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​Poets and Dreamers
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​Poetry

papers no papers

9/8/2018

Comments

 

Juan Felipe Herrera

for our brothers & sisters facing deportation
with papers    or
no papers

  we are expansive  with sun
or moon we
are expansive

with light or no-light
we are    expansive  with surveillance  
    or no surveillance  we are

expansive
 as the rain crosses lightning
     as the sun penetrates to the root
 as the earth      rotates toward all things

          we are expansive
papers no  papers  borders no
 borders
    we
                           expand
​


Comments

Credo

9/7/2018

Comments

 

Oriana Ivy

When God says, I could give you 
the whole world, but would you take it?
he’s expecting No, since I am the alleged
 
immigrant at the feast, but I say Yes.
Go ahead, give me the world.
But that happened already at my birth.
 
Now I believe only in California,
dressed in flames each scarlet,
smoky year. A paradise built
 
on fault lines. Like my life, split
at seventeen. Or my soul, a burglar
breaking through the clouds. Not even
 
the body remains our native country.
Leaving me only the inaccurate
loss of homeland, a place where you go 
 
to die. By nineteen I had a plan:
word by word I would dissolve
into the thousand-year-old
 
town where I was born,
an old Viking river port,
the river wide as history --
 
In the fortress-like cathedral,
walls four feet thick, underworld-cold,
above the crown of thorns,
 
me that shivering dove;
me the bowing of the wind
in the tales of linden trees;
 
in the empty granaries,
blinding dance of dust and light.
Meanwhile I’ll take the world.

​
Comments

You Bury Me

9/7/2018

Comments

 

Arlene Biala

 
Ya'aburnee (Arabic):  "You bury me."  It's a declaration of one's hope that they'll die before another person, because of how difficult it would be to live without them.
 
no harana
no serenade
no let me call you sweetheart 
no dahil sa yo
no courting you
no guitar strum of my nervous fingers
no new moon chance
no smiling neighbors gathering near
no wavering voice in the first verse
no you standing at the window
laughing softly, shaking your head
whispering to your sister beside you
how you were hoping it would be me
no stopping now, i've already started
no way, it's too late, your smile locks me in
no first kiss at the barrio fiesta
after your parents leave for home
no telling you that i love you like no other
no you teasing i am so old fashioned
living the ancient ways of love songs
no you answering my call of your name
after the winds die, after the waters recede
no finding a note. no finding your body.
no you standing in deep mud, shaking
no you suddenly running toward me
no you whispering to me
how you always pray that you will die
before i die, because the suffering
would be unbearable.
no.  i refuse to leave my home.
i want to stay here by the sea
listen to you whisper, bury me
you bury me. 


Originally published in Red Wheelbarrow, December 2013.


Comments

​Paredes - Walls

9/6/2018

Comments

 

Maritza Mora

Tenemos el poder de sobre pasar lo que nos detiene
El mar nos unio
Los paises eran uno
Somos iguales
Todos tienen un Corazon y son humanos
 
We have the power to overpass what holds us back
The sea united us
The countries were one
We are equal
Everyone has a Heart and they are human
 
Paths, there are many…
“Where there is a will there is a way”
“Only you hold yourself back”
When was the wheel invented?
Hundreds, thousands of miles were walked
When were boats invented?
 
Porque nos volvimos ciegos?
Porque se nos fueron los sentimientos?
 
Why did we go blind?
Why are the feelings gone?
 
Mexico, lindo y bello Mexico: we were once one with you but America broke up with you. If only we could show America your farmland, your magical waterfalls, your ability to grow, nurture and create art from what you have been given by mother earth…
 
Tenemos el poder de sobre pasar lo que nos detiene
El mar nos unio
Los paises eran uno
Somos iguales
Todos tienen un Corazon y son humanos
 
We have the power to overpass what holds us back
The sea united us
The countries were one
We are equal
Everyone has a Heart and they are human...



Comments

​To Work and to Eat and to Survive

9/6/2018

Comments

 

A Tribute to Migrant Workers in a Place Called Madre Tierra

Francisco “Pancho” Bustos


A couple dollars a pound
and not a couple dollars a piece
don’t forget
 
Ay karnal
can’t you see how it can be
much easier to pay the tax
than to break the backs
 
How easier it is
to pick them shiny apples
from air conditioned racks
than to cough the blood
while carrying those
heavy, poisoned sacks
 
To Work and to Eat and to Survive
To Work and to Eat and to Survive
To Work and to Eat and to Survive
 
Corazones that won’t stop until
the little ones are fed
and they can hit the books
and they can learn and grow
 
That’s the dream,
can’t you see?
 
Porque somos familia
y porque tenemos el derecho to question
the word ‘i-legal’
free, también to question
and let go of
that fear of riding the bus the trolley and the car
 
A couple dollars a pound
and not a couple dollars a piece
don’t forget
 
No
right to vote
Yes
a right to break the backs
No
right to walk without fear
Yes
a right to sweat and serve and hide
 
But we come from the sun
el maíz y las yerbas
 
And we are free and incapable of seeing our
madres santas as ‘resident aliens’
 
And we are free to be proud of our mothers
for once showing us how to serve 99 cent kool aid
y quesadillas to our running brothers and sisters
flying through our parking lots
of old rented apartments
in a place called Sydro
 
Lifting themselves up
scratched up and all
from the concrete they met
when turning a corner
 
Cuz the runnin was too fast
and the runnin was too scary
and the runnin was much too much of a nightmare
 
And so I learned,
frozen, on that concrete stage before
my curious little eyes,
 
That a couple dollars a pound
over a couple dollars a piece
 
Isn’t just my super-sized
special treat,
but yours también
 
Don’t forget.
 
 
Comments

​on a farm in brownsville

9/4/2018

Comments

 

D. Ellis Phelps

“In 2009, the Department of Homeland Security
informed landowners along the northern edge of the
Rio Grande that the new border fence would be cutting
through their properties.”
 

Texas Monthly, 2011

​rust colored steel
cuts through
 
melon & mesquite
 
chops this land in half
 
where hundred year-old oaks
were felled       in the weld
 
security      unsecured
 
from this landowners porch:
 
no more pastoral view
no more free passage
from pasture to pasture
 
where he and his father
and his father before him
 
who came:  chasing the dream
 
grew cotton and corn
sorghum and cane
 
for a hundred years
& more
 
now      this farmer
             who feeds us
 
must ask    permission
to pass       from one piece
of his own land
 
to another

​
Comments

​Crossing The Borders Of My Heart

9/4/2018

Comments

 

Karen Cordova

Soy Doña Julián Workman, born María Nicolasa Urioste de Valencia,
After we talk, I welcome you to walk through the door of la casa,
 
where I  live on both blossom and dying borders of flowering worlds. Since birth,
my life is a window, and I straddle the sill. While netherworld spirits hover over earth
 
red as blood turned to dust, halo frame protects and splits. Haunts me. Española y
india. Half-breed. Born natural in the pueblo of Taos, near the cusp of a century
 
marred and blest with waterfalls of baptism and holy unction bestowed upon
the very same land--España, México, Los Estados Unidos. Forgotten--
 
my mother’s people massacred, their ancient names avulsed and burnt. Ashes
to ash memory. Priest’s thumb on my forehead whips tattoos of crosses
 
afire with premonition. I was twenty when Spain abandoned New Mexico. Within
five years, Julián seared his presence into sacred eye of Taos. His voice—a foreign
 
country—invaded my heart, left numerous wounds. Antonia Margarita was born
in 1831 and Joseph Manuel in 1832, with unmarried parents. Scars covered worn
 
pathways of all his excuses. Julián became Catholic in 1828 but wouldn’t share
vows. He and John Rowland owned a mill, sold Taos Lighting in their store, 
 
but it wasn’t enough. Those Americanos were often gone. Wandering
west on the Old Spanish Trail. Would they return from their trapping?
 
Worry grows strange in gardens of wives of wandering men.
Shared travail and gossip ensure weird blooms. In September 1841,
 
Julián severed the artery to mis amigas. New wound―twelve-hundred-mile queue.
Undulating human snake. First, Santa Fe north, then westward curve to Abiquiu.
 
Sidewind through desert punched by water holes like springs bubbling into that meadow,
las vegas. Liquid lure within the seventh belly of hell. Mohave. Then descend slow
 
into a casket they call Cajón Pass. I bled in Spanish all the way to California, until
a further drop into an endless valley. La Santa María delivered us near to San Gabriel
 
Mission, where we built our three-roomed adobe home on Rancho La Puente,
I thought this the last bridge of my life. We prospered. La gente
 
de Los Angeles embraced our family. In 1847, the threshold of nations crossed us, again.
Mexicanos―now Americanos. English and Spanish―official languages of this land.
But the scent of oranges changed. By the 1880s, an ocean of others washed west,
disdained our rich bi-lingual heritage. I hear whispers, fear my grandchildren’s best
 
nature will be fed unhealthy stories. Will mis hijitos y hijitas think Julián and I
could not speak to each other, a wall between his English and Español? ¡Ay!
 
Flee from my presence, those who spread lies to my children’s children, May your
tortillas be shaped like the United States. I am American, but I was born to a mother
 
who lived in ancient Taos Pueblo. I am a manita de Nuevo México, former
province of México, former province of España. We did not leave. The border
 
folded us into a new kind of skirt. Over and over, we were spun like yarn used to make
a beautiful colcha. I proudly wear my mantilla and peineta. Most people say
 
my food is better than any they’ve eaten in years. This American home was built
on multi-lingual land―Mexican, Spanish, earth native to Los Gabrieleños. Guilt 
 
should be like ravens picking one’s scalp. Do not lie to my kin. When the end
comes, cut hair from my head. Plait a mourning locket for my daughter. Send
 
more strands to the fire, and gather what remains. As Anglicized ashes, as penance,
it will be my way of feeding red willows in Taos Pueblo. Throw them over the fence,
 
near the Río Hondo. After my body is nestled in dirt in El Campo Santo, remember me
as liminal rain, one who mends aching edges of riverbanks, birth-torn countries. 
​
 
© 2017 Karen S. Córdova
           
Comments

From the New World

9/4/2018

Comments

 

Oriana Ivy

The slant sword of Orion, three stars,
winter-bright, as though unsheathed
from distance and the dark;
 
the plumes of palms and eucalypts
against the indigo of night;
and to the south, the trembling white,
 
yellow and orange lights of Mexico.
And childhood touches me again,
when foreign meant exciting. 
 
I love it, I almost say out loud –
wondering if I could leave it
for a man with a luminous spirit.
 
Which exile should I choose?
Oh child . . .  our tragic flaws
choose for us, to which we are blind.
 
The lights on the mesa quiver,
and I nod: here is my fortune, chance,
the black plumage of palm trees
 
my wealth. So many lights!
Some garish and some dim;
some shine on misery, dead dreams
 
like a body shattered by a leap.
Time the Hunter and his bright Dog
move on. Only we stand still,
 
immigrants approaching port,
our precious, useless
past in our arms. Ludicrous,
 
the luggage we take,
the old photographs. The future
will be exile, a new world.
 
Along the shore of night,
like spirits of ancestors, the lights.
​


Comments

Dreamers

9/3/2018

Comments

 

Kalpna Singh-Chitnis

We continue to dream
on sleepless nights,

clenching stars in our fists,

somewhere in the middle of nowhere,



across a fence,
across the borders
across the oceans.



The sun no longer rises in the east

and sets in the west,
the earth moves backwards
and trips over...

the world is only upside down
when they think,
they are atop the sky.


जो देखते हैं स्वप्न

हम फिर भी देखते हैं स्वप्न,
बिना नींद के, अँधेरी रातों में,
सितारों को अपनी मुट्ठी में जकड़े

दूर कहीं, किसी वीराने में,

कंटीले बाड़ों के उस पार,
उनकी सरहदों
और समुद्रों से दूर
,


सूरज अब नहीं उगता पूरब में
नाहीं डूबता है पछिम में
भ्रमित पृथ्वी चलती है
उलटे पांव
...

और जब औंधे मुंह गिरती है
,
आसमान से भी ऊपर होने का
उन्हें होता है भरम।
​
Comments

Displaced

9/2/2018

Comments

 

Kalpna Singh-Chitnis

I am a seed,
the earth requires
no permission for me to grow.


I am a bird,
the sky sets no limits for me
to fly.



But one day
they came to uproot us
,
one by one,




clip our wings

and bury us,
neither dead



nor alive,

in the air,
under our broken feathers.


विस्थापित

मैं एक बीज हूं,

मेरे उगने के लिए पृथ्वी
नहीं करती मुझसे
, उसकी अनुमति की अपेक्षा,


मैं एक पक्षी हूं
मेरे उड़ने के लिए आकाश

नहीं करता तय सीमाएं,

पर एक दिन वे आए
,
हमें ले जाने के लिए

एक-एक करके,

हमारी जड़ों
और डैनों को

काट डालने के लिए,
​

और हवाओं में, न जिंदा न मृत
दफ़ना देने के लिए हमारी देह,

हमारे कतरे पंखो के तले।

Comments

Only the Ocotillo

9/2/2018

Comments

 

D. Ellis Phelps

they rode in silence
​
silence
 
across the great river
 
silence
 
across the canyons
 
silence      wide open
 
splitting
 
seeds       of so many
 
each        last breath     
 
echoing
 
 this valley
 
receiving last rights
 
from the sighing night
 
—only the ocotillo
 
as witness
 
​
Comments

​Assimilate, Pero Como?

9/2/2018

Comments

 

Francisco "Pancho" Bustos

You mean assimilate
as in sharing 45-esque
passion in highlighting how "uneducated"
lack de "skills" son esos "others"?
You mean assimilate,
as in assuming
que apenas "some"
de los millones y millones
de Americanos sin papeles
are not "criminal" thugs?
You mean Assimilate,
as in looking the other way while
toxic rhetorics push demeaning stereotypes,
putting elections y el poder
sobre dignidad y empathy de tantos Dreamers?
You mean assimilate,
as in forget your past, forget your language, and forget your culture,
assimilate as in rally during prime times vs los "intruders"
and demand a great gran muro wall across the land and up to the sky?
ignore,
deny,
ignore
los dehumanizing messages
vs vulnerable dreamers?
Oh, pero pues
there are lots of Americanos con papeles
assimilating quite well, que no?
Into the 45 ish school of "thought"?
How much assimilation
in you,
In us,
In them,
In
You?



Comments

Topography of a Dream

9/1/2018

Comments

 

Fatma Assef


​I lulled a child
once to sleep
found faith
on its quiet face
 
sleep tight
tomorrow brings
the same
 
sketches dog-eared
on sidewalks
words finished
--green
Ivy crawling up
the space
between
my frozen front door
here
 
and my distant
Alexandria
 
faint beam
 
the waves of wanting
more--
 
waiting splits your skin
weight stretches you thin
 
pulls
the will away
 
watch
my watchtower
--collapse
 
this ocean of yearning
 
I will not wait
 
anymore

 
Comments

Lo sé, Tienes miedo (I Know You Are Afraid)

9/1/2018

Comments

 

Liliana Romero

 Translation by Lucia Vigil-Francis

 Liliana was incarcerated seven months as she awaited her asylum hearing.
Lo sé, estás ahí, ya te vi y sé que tienes miedo.
Tienes miedo porque no sabes dónde estás,
Tienes miedo porque no entiendes por qué te encierran
Tienes miedo porque otras llevan años y no han salido; Te pasará a ti?
Tienes miedo porque ayer puede ser la última vez que viste a tus hijos
Tienes miedo porque ya no puedes cambiar de parecer, es demasiado tarde…mira tus cadenas.
Tienes miedo porque huyendo de la barbarie encontraste otra y aquí no puedes correr ni escapar.
Lo sé, estás ahí, te vi llegar desconcertada. Y lloré porque no puedo ayudarte y sé lo que vivirás.
Vivirás la soledad entre mucha gente, vivirás las sombras y la risa psicótica.
Vivirás sonámbula contando los pasos hacia el teléfono. Un libro? No… no hay nada para ti, para tu sed, para tu hambre, para tu miedo.
Ellos no están, ni allá ni aquí, tu familia se ha esfumado, ya no los ves ni los oyes. Estarán bien? Te preguntarás? Y sufrirás su lejanía.
Vivirás queriendo ser rebelde, que no comerás esto o aquello, que es comida para perros dices. El agua tiene un sabor a químicos pero no tienes dinero para beber la potable. Te rehúsas, pero la sed no negocia y el hambre. El hambre, el hambre te obliga a comer lo que te sirven, y no lo ves, solo masticas y tragas. Obligaste a alguien alguna vez a comer algo que no quería? Porque yo no. Y aquí estoy compartiendo karmas.
Lo sé, estás ahí, no quieres hablar, pero escucho tus ojos y sé que tienes miedo.
Miedo de morir en algún momento, así como así, y en el anonimato.
Miedo de decir lo que quieres gritar, miedo de arañar las paredes y sacudirte el cabello de la ira, de rasgarte los labios con los dientes y triturar tu lengua. Quien te aconsejó entregarte? Al imperio donde una llave manda sobre tus muñecas, sobre tu cintura, sobre tus tobillos…sobre tu alma.
Tienes miedo al mañana, a la decisión de un Dios vestido de toga, a las palabras hirientes de un extraño que está molesto contigo por entrar sin tocar su puerta. Un cuartito de cuatro sillas y una bandera nueva y no hablas su idioma. Tu única arma es la confianza y la mirada del traductor. Qué dicen? Será cierto? Y tiemblan tus rodillas, tu cadera sucumbe al dolor y aguantas el llanto. Nadie quiere débiles.
Tienes miedo a la noche, a las noches y no duermes. Sabes que están molestos porque te gritan y te ven con odio pero no entiendes. Corriste para salvar tu vida. Créeme no es tu culpa no saber inglés.
No es tu culpa que el mundo esté loco, que el hombre sea malvado y te golpee, que haya guerras y sangre y tú… en el medio, girando tu cabeza, pidiéndole cuentas a Dios, rogando su ayuda.
No es tu culpa que corrieras y sangraran tus pies, que tus hijos lloraran por el camino pues peor es la muerte. No es tu culpa mi niña. Esto no es un castigo, nada hiciste. Esto es injusticia.
No es tu culpa te grito, no es tu culpa te lloro, no es tu culpa mi ángel. El mundo es así, terrible, sordo, mudo y ciego. No caigas, no te arrodilles, abraza a tus hijos en tu mente. Visualiza la leche de tu seno en su boca, el abrazo de tu pecho en el suyo y el arrullo de tu voz en su entraña. Canta, canta mucho, alto suave como quieras, pero hacia adentro, que no escuche el que te grita silencio. Baila, salta y da vueltas, no importa que te miren, que llamen el psicólogo no importa. Eres normal, eres un sueño y ellos solo saben de pesadillas.
Lo sé, estas ahí, ya te vi y tienes miedo
Miedo porque no sabes qué es esto
Miedo a recibir una llamada de luto
Miedo a que las canas inunden tu cabeza y…se acabe el tiempo, tu tiempo.
Lo sé, estas aquí, sé que tienes miedo, de lo que vivirás y escúchame; no tienes culpa, tu única responsabilidad es soportar, aislarte a la violencia, convertirte en su ganado pero jamás olvides que no lo eres. No eres eso que te dicen, no eres lo que comes, lo que hiciste, lo que dejaste o lo que tienes, no eres su oscuridad ni su bullicio, no eres sus silencios ni su regimiento. TU ERES YO, YO SOY TU. Y SOMOS LIBRES.

*

I know, you’re here, I’ve seen you and I know that you’re afraid.
You’re afraid because you don’t know where you are.
You’re afraid because you don’t understand why they lock you up.
You’re afraid because others have been in there for years and they haven’t gotten out; what will happen to you?
You’re afraid because yesterday may have been the last time that you were able to see your children.
You’re afraid because now you cannot change your mind, it’s too late … look at your chains.
You’re afraid because in fleeing from the horror you encountered another horror and here you cannot run or escape.
I know, you’re here, I saw your bewildered arrival. And I cried because I can’t help you and I know what you will live through.
You will live a solitary life amongst the crowds, you will live in the shadows, listening to the psychotic laughter.
You will live as though sleepwalking, counting the steps to the  telephone. A book? No, there’s nothing for you, for your thirst, your hunger, your fear.
They are not here, they are neither there nor here, your family has vanished, now you do not see them or hear them. Will they be ok, you’ll ask? And you will suffer in your distance from them.
You will live wanting to rebel, you’ll say you won’t eat this or that, that this is food for dogs, you’ll say.
The water tastes of chemicals, but you don’t have the money for the good water. You refuse the food and drink, but hunger and thirst don’t negotiate.
The hunger, the hunger forces you to eat what they serve you, and you don’t look at it, you just chew and swallow. Did you ever make someone eat what they didn’t want to? Because I haven’t. And here I am, sharing that karma
I know, you’re here, you don’t want to speak, but I hear you —  through the look in your eyes — and I know you’re afraid.
Afraid of dying at any moment, just like that, in anonymity.
Afraid to say that which you want to scream, afraid of clawing the walls and tearing at your hair, afraid of gnashing your lips and biting/shredding your tongue.
Whom shall I tell you to turn to?  To an empire where a key reigns over your wrists, your waist, your ankles …  your soul
You’re afraid of tomorrow, of the decision of a God dressed in a judge’s robe, of the words spewed by a stranger who is bothered that you entered without knocking. A little room with four chairs and a new flag and you don’t speak their language.
Your only defense is confidence and the translator’s gaze. What will they say? Will it be true? And your knees shake, you could almost double over in pain, and you hold in the sorrow/heartache. Nobody wants weaklings.
You’re afraid of the night, of the nights, and you don’t sleep. You know that it bothers them because you yell and shout and they look at you with hate, but you don’t understand. You ran to save your life. Believe me, it is not your fault to not know English.
It’s not your fault that the world is crazy, that man is mean-spirited, and hits you when you’re down, that there are wars and blood and you … in the middle of it, turning your head, pleading to God  for help, pleading for help.
It’s not your fault that you ran until your feet bled, that your children cried on the long road, at least it was better than dying. It’s not your fault my darling girl/daughter. This is not a punishment, you didn’t do anything wrong. This is an injustice.
It is not your fault, I shout to you, it’s not your fault, I cry to you. It’s not your fault, my angel. This is the way the world is, it’s terrible, deaf, dumb and blind.
Don’t fall, don’t be brought to your knees, embrace your children in your mind.
Visualize the milk from your breast in her mouth, the embrace of your chest on hers and  your soothing voice within her.
Sing, sing as much as you can, something soft as you like, but sing it within, so he won’t hear you, the one who yells, “Silence!”
Dance, jump, spin around, it doesn’t matter if they look at you funny, that they call you crazy, it doesn’t matter. You are normal, you are a dream and they only know of nightmares.
I know, you’re here, I see you and you’re afraid.
Afraid because you don’t know what this is.
Afraid to receive a call of mourning.
Afraid that your head will turn completely grey in here and … time is running out, your time is running out.
I know, you’re right here, I know you’re afraid, of what you will live, and listen to me; it’s not your fault, your only responsibility is to endure, isolate yourself from the violence, convert it into your win, but never forget that you are not it --You are not what they say of you/what they say your are, you are not what you eat, what you did, what you left behind, or what you have, you are neither your obscurity nor your clamor, you are neither your silences nor your regiment. YOU ARE ME, I AM YOU. AND WE ARE FREE.
​


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Immigrant

8/31/2018

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​Ricki Mandeville  ​

Thick brush snagged my skirt,
bloodied my legs, drew on them 
with its thorns a map of my passage.

You cannot know that I scraped spines and skin 
from bitter cactus to slake my thirst, ease my belly,
nor that the sun, el ojo del diablo, shed tears 

of boiling oil on my head while hot pebbles 
squirmed in the seams of my shoes.
Or that I traveled furtively by night  

dozed sitting against a rock at noon,
eyes closed to slits, the saga of my flight
flickering across half dreams.

I stumbled often, always looking back
for the ghost of my mother to bless me,
for la Virgen to sanctify my journey 

ears opened wide for sounds of la migra, 
heart leaking thunder like the storm 
on the tin roof of the room 

where my mother died, leaving behind, 
in its one good dress, her spent shell
with its withered hands, its long white braid.
 

from A Thin Strand of Lights (Moon Tide Press 2006)
​
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Their Eyes

8/31/2018

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Christina Guerra

Eyes…
Of sadness
Of loneliness
Of emptiness
Of hunger

I’ve been told
The eyes are the windows of the soul.

Too many sad, lonely, empty, hungry souls
Walking this earth among throngs of
Unaware, blind and busy souls.
​

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Alive

8/31/2018

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Alexandra Kostoulas 

I came from the hard work
that almost killed us
but didn’t
and grit and soil
forged in the fire
I emerged
naked and dripping 
all gilt
and filigree 
and gold

My spirit hammered out 
by burning irons
my flesh made smooth
by hot coals, 
My essence channeled 
into the finest steel
thrust past
heartbreaks
the aching 
the disasters
the scattered bones of friendships 
their petty jealousies
fall behind me in a comet’s tail
I step forward with a bridal train
like my mother, my grandmother,
my great-grandmother 
each one a healer, a migrant, a magician

I follow in their footsteps
a silver shoe pressing
into the moonlight
I forgive the past 
And I kiss my own hand
Full, sentient, awake
Alive—how lucky to be—alive.
 
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​Echoes of Agony

8/31/2018

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Julio Aguilar

I was only a shadow
inhabited by disdain, by the whims
of the wandering light.
Fruitful in me was misfortune
and I religiously distributed its gifts;
sometimes joy left its trail in the air.
Solitary tree, bread
of the crowd, I was
what I could.
 
Suddenly it is all dying.
(God, close your eyes
and look at your work
and feel sorry 
for yourself!,
but if I am the creator
of such sterile fruit, send me
once and for all to hell
and forget about me.
Be done with me, God,
you win!)
 
Today, on the edge
            of this afternoon
I also die
to maybe then begin over…
​


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Are You Tired of US Yet?

8/30/2018

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Juan Perez

Are you tired
of drinking cervesas at the local cantina
of eating delicious tacos and enchiladas
of having many reasons to throw a fiesta

Are you tired
of your home or office getting cleaned
of your lawn looking nice and pretty
of your fancy old cars running again

Are you tired 
of getting elected to political office
of having culture and spice added to the American melting pot
of having a scapegoat for your immigration problems 

It’s no wonder that you are tired of US
everything has practically been done for you
…maybe you should try doing them yourself then? 

​

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Constant Displacement

8/30/2018

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Kushal Poddar

A bird, dark feathered, broad, sirens
a pregnant-woman-crossing-the-desert alarm.

Wind displaces the things long loosened
from their origins. Wind displaces dreams.

Wind manipulates the bird, and the bird
maneuvers the wind.
Under the summer sun a pregnant
woman crosses the lines. May her daughter, her son
chart her dream that has a shape pre-Magellan.

Lower your guns, vigilants. A pregnant woman
screams an alarm- wind dislodges
everything already slackened.

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The RMS Queen Mary

8/30/2018

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Wendy Barker

Docked since '67 in Long Beach, the same liner Mom sailed in '39 from England to marry Daddy. Relic of a past the well-heeled now are recreating, "cruise" being the upscale way to travel, like the tour labeled "Alaska's Glorious Inside Passage in 8 Days," or the one advertised as "Wonders of the Mekong, 10 Days Down South Asia's Amazing River." But the Queen Mary was not designed for this sort of travel, rather to get you from Southampton to New York in less than a week. 

Or from one life to another. Within a year Mom had lost most of her Britishisms, except for her cadences. "Oh, you Americans," she’d shudder at us daughters, though she carried on with Thanksgiving and the Fourth of July. The phrase "carry on" holds more weight than hand luggage. All alone on the Queen Mary. Not part of any migration. No soft-bosomed granny, no jocular uncles to keep her afloat. Those glossy first class cabins were kept spotless. Then repainted, reupholstered, refurbished. Not a trace of her. 
​
​
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What the Gypsy Said

8/30/2018

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Oriana Ivy

From abysses of her skirt she pulls
a pack of cards, draws five,
spreads them in a fan.
My boyfriend and I see only
 
destiny’s backside,
oily gray as the tail
of an old Warsaw pigeon.
In a pause between the worlds,
 
she ponders the first card --
slowly looks up
with stone-dark eyes:
You are going on a great journey.
 
I nearly faint. The city swirls
with great June solstice light;
and in my purse, barely
obtained, my American visa.
 
Behind us, on the Palace of Culture
façade, the huge heroic
statues of workers and peasants
lift hammers, sickles, march
 
into the future; the Gypsy barefoot,
scarf flowering red poppies.
You will be rich, the Gypsy drones,
You will have three children . . .
 
You are thinking of a crown . . .
She turns to my boyfriend, draws
another fan of cards:
Fear sits in your stomach.
 
His face goes white --
he’s terrified of the draft.
You are thinking of a female head . . .
You will have two children . . .
 
He glowers -- obviously not with me. 
And you will be rich, she hastily
adds, her bronze narrow hand
plunging my bronze ten zlotys
 
down the forever of her skirt.
I’m seventeen. So this is fate.
Holding hands, he and I
walk the blossoming boulevards.
 
So this is fate: pale golden bells
of linden trees hum with bees
as with a million stories --
two suitcases, a pack of memories
 
slippery as worn cards. A waste
of money, he says as we step
through the nets of shadows;
disappear in the gilded light.


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Steeped

8/30/2018

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Arlene Biala

     This is how you see me, the space in which to place me.  ~ Layli Long Soldier 
                                                ~ ekphrastic poem based on Victor Cartagena's "Labor Tea" 

sitting here on the floor trying to conjure you up
like reading tea leaves in a cup, i am looking for signs
you are one of a thousand shrouded faces strung up on a tree
are you thirsty for clarity? are you steeped in grief?
 
i want someone to tell you sweet things.
i look for you where summer lasts forever.
your throat and your skin are parched, brittle angel. 
you used to smile all the time, so it's difficult to recognize you.
 
"i didn't realize tea had its labor issues like coffee and chocolate,"
says the lady to her friend and they quickly move on.
 
with the individual tea bag, the measuring of you has been done for us.
with the individual tea bag, the disposal of your remains is easy.
 
you are stacked thickly, abandoned after the withering stage.
the necessary fermentation takes place.
how brutal, how beautiful to slip me into new skin, you whisper.
to get your gaze on. to stay awhile.
 
passport photos in tea bags like toe tags. tag. you're it.
 
words fail me.
 
i want someone to tell me sweet things.  but that's none of my business. 
 
 
 
Originally published in More Good Talk: Poems from the Poets Laureate of Santa Clara County, July 2017.
​
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