
They break in here, and that's why we're displeased.
But those who choose to come here legally
have done it right, deserving to be free.
Poem | |
Remembering this night of our last touch,
when nothing is between us we should know,
in love with loving you, and just how much
I wonder where in time do such nights go?
Forbidden like a box all sealed up tight,
or like the burning Zeus refused to share
with mortals such as we, and on this night,
Pandora's box is opened everywhere,
you are, this night, my first and only love
and always shall remain this part of me,
created from the earth and waters of
our night when Aphrodite let it to be.
And I am more than blessed for loving you
illegal though you are, it's what l do.
©ron wilson aka vee bdosa the doylestown poet
Poem | |
It begins like vater on stone--
with a drop
with a drip
that rubs the colors off your face.
It is free speech, fast cars, and French fries--
New York in the eyes of a village boy.
It's a rat race;
It's lazy tongues, lost souls and a longing for home
without a home to go back to.
It's losing the language of your ancestors,
forgetting the prayers of your parents' gods,
and dreaming vain dreams in a foreign tongue
until one day it gives way.
Your lips parched;
you ask for water with a rounded mouth.
Poem | |
I do not know Why we were born Into this world to die Unless to educate the spirit here Before the spirit flies I do not know Why you have come To walk upon my path Unless to share some joy with me To sing and dance and laugh Let others look for answers Or create them if they must For here the clock is ticking And to soon we'll turn to dust
Poem | |
It was with immense fortitude that he endured the pain.
His back was arched and head rose as he strode down the thoroughfare.
No one need know what lurked behind his eyes.
Although in all honesty he wanted someone to know what lay behind his eyes.
He composed his mind determined to ride this one out,
“Ok…I’m fine…I’m fine…there’s nothing wrong” he kept saying as if it were a mantra.
A few minutes passed. Finally, the steely gaze was drawn across his face.
His lip no longer quivered.
His heart no longer tightened.
For now, he was a detached dispassionate walking skeleton, nothing to call human here!
Even the sight of a mangled kitten wouldn’t render a response.
My manners are now controlling my passion; they are forever in my debt.
Like Wellington, I’m going to have to grin and bear it!
Throw my deepest love into a raging, scorching inferno, as it will only get in the way of my duty!
I shall never succumb to societies miss giving’s. Never shall I spew forth my sensibilities to the stranger in the street. My convictions are too honest to cheapen that.
A friend, however, has the misfortune or privilege to walk among my thoughts.
I know that we will walk hand in hand into Daedalus’ Labyrinth, a Minotaur at every corner. Never knowing if we shall return. Nonetheless we do it together.
Judgement is never passed. A grimace expression will never rise from your face.
Only in your presence can I remove the mask.
Only in your presence can I let my lip tremble.
Only in your presence can I let my heart feel the despair.
Be that as it may, once I leave the comforts of your abode I shall once again display the stiff upper lip.
By Michael Mearns
Copyright ©Michael Mearns
Poem | |
Franky bear, told Tony mare
‘Tonight I’m letting down my hair
I’ll play some songs on my old Lute
Oh, Tony it will be a hoot
We’ll have the guys around the place
All dressed in leather and in lace
To dance the tango to my song
We’re going to be a happy throng.
Harry Hare said ‘Whoopy doo
I’ll sing and dance the whole night through
And I will play upon my spoons
Oh yes we’ll play a merry tune’
As guys rolled up to witness this
The two they showed them how it is
So they all danced, and moved, and swayed
And had a ball as the twosome played.
When it was over, all did say
Oh boy, it’s been a happy day
Then they went home all smiling bright
Their faces filled with sweet delight
They arranged a dance for another day
And asked the twosome if they’d play
The two said ‘yes it will be done’
As they both waved to everyone.
20 April 2014 @
Poem | |
Locked in her tower our heroine sleeps alone
This beautiful flower has been kidnapped from her throne
She stares at the moonlight then drifts off to sleep
To dream of a brave knight scaling the castles keep.
Her flaxen hair frames her delicate ivory skin
Vivid dreams of her hero reveal her beauty within
Steadfast and strong and ready to fight to the death
To rescue this beauty he will forgo his last breath.
Her chivalrous knight enters the abductors domain
Soon she'll taste the sweetness of freedom again.
His shield raised high and broadsword drawn
With every step he takes, for her hope is reborn
Caught off guard with a blow he is swept of his feet
He fights blindly on until his quest is complete
To vanquish the captors is his goal and last wish
Sweep the princess off her feet with a tender kiss
He slashes the ropes that bind her to the bed
Making passionate love for hours now they are happily wed
19th May 2014
Written By Jan Allison & Darren Watson
~submitted to Dave Wood's Imagination Contest~
Awarded 1st place - am so delighted to have won this with Darren he
is my inspiration
Poem | |
Breaking in to America on a Snowy Evening
Loch David Crane
Minuteman Civil Defense Corps member
May 2, 2006
Whose land this is I think I know–
America, where all things glow.
They will not see me stopping here
because response time is so slow.
My coyote (who hopes I’m queer)
returns for more throughout the year.
We won’t fix up old Mexico,
we’ll steal it all from folks up here.
Help Mexico? Don’t give me grief.
That takes some effort—I’m a thief!
I won’t vote or help my town,
I’d rather sign up for relief.
Entitlement is what I feel:
now that I’m here, I want to steal
free welfare benefits, emergency health care, in-state school tuition, and a drivers’ license
denied me by my birthplace deal.
Your lifestyle here is what I’ll take—
I think that I deserve a break!
We stole this land from Indians
and later sold it to the States.
We won’t learn to speak or write
English–which compounds our plight.
We all believe Aztlan will rise,
assimilation isn’t right.
Americans are really dumb
to leave an open door for bums.
Full amnesty is our desire
that’s why eleven million run.
The night is lovely, dark and deep;
at the North star I love to peep.
My booties aid my midnight creep. . .
I’ll shuffle miles while all you sleep!
(booties are carpet overshoes which leave a poor trail)
(AND your FORMS do not include POLITICAL or SATIRE...why not?)
Poem | |
The immigration is coming for me
I live in a two bedroom house with eight other families
We will be deported, this process includes a meal, so our stomachs will be full
I dream at night for beans, rice and burritos
I cook my burritos in fat, heavy lard
I check my pockets, now I'm worried, I think I lost my green card
I have gas and burps because of the food
I want to make bambinos, but the senora is not in the mood
She's not ready, she says I'm pushing too hard
Now she's mad, flushes my wallet down the toilet, there goes my green card
Now rice and beans will be my meals three times a day
The immigration is the predator and I'm the prey
I sneak through a hole in the fence
This shows the border patrol is incompetent
I am again caught and sent back across the border
I will miss the reruns of Law and Order
Sam Waterson can't win a case, what a retard
This all goes back to when I lost my green card
Poem | |
M y native homeland, where my soul resides
E ven if it's hundreds of miles away
X cluded because of my Foreign Culture
I n body and soul I am forever Mexican
C ause no one can make me anything else
O f all my nationalities, this is the one that owns my heart