Immigrant Poems

Immigrant Song

So you can define a tree 
From a forest if its near
But I cannot make you see
And my words you cannot hear
You destroyed a lilac grove
You’re a beast with no remorse
I don’t share your need to rove
You’re the effect with no cause
Now the Earth is yours forever
Make it flat, cut off the trees
Get your desert

IMMIGRANT FABLE

America the place
Ice feels immigrants should be erased
Lady Liberty welcome
Constitution says stay
Washington wants to put the immigrants away
Immigrants have a right
It’s turned into a plight
Immigrant’s rights went from bright to dark
Leaving a disgrace mark
They want to live and pursue
What are they to do?
The constitution is the thing
Washington wants the departure sling
America spells opportunity
The taste of

Oi Oi Hoi Polloi

All aboard the bizarre Farage barge.. 

Unless of course you are from abroad..
.
Narcissist catalyst.. old school fraud..discord twist..

Can't resist.. staging the raging red mist.. 

Fist of Mob rule tryst does persist..  


Depraved raves..insist..craved faves..

Won't save slaves & knaves..

Hellbent they are sent..

To graves under the waves…

Foolish votes for ghoulish gloats..

Seedier media leaders lying..

Defying the dying..


Folks

Tecoman, Colima: Year 2006

Wide-faced baby still crossing her legs, 
Shivering inside her own mother’s womb,
Her parts stay hidden from the ultrasound’s cold, metal screening,
Warm pool of darkness heating up as kicking goes wild, 
Already moving through mother’s quick anger,
Already formed and already asking….
Wanting more time, wanting more time.

Mother’s eyes glow brightly, brown almonds growing wide as I am

Memories of an immigrant

He calls this August
In the morning between trees and metal,
The ground is shaking as he laughs,
He is almost there upon the orange trees over my country,
Down where little speak English,
And my home is upon bright sands between our fingers that 
Pull tomorrow back to the time where mothers are left behind 
Beneath nights of fear

Juan Tells You He Is An Immigrant, Northern Mexico

Juan tells you he is an immigrant, northern mexico
that he learned to speak english in iowa 
and these coupled are the reason
Juan's accent is different
Juan is not mexican
Juan lives in fear of americans
Juan in america is a raghead
a camel jockey, sand 
this is not unique to america
the world is filled with such
infidel, hymie, gentile, untouchable
the

The Immigrant Song

I have a song to sing and it will tell you where I have been, in the shadows of the night the fear of hope break through daylight and destiny begins the journey without shoes. 

They left their homeland in search of a better life two of them walking hand in hand as destiny propel

An Immigrant In Canada

She stands behind the glass,
Her towel in hand, so still,
Watching as the snowflakes fall
Like stars against the winter’s chill.

I watch her, where she pauses,
Still and contemplative, gazing out at the world.
What does she see in those snowflakes?
A blanket of white, a city of cold towers, white mountains?

Maybe she recalls a time
When life was harder still,
As

I Am An Immigrant

I have a harsh past but a bright future
I have seen death upon my eyes
and felt the need of nurture

I have been surrounded by lies 
that have covered nothing but the truth
I was blind and foolish
throughout my ages of youth

I am an immigrant
With a dream to be successful
But how can I accomplish this 
without it

Un Farabutto

Grandpa Francesco Proia,
from Caserta, Italia,
a clever stowaway 
in the bowels of the ship
bringing him to Ellis Island,
Feb. 4, 1905.
Gruff ways,
often snarling a guttural “Huh,”
a lack of English,
never-ending hand gestures,
made me fearful of him.
But awestruck I was
with the romantic notion
of his stowing away.
Bootlegging homemade vino
during Prohibition – another
plus as he captured my imagination as
un farabutto –

The Immigrant

Will ultimately acquire a resentful attitude. 
Adrift, things will be sought all through the house. 
The travel guide and short visas to Crouse 
My passport, birth certificate, and mood

The only thing that drew you away was sadness. 
This was the reason for your original departure. 
My worst kept secret: my puffy eyes; no future. 
Immigrants may stay in the black or

On the Avenue

From marble and granite to steel and glass,
we were discussing Rhina Espaillat’s On the Avenue in class,
was it 1950s or 1980s NYC and were the fifties
the city’s halcyon days or is it now, the 2020s,
the boroughs teeming with immigrants
from the round earth’s imagined corners,
Hasidim and Muslim, Haitian and Russian, as we
Italians and Irish in an

Born Defective

I come from the land of coffee,
plastic breasts and nonsense,
drugs and narco past, 
very proudly they'll exalt.

Woman so pretty as blow-up doll, 
got so many surgeries, you don't know what you touch.
Reality or banality, 
inflatable, fillers,
makeup, extensions, 
lashes and nails.
Got your complete package for the fair right price.

Blame society, men, the patriarchy, for the pancake

Tales From the Immigrant Front

'Your goose is cooked'
  I told Azizi
"My what is what?"
  He questioned me

'Your goose is cooked'
  softly repeated
Azizi frowned
  He looked defeated

I wondered why
  he couldn't see
his goose in my oven
  of transparency

Immigrant Birds

summer local birds 
insects and warms do not cry
no immigrant birds

• Short Immigrant Poems
• Famous Immigrant Poems
• Best Immigrant Poems
• Read Immigrant Poems
• Long Immigrant Poems
• Immigrant Quotes