two geese wait,
pond holding its stillness~
season turns, softly calling.
grass stirs with what’s coming next.
on a nearby bench,
screens glow faintly;
the moment passes on.
Ceuta is a Spanish city in North Africa (population: 80K people). On July 30-31, 2026 it was invaded by over 60,000 mostly young men (no women or children) who breached the border from Morocco. Some went back, but many thousands stayed or went to Spain and no one tried stop or expel them
To those who let the hordes come in:
You are the enemy within
And care not for folks of yours
The fiends walked through the open doors
They didn’t care for the law
The riots worst we ever saw
Payback when Spain Okay’s their stay
But own people they betray
Somewhere hides the “greater good”
Netflix or even Hollywood
Should pick the story of conquest
About how we lost the West
The Muslim savages are best
Failed breaks, all riled, brutal fest
They didn’t stop, run amok-crazed
Yet Spain’s “left” remain unfazed
They don’t belong, the devil’s seed
In our world, with our creed
Projection of the things to come
Continue play blind, deaf and dumb
August 5, 2026
The Golden Hour
They waited for golden hour with glee,
And some people with gloom.
Juveniles were excited for the first,
minds already drifting elsewhere.
The streets filled with gentle migration-
someone rushing towards their loved ones
And some grudging to solitude.
Yet the night didn't ask who carried joy
And who carried quiet heart.
Cafe blooms with chatters,
while dim room cradle the sound of silence.
The night opens its arm to everyone-
the tired, the eager, the heart broken, the hopeful,
yet each walks into it alone
searching for what the week didn't give.
Time is quintessential of those changes,
Yet none gave thought to it.
They were busy in the life hustle,
well immersed in the endless bustle.
Time moved with silent patience
Unnoticed, yet immense.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
They travel without passports,
these delicate immigrants,
their wings like stained glass windows
in a cathedral of wind.
They rise into the August sky,
a thousand orange and black wings,
paper-thin, trembling
with the weight of a journey
they do not remember
but instinctively cannot refuse.
They drift over highways,
tiny, winged ghosts in the exhaust,
mapping routes older than concrete,
older than borders, older than names.
Some will faIl, for
a highway stitches
through their flight path,
and the milkweed grows scarce.
The rest push on,
carrying the sun on their backs,
a flickering pulse
toward a home they have never seen.
What is migration but memory
written in the body?
What is memory but a debt
passed down in veins?
the companion memoir vignette can be read at poetrysoup.com/short_stories/dinner_with_the_butterfly_whisperer_13613
High up I heard the adolescent honk
of their ragged V formation.
I tried to count them as they tore above,
but they rippled and none held neat station.
Was it panting I heard or the whirling of wings
to add whisper to their emphatic call?
One V became two and some ends were crushed
while the middle was rounded by sprawl.
But I must write this quickly
for how soon they pass.
What are they saying,
I wonder at last?
Perhaps all their cries -
to-ing and fro-ing -
are pure encouragement:
Keep going! Keep going!
I feel disconnected getting mixed up and into quarrels.
I miss my girls.
I feel like I’m going out of my mind it’s outta this world.
I feel disconnected.
Everything within and around me is turning 360 testing.
trying to keep my head held high while keeping it down.
I’m disconnected yeah without a doubt.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
frost-etched grass whispers low,
bison flank touches flank—breath clouds
merge. No lone head lifts.
an ancient pulse beneath snow~
Where the mass goes, I must go.
First, the beginning
Rewritten, molded to perfection
Elimination began the simulation
Lilith, twins, daughters
Rebellion, pride, even murder
Leaves a mark
Carved in stone
Hidden when it no longer served
Agendas bending the arrow
Til it broke on a CROSS
....screwed...
Release came through RESURRECTION
Promises made, pie in the sky
Stars aligned, looping of time
Civilizations rose and fell
But always, the stones would tell
Waters came, earthquakes erupted
Secrets laid bare on EARTH
People trending ground
Silence reverberated all sound
Til a heartbeat echoed
....live....
Unified we stand in TRUTH
Let us know LOVE, together
Written by Trudy Schrader on 11-19-2025
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
You cannot escape the responsibility of tomorrow by evading it today. - Abraham Lincoln
Silence gathers like dust
on the piano lid—unplayed songs folded
into brittle paper wings.
The hummingbird feeder hangs empty,
sunlight glinting off dried nectar.
Each day our hands relearn
the slow syntax of stiffness.
Morning pills rattle accusations
in amber bottles. Who will read
the warning labels when our eyes retreat?
Childless. No daughters to decipher
our fading ink. No sons
to steady the wobble
of ascending stairs. Lincoln’s shadow
lengthens across the porch:
Tomorrow arrives hungry.
You cannot feed it yesterday’s excuses.
We scan horizons for villages
built of shared tremors
where neighbors become
soft euphemistic nouns—caregiver, listener, stayer~
before the light fails completely.
GEESE WITH MOON ON THEIR WINGS
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
gentle autumn breeze murmurs
summer’s farewell song
geese with moonlight on their wings
in flight and headstrong
across stellar sky
their honks a gentle refrain
never asking why
I left with a bag of dreams
and a heart full of hope.
The roads were wide
but none felt like home.
I spoke in borrowed voices
slept under unfamiliar skies.
Smiled through winters
that never thawed my bones.
But something kept pulling
a voice, a scent, a song.
A name I once answered to
still waiting where I belong.
Now I return, not empty
but carrying what I’ve become.
Not to start again
but to finally come home.
With smiles they waved goodbye
barefoot on the soil that raised them
carrying nothing but names
and the weight of dreams too heavy for home.
They spoke of Europe
like it was morning on the other side of night
and more prayers than food.
Is this hope?
To trade the peace of home for a foreign land?
Or is it loss
leaving love behind for a future that may not come?
This is human migration
not statistics but sons and daughters
not numbers but beating hearts
crossing borders just to feel human again.
In the summer heat of '47's cry,
A line was drawn beneath the sky.
Not ink, but blood, not words, but flame—
Two nations born, but none the same.
Fields once golden, shared with grace,
Now whispered names in a stranger’s place.
Neighbors turned to fleeing feet,
Homes abandoned, hearts incomplete.
The Ganga wept, the Indus roared,
As trains of silence onward soared.
One carried dreams, the other pain,
Each bound by history's heavy chain.
Mothers clutched their children tight,
As dusk replaced the promise of light.
The earth was split, but souls entwined,
By love, by loss, by ties maligned.
Yet even as the borders grew,
In every heart, an ember flew—
Of songs once sung in shared embrace,
Of temples, mosques, a common space.
Now time walks slow through wounds unhealed,
Through stories still too deep to yield.
But in the hush of evening's breath,
Hope blooms quietly out of death.
May memory teach what lines erase,
That peace begins with face to face.
Not walls, but bridges must we chart—
For no one owns a human heart.
Cooler breezes give us relief from the stifling heat,
A signal autumn is coming, and summer is in full retreat.
Leaves on the trees turn yellow, orange, red and brown,
As the days grow shorter, they eventually find their way to the ground.
As temperatures continue to cool, animals prepare for the cold months ahead,
Birds, reptiles, and mammals make ready for longer nights and shorter days instead.
Diminished daylight triggers an internal clock,
Signaling waterfowl to fly south, virtually non-stop.
Monarch butterflies commence migrating to their winter home,
Flying thousands of miles, their wings beating in cadence to an internal metronome.
As days pass, daylight shrinks and nighttime expands,
Driven by the earth’s voyage around the sun as we have come to understand.
As the outdoor world starts changing, all plants and animals adjust,
Preparing for the formidable winter ahead is a necessity, a must.
Plants start dropping seeds while animals gather food stores - their pre-winter haul,
It’s that time of year again, a time we call Fall.
Complex and profound,
The many forms of migration,
Each resonates and weighs differently....
The migration before famine,
After the harvest,
They are not the same...
The migration from oppression,
And that clandestine flight,
Across guarded frontiers...
The migration of cultures,
And of traditions and tongues?
And identities unsettled so fragile...
The migration from familiarity,
After a community,
Has been dismantled...,
That poignant migration,
Your story is interwoven with mine,
In our collective diaspora...
Whatever the impetus,
Migration leaves its mark,
And the echoes of its journey,
May often reverberate,
In generations that follow...
Migration is also sometimes,
An unspoken odyssey,
That we yearn to hear.
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