we are in our home
where the pomegranates have begun
to fall

where the sugarcane is planted
next to the persimmons, and the limes
drop round as heavy as chucked pebbles

into a sea of black dirt below
illuminated by one round moon
your face stern and mine young

         begin to sing to our elder
                                                      in the sky
that was it, I remember—

my paternal grandmother would sing for us

I awake with you asking me the same questions, and I answer truthfully and then I cry.
But I don’t know if I cry of joy or sorrow because before I can take another breathe the dream is over and you are sleeping next to me. And the dream is a piece of yarn that unravels me into waking life where I don’t have the courage to answer you truthfully.

glorious grounding silence engulfs all, evening comes but only makes it’s gust stronger. It is here where my fear touches the tip of my love that I close my eyes and hold the hands of uncertainty—

may hope truly give us wings

My brother picks up the phone and speaks slowly to me. My arms and legs tingle and begin to buckle beneath me, I am simply grateful I am seated in a car on my way home. “You did good” he says. “Today was a test run. You learned your limitations”. I tell him I wanted a book. So I tried to go to the bookstore but ran out energy. He tells me, I overdid myself not because of the book but because upon exiting the bookstore I joined a march around the block to protest g e n o c i d e. The timing was perfect. I thought it as a sign to join I mention. He laughs while holding his phone almost 6,000 miles away, asserting that I should take care of my human needs and rights especially after my injuries. I laugh again. He is right. I laugh some more but I begin to cry. The book I bought was by bell hooks.

In the preface, she describes how turning away from love in our society “risks moving into a wilderness of spirit” one from which it would be hard to find our way home. Is that what I am witnessing, I think of the picket signs. I think of the lovelessness war connotes.

Have we lost our love of this world?

Are we so afraid and so broken-hearted that we merely theorize about love? But will not stretch our open palms towards it? What does it mean if collectively we cannot conceive of love’s open palm or the love of others to makes us smile at a stranger or cook a dish for friend.  
I like a  falcon in her gyre of words spin in their warning. When suddenly, I hear my brother’s  voice and I am on the ground watching the falcon turn in gyre, his voice soft like when we were kids. I return to his voice, I return to the comfort of sibling love. Each block of joy we have built since children and I cherish the placement of each one.

I think, the world is not too far gone. It is like this. Waking up to the sudden voice of love that will breathe life. Suddenly able to see clearly with awareness where we stand and where our hearts have stood and will stand until the end of time—in love.

Thoughts: I observed ducks in the lake comfortable in the cold their plumage  warming them. I thought about what my plumage may be. If the plumage were a metaphor what is it a metaphor for. Is it wisdom, is it skill, is it a learned capacity? I pondered  and then I just laugh because my mind is conditioned to find patterns and metaphors that somehow I momentary lost the point… I don’t have to know. I can just sit here and observe & be present.

2. Thoughts: … ☁️

I have lifted the mug to quench my own thirst. I content,—— a middle line, silence, full as I always was find myself beautiful and find you divine. I need no other reason but this deep love of ours here on the spin-off rock to smile.

the alarm rings in Guernica
All wounds open with this one

The first verse of Dalton’s Como tu
“I love love, life.” witnesses as
All wounds speak with this one

Ingram’s interview with Ms.Goodman
the Jews Hamburg taken to the Mintz Ghetto stripped of clothing  and then shot
All wounds unravel with this one

The way I cannot speak the language of my ancestor and the violence it took to strip our tongue away but not our lives
All wounds open with this one


Refaats join Jara
All wounds open

And as they open still mothers and fathers wipe the clean the face of their dead children and smile

My your god and mine have mercy and smile upon us again as these wounds open I begin to understand a smile is a treasure

Deadly Dior
Grave digging Givenchy
Dead bodies still in cells Celine
Children Crying Chanel
Some are still in the rumble Starbucks
Never Again, Nestle the why you funding genocides
I’m lovin’ it, McDonald’s- actually, no I don’t love you funding war
Where dreams come true Disney+, I beg to differ and offer. Where nightmares are funded for children caught in a conflict.
And so many more who to boycott, I do believe I have stumbled upon a long, long poem that wishes to be longer. Don’t forget you money speaks too like words and songs and paintings hung up.

Words of self awareness are like harpoons

that hit the places that are already wounded

                From those wounds blood still flowed but now as the second sharp point penetrates

It becomes clear that it is there what we must begin to heal

you grab the fruit but you do not

water the tree

                           then you cry in silence at night without asking

the tree why
Why it can no longer bare fruit

your thoughts circle a dead end street
and scream “BARREN”

But why

Why don’t you just water the tree

Nuestros cuerpos parados de lado a lado
nuestros dedos entrelazados mientras el sol convierte el atardecer en mañana

Aquí la boca de la tierra exhala formando gotas de roció sobre el pasto de migraciones passadas

nuestras manos son flores cúspides
que se extiende más allá de las tierras altas occidentales a tocar gramática de las cuencas costeras donde la avenida Central recorre la parte media de la espalda de Los Ángeles.

Desde allí crecemos flores de cosmos para alimentar a los colibríes
con nuestros dulces néctares
y los colibríes viene y nosotras sonreímos

If you look away from the horrors of war, if you ignore reports, personal accounts told, videos of children with amputated limbs, the dead, the dead and many more dead children, and a whole family lifeless on the street next to their car as they tried to flee with now only mosquitos alive circling the camera man who found them–know that what is rotting is not them. It’s our society’s humanity. It’s the lighting of the Christmas tree at square with the reporter standing on a roof instead of on the ground because the area was filled with protesters. That calling for end of  g e n o c i d e when you continue to watch the dying and hear the mourning calls is not anti- anything is simply who continue to watching thousands of children die. Inside the rumble rotting are our values of justice and freedom for all, our great dream of democracy, they push towards the West Bank as they pushed towards the westside of the what became the U.S. manifesting cruelty this story too old and too fraught with river that runs red. Inside the rubble of the past and now the present– along side that dead will lie our humanity and our soul if we look away, silent.

If you walk down the hallway of all your sorrow Watch on each passing door a projector display the whirling colors of the hands bearing gifts and shackles, shaking trees under frightening storms and caskets of people and things seemingly lost. If down this corridor you continue, I promise you will get to the very end where only a final door in front of the corridor remains open where the temperature suits your skin and life still exists lighter and freer than where you were before. This gift I am sure you will receive if you walk through that corridor of your sorrow and you step through that final door

Go find people who will talk to you on a bridge, who will meet you in vulnerability. Who will not leave you in silence under a street lamp. Go surround yourself with those who will ask “what ails you?”
You deserve to find respect in the way someone considers you. Find those who are sure of you, who can see you are a charm not a thorn. Folks who make you feel like you belong; folks that choose you. Do not spend your life crying over those who could not hold you. Forgive them and forgive yourself for asking the naked for a coat. It may be that you were naked, too. Hold nothing against anyone just be on your merry way, see where other roses grow and what spring looks like when winter releases its grip over your heart. You cannot stay in the past, no matter how sweet or how troubling it seems. You are here on this “x”. Take heart and go find people who like you –wish kindness, love and joy for all those around them. Go, go bravely, go quietly into life.

me gustaría sentarme y decirte
que yo siempre te quise
y que si no te conocí bien me disculpes
no es fácil saber como moverse
en sincronía a alguien mas aunque haiga amor
hay que saber cuando tomar un paso hacia adelante y un paso hacia atrás –hay que saber bailar

We should see each and think brother, sister– earthly kin.

Love our kin so deeply that when they survive
the unkind acts that do unfold
in life we sit with them and cry

May we love our kin so deeply we become even more courageous and emboldened
to stand in the door way if they wish to seek revenge

Walk them through their pain
to understand their hate and sorrow because the wick of  hatred will burn them distort & corrode them burying
the thread between the world and them melting away
their peace–their heaven on earth surrendered
if they walk through that door

Spent so much time alone
Suckled by the edges of leaves and awaken by mountain slopes that the first person I see makes me smile just like the first flakes of snow

I decided that if I die like this in love with flowers, attentively watching the rain commence it’s cleansing slide down a window or outside with the cold piecing air
making my breathe a boundless cloud
–I would die full.

When I stir the ***, I am happy with the scent of every ingredient that I have poured into my life, of every version of that stew that slow cooked until now.  

I am not saddened, ashamed or ******* my hand that poured in salt.

I begin to feast.

I see the oatmeal boil in hot water.
That is my mind I think to myself, and that’s all human lives lifting as they are born and sinking once they died

You swirl in a sweeping of leaves up to the heavens, and I stand again at your grave
your songs spin and join the dried foliage, I hear you sing my name and the flowers you gave me, now dry, spin in air too and so does my grandfather’s songs at your window, my uncle’s guitar before he passed, the tuning  of my cousin’s bass and the strumming of my brother guitar melt into the canvas of today’s fall skies. And just when I feel so close to surrendering, I feel all these dried parts of myself begin to lift.

I am here to hold you my uncertain sorrow, hold you my jubilant cries while holding with my other palm the shrieks of excitement. I am here to walk alongside you as you walk back from a dead end road you thought would go somewhere. I am here in the rain–unwilling to abandon you when you spit out words half peace & half misguided renewals of sadness. I am here for the sentimental-girlish **** others refer to, to lift your chin up and say “baby girl you got this”. I am here to squirm and dance with you when no one else will. I am here to hold you. I am here. Here, to break bread with you. Here to drink of the same cup and comb your hair when you’re drunk.

This cracked vase, shatters
leaving only the space around it to witness

I pass my hand through the space
only air, I breathe–

When all the sorrow of the world spills over, cup your hands and try to hold it.

Even if you think it might run over,
know the earth below will hold it, too

Together you will see to it; see that these rivers that long have ran with each others blood and that are marked white deposits of salt from histories of tears serve
their deepening purpose and  nourish
the soil. That all boiling blister of hate pop
by our consciousness renewed. Growing among the dirt of yesterday, the fruit of all our mistakes will be our garden that grows flowers.

From one gut wrenching moment to the next you breathe, you breathe, you breathe
and listen–to the bird’s song and water trickling until the leaves become leaves and you become you, again

The marigolds sing, and although I cannot reach out and touch you—I can still find you.
You are the warmth and the light and the luminosity of love that sticks to me and transforms life. Yes, the marigolds do sing. I can defend this because I know—
I know you and you and you
your eyes stare back at me, your thin hair I inherit, your beauty marks reflect in  the same position as mine. I know that the marigolds do sing.

( the marigolds sing “Here I am. Here.”  And there I find you, again)

Donde la vida te lleve
ahí se abrirá de luz

In Bethlehem, south of Jerusalem, a bomb falls over Saint Porphyrius Church
and the promise of never again
is obscured under the rubble  

civilians told to move south towards
the border, take to the roads
mid escape a bomb falls
their bodies scatter over Salah-al-Din street

the son of man mangled over the floor

Sweet and luminous sit the flowers
over the crown of your head

song-ridden mornings bring me old lullabies you sang

so close you are, I simply smile now

our bodies stand side by side, fingers intertwined as the sun comes turning dawn into morning. Here earth's mouth exhales
forming cold dewdrops over the pastures of past migrations

our hands cusping wild cosmos stretch past the western highlands
to touch the grammar of coastal basins where central avenue runs down the middle back of Los Angeles

there, too we lift our palms to feed the hummingbirds with our sweet nectars of wild cosmos


Translation to Spanish:

Sueños de tu y yo

Nuestros cuerpos parados de lado a lado
nuestros dedos entrelazados mientras el sol convierte el atardecer en mañana

Aquí la boca de la tierra exhala formando gotas de roció sobre el pasto de migraciones passadas

nuestras manos son flores cúspides
que se extiende más allá de las tierras altas occidentales a tocar gramática de las cuencas costeras donde la avenida Central recorre la parte media de la espalda de Los Ángeles.

Desde allí crecemos flores de cosmos para alimentar a los colibríes
con nuestros dulces néctares
y los colibríes viene y nosotras sonreímos

Do not disappear again

above us all the stars remain luminous
bellied laughs, and curtain smiles that open to the gleaming sun
shining between your two front teeth

Do not disappear again

above us all there lines tied to kites
like on the day I went to a old place in south of Seoul
next to Hwaseong fortress
there the kids flew kites and I tied a small white paper along with others as a prayer

Do not disappear again

Above us all there should be a mirror reflecting our own beauty, old pictures taken years before make us sigh
we didn’t know we were so lovely so tender and filled with life. Why not take a photograph, today or all days when we still are radiant. Why not realize that our worldly anchor of change and age do not subtract the charm our new age.

Do not disappear, again  take another picture with me

We are still beautiful, tender, and filled with life.

There are two quilts of stories woven and hanging between you and I. You cannot see  the layout of my thoughts or their coordination with my actions.Nor can I see yours.

You see the quilt. The same quilt from years ago. The stories blow in the wind and as does your hair . The same dead ends come up one after the other like roads signs as you drive into the highway of the past.

One question, two questions, ten questions and perhaps you would understand. Perhaps all could fold their quilts and see clearly what has been blowing behind the fabric.

May you soar whether you can see a crowd or a crow from the corner of your eyes.

Constantly, may you see the sky and take it to it–all flight is nature’s miracle and so are you.

If our line of flight crosses or never does overlaps matters not. Let us be two fleeting flapping winged creatures for now

be today’s love child, look
out the window or put down
the glass screens, all seconds yearn
for you, moan for sweet attention
and you yearn for every single
one of them, too
so deep is your yearning
that you hush it with reproach
like you would a neighbor’s dog
barking outside

But it’s your dog
so it’s right outside your window
and the years of wishing
your were someone else
have not neutered
your own desire to return
to the arms of the present
instead you too begin to bark
your desire unyielding

if there is a love in your hands
be kind
like winter is on the unexposed
root of a tree,
be gentle
as if in your hands was a soon to hatch egg

be all that you are, naked
baking under the sun
but whatever you do, do not underestimate
love
like a novice swimmer does the sea
or the way a traveler does a new city's river currents

In my pit of sorrow
I grew wings looking at you

the flight of winged sparrows above
me common to the city dweller was a miracle  to me

keep this boat of kindness
anchored to dock of this tiny
speck of a body born into time  

may all violent waves and turbulence
never break the mooring line

correct all the mistyped words
with correction tape
bestow upon me the click of the roller as you turn it
with volition
yield me the appropriate inches
of mental space -margins
as I type a new year of life away on an eternal canvas
let me place them as numbers over a birthday cake
so that all the thoughts are eaten by the white space over  a rainbow sprinkled cake

I have asked the dropping branch
not to yield it’s snow like it yielded its leaves

You sleep in the next room tenderly
splayed out like an elegant silk dress

while I sneak  out of bed to write poems
in dim oven light

tomorrow we will see Jung Seob Lee paintings, I haven’t told you why I want to go
(He reminds me of you)

fueron lazos tus escombros
que después del huracán
de ti me ataron a tu memoria

divinas fracturas
que mi cuerpo terrenal
no pudo más que entrar
en capullo