I see you over the tops of uneven books.
I see your golden brown hair,
as wild as the tall tundra grasses.
I see you drop the musty book,
onto the pale grey carpet.
And you are unaware, of my peering eyes,
sneaking glaces from under my Algebra book.
And that the numbers are carved in my mind,
as if ingrained onto the bark of a dying evergreen.
PS700-PS3499 you are searching for great American poets,
as your hands glide over the worn leather covers.
Leaves of Grass, Sorrows Built a Bridge, Works of Poe.
As you glance at the Dewey Decimal Numbers,
Numbers flourish in my mind.
The probability that you would like me,
Numbers are more cohesive than the words,
that I have written to you in the margins.
In the distance I see you surrounded by your books,
deeply focused-serene,
I too am a poet,
I am a poet of logic.
Fixating on the truth showed by facts.

I pulled down vicious KKK flyers,
listened to members amplify hate.
Their harmful words only frustrate,
hoping to cease their cruel desires.

Harassment at work occurred
hablas ingles? a lady replied.
I let the racist remark subside,
when I realized I was not heard.

Being bullied at school would soon follow.
A boy shout the Spanish slur at me,
write vile notes for all to see.
Slashed my tires with archery arrows.

I never thought that they would presume,
I was an illegal immigrant.
Their logic absent,
only based on looks they assume.

Your insatiable appetite for food and life alike;
has compelled me to re-examine.
To delve into the blessings that life has to offer,
and live each day with conviction and purpose.
I will always imagine you swaying to the music,
as the boat rolls over the gentle waves of Lake Champlain.
I will imagine you recounting stories on Isle La Motte,
as you joined us on blankets in the grassy knoll .
Each moment is ingrained in my mind,
so I can relive them always.
I will miss your natural ease,
the way your smile is quickly reflected in mine,
the warm embraces and kind welcomes.
I will miss the wisdom you instill in me,
to help me conquer anything.
I know better than to be sad,
for you are a part of all of us.
In our smiles, kind actions, successes.
Without knowing you,
I would not be able to culminate to success,
or strive for what I deserve.
I want to thank you for be an inspiration,
and above all accepting me in into your heart;
without thinking twice.

Will time halt when the Mayan’s long calendar ends?
Or is it a mere cycle, a hoax disclaimed by all scientists alike.
A misnomer believed to have held truth,
such as Pluto being a planet, or a tomato a vegetable.
Will the tornadoes sweep away all the lies?
spread out on the west’s open plains.
Will the oil seep into the veins of politicians?
So that they will know the pain inflicted.
Will it **** the lives of those without health insurance?
Or will it reach out to the moguls of New York?
Where will the old shrimpers go?
When their skiffs are broken down,
on the abandoned Gulf Coast shore.
Where does anyone go to be safe?
Safety is hidden in the ashes of the towers,
intangible as democratic peace.
War news blaring form chrome flat screen televisions:
when will our troops return?
Death tolls pile up like discarded lotto numbers,
yet you keep playing with chance:
hoping for that jackpot to flash in fluorescent lights.
Yet victory is bittersweet when tainted by blood of the innocent.
Osama Bin Laden’s death calls for celebrations,
yet the war still rages on.
When will America be restored to pre-9/11days?
Or is it irrational as solving the 15 trillion dollar debt,
that escalates as the housing market plummets and gas prices rise.
Can you recount a time that it was under 3 dollars?
What has happened to America?
As I walk through the supermarket now,
California strawberries 6.99 a pound?
“Can I get a federal discount” my father asks.
He carries the satchel leaden with letters and packages,
although he is appreciated like junk mail.
3,700 post office closes their doors,
I notice the news article you tweeted.
I text you as I walk down the aisles,
oblivious to the techno music that plays,
and obese children beg their mothers-
for that candy bar with blood mixed in with cocoa beans,
from the African child wage slaves that harvested them.
This is what America has become.
Michele Obama tries to end obesity,
but we all know it is a fruitless claim.
As television ads are imprinted in their brains.
Ronald McDonald noted and not MLK.
We are too caught up in our fast paced lives,
to teach our children how to read,
it’s not our job we decide.
Caught up between late night snacks and filing away-
our dreams on the shelf, so they are not seen.
Ambitions lie in the cracked linoleum tiles,
in this supermarket neglected for countless years;
since no one cares, all that matters,
is profit, a quick fix.
You can’t just slap a Band-Aid on it America!
I can still see your wounds.
Cash or Credit?
“Credit” I say as I slide the sleek plastic card,
my I-Phone hums in my pocket.
Steve Job died? I hear Obama’s remark:
“He changed the way each of us sees the world”
Did he really?
My perception of the world is in accordance to Wi-Fi locations:
Skype contacts, Facebook posts, hashtags-
#TechnologyHasTakenOver.
I talk with the causality of a text.
The glow of screens and keyboard strokes barricade my reality.
I realize this as I read your enumerations.
I read articles of what states pass gay marriage,
and wonder who you would have married?
I wonder if you would have help Emerson,
pick up New England’s shattered pieces after Irene?
I wonder if you would have protested Wall Street,
since you are the 99%, the common man.
Would you have advocated for immigrants’ rights.
Fought the tarnished racist ideas,
corroding the Statue of Liberty’s ideals.
I spray paint the words of your poems,
On the brick buildings of every city,
trying to restore America.

Will it end as the Mayans predicted?
Will the tornadoes sweep the west,
off the map as smoothly as the tumbleweed drifts?
Off the coast oil seeps into the harbor,
killing life.
Killing economy.
Where will the old shrimpmen go?
When their skiffs are broken down.
Where does anyone go to be safe?
Safety is hidden in the ashes of the towers,
intangible as democratic peace.
Wars blaring in the news,
when will our troops return?
When will New Orleans ever be restore to pre-Katrina days?
Or is it as hopeless as the economy.
15 trillion in debt and still escalading,
as the housing market plummets,
as gas prices rise.
4 dollars a gallon?
I cannot recount  time it was under 3.
What has happened to America?
As I walk through the supermarket now,
California strawberries 6.99 a pound?
Can I get a federal discount?
I text you, as I walk down the aisles,
oblivious as the techno music plays,
and obese children beg their mothers-
for that candy bar.
For that is what America has become.
Michelle Obama tries to prevent childhood obesity,
but we all know this is a fruitless claim.
We are too caught up in the fast paced life,
burger and fries? I think yes.
My cart creeks over the cracked linoleum floor,
this is the fourth supermarket company in 5 years!
Yet none cared to fix the ancient floor,
all they can see is profit.
A quick fix,
You can’t just slap a band aid on it America.
I can still see your wounds.
Cash or Credit?
“Credit” I say as I maliciously slide the sleek plastic card.
Eyeing the grocery boy as he aligns the paper bags,
As my I-Phone hums in my jeans pocket.
Steve Jobs died?
I hear Obama’s remark
“He changed the way each of us sees the world”
“Has he really?”
I say as I stare at my Mac
I realize what Allen Ginsberg did when reading your work.
“It occurs to me that I am America”
I too am dependent on technology,
that barricades my sense of reality.
I realize this as I read your enumerations.
I read articles on what state pass gay marriage,
and wonder who you would have married?
I wonder if you would have help salvage New England,
after Irene’s furry damage countless towns.
Would you have took a stand and protested wall street?
Since you are the 99%,
the common man,
in the tyrant of the few.
You would have advocated for immigrants’ rights.
Fought tarnished racist ideas,
corroding the Statue of Liberty’s ideals.
I spray paint the words of your poems,
on the brick buildings in every city.
Hoping to restore America.

Each look of Sympathy.
Makes me feel weak.
Useless, worthless, unwanted.
As the rusted penny,
That lies on the bottom
Of the abandoned wishing well.
Waiting for another coin,
To join and share the misery and neglect.
This never happens…
For no one can see the well.
Hidden behind the canopy of trees,
That disguises it from the rest of the world.
No one can hear the fear or sorrow.
For it is invisible,
And unimportant.

He tries hard hidden in the harbor,
gazing at the deserted creek presuming,
the shallow water shows their shapes.
The thin thread he ****** into the water thoroughly vanished.
Weighed down with wonder.
He wheels in the well-weighted gnawing fish.
Defiled by the death drops down.
He knew not the fish nor flesh, he knelt
Honest offers originated over his grotesque tragedy.
Praying pin points his pleas importance.
Changing his choices taken contributed to his vegetarianism.

As we crossed the icy bridge,
we knew we would never forget,
the act that is discouraged.
Change was the ultimate message,
it was obvious that I was upset.
As we crossed the icy bridge.
Thinking of the ended marriage,
brought me to a cold sweat.
The act that is discouraged.
The sleet soon blocked the image.
Making the road dangerously wet,
as we crossed the icy bridge.
Unaware of the damage,
the decision that he would regret-
the act that is discouraged.
Unable to understand the language,
of the quiet hum of the worn out cassette.
As we crossed the icy bridge,
the act that is discouraged

Everything fades.
forgotten elements compile,
neglected .
I never thought,
I would be tossed aside like a rusted hubcap.
Amongst all the *******,
corroding silently

Encased in enough tape,
I struggle,
peeling off the layers
as slowly as you would peel an onion.
The pile cascades to the floor.
Each fragmented piece of tape,
blending into the coffee colored carpet.
Sticking to the soles of my shoes,
Each movement becomes progressively harder.
I open the box.

I start to panic, a fear of being trapped inside emerged.
From stories imprinted in the mind.
with every gear shift I cringe. I’m safe this is absurd.
Still thoughts race through my head. No one would ever find...
Exerting my nervousness, my body begins to shake.
Fear is the fallen tree decaying as time goes on;
until there is nothing left, except for me to make,
my irrational state of mind eradicate. The pain drawn-
out for all to see, as it  alludes to insanity.
The screeching metal masks my internal screams.
I tolerate the sound by saying profanities.
As elevation alters my heart rate changes in extreames.
My fear diminishes as time progresses, for I soon realize,
that avoiding it would work against what I am advised.

We walked down the path,
Overgrown weeds jut out from every direction.
The harsh textures rub against my bare legs,
as if being kissed by an unshaven man.
The narrow sodden trail unwinds,
revealing translucent waters with distinguished elegance.
It feels as if the eye can transcend forever.
The water is tainted,
it is the furthest thing from purity.
It’s beauty once extolled is as meaning less as a grungy penny,
for it is an artificial beauty.
-Marissa Navedo

The metal cart intertwined,
forcefully ****** it free.
I wipe off the microscopic organisms,
that manifest in the plastic fibers.
Push the cart across the cracking linoleum tiles.
Hearing the rusted wheels squeak,
as I veer through the narrow aisles.
Collecting an assortment of desired items,
that seem appealing despite the harsh florescent lights.
The radio ads try to entice me to purchase new things.
I grudgingly ignore them.
Crossing the goods off my list,
with a swift black x’s
the same black that is seen on the signs for sales.
2 for 3 dollars?
Is hard to resist.
Blackberries, Greek yogurt, a head of broccoli,
soon I have a heaping cart.
To my dismay the lines are long,
they slowly begin to dwindle down.
Cashiers frantically punching codes,
scanning coupons, counting change.
What is this?  Okra?
The black conveyer belt constant hum,
as it carries my purchases down.
Until they are all awaiting for me,
in paper bags.

I sat in the third row.
Staring at the red velveteen,
the gleaming black exterior-
of the open casket.
My abuela’s black veil masked her face,
however could not hide her gentle trembling.
Discarded Kleenex crumbled,
on the harsh wooden floors.
That resonated the sound of her heels
as she pace d the floor.
While she recited Hail Mary’s,
and prayed to God.
Abuela no lloran,
She held my hand.
I saw what my mother tried to prevent.
Abulo with bruises on his skin,
similar to the coffee stain on my father’s ivory shirt.
His amputated leg, and still expression

I walked away, I learned my lesson.

*Abula no lloran means Grandma don’t cry in Spanish

-Marissa Navedo

Tightrope
       W a l k  e  r   s
              ABOVE
dangle            the audience’s heads
                                                      bats
Jugg ler’s  throw              *****             chairs.
ringmaster   conquers                       all
caged   lionsbears -  beasts

popcorn spills      on the
                                           ground
as   children gaspinawe
horses lavishly decorated
clowns            abhorred
laughter radiates in the arena
trapeze act
                      grand Finale
discarded peanuts
                                    linger
behind
-marissa navedo

Listen to the constant chirping of the crickets.
Watch the blades of grass sway in the wind,
as the smell of the morning dew surrounds me.
My eyes follow the gentle ***** of the hill,
noticing the wildflowers scattered like coins in a well.
A couple is walking on the dirt path below,
oblivious to my gaze.
The tree’s rusted orange, saffron yellow leaves,
begin to drift down the path.
A lone discarded paper, an artificial tumbleweed.
The wind rattles the pages of my journal,
as if it is trying to keep nature a secret.

-Marissa Navedo

At a young age,
you laboriously worked on complex puzzles;
completing them, with an unnatural ease.
Distinguishing  yourself from others.

Your passion direct.
Fixating on numbers,
calculating your future.
You try to find a formula for happiness,
although it is incalculable.
As an irrational number, unable to terminate.

You extract formulas,
despite the odds.
Conveying your theories,
constructing logarithms.
intent to prove it is not abstract,
to be a female actuary.

Seventy years prior,
Catherine Prime opened the field.
Disproving the infeasible claims,
that women could not excel to this level.
Faced with reasons not to give her rank,
amongst the stunned men.
Who claimed she was good,
for a woman.
-Marissa Navedo

“En dehors”
The mirror emulates their grace,
as amber catches an insect
preserving it in the mind.
I focus on the soft pink
that paints across the floor.

“Passé”
Their feet move automatically,
as gears in a grandfather clock.
Drifting with the ease,
of a fallen leaf.
Gliding through the air.
My steps are crude to the eye,
as oil in the ocean

“Efface”
With each incorrect step.
I burrow even further,
trying to escape ridicule.
I attempt to blend in,
A crypsis of the mind.

Marissa Navedo

- En Dehors: expresses that the leg moves in a circular direction, clockwise
- Passé: working leg passes the supporting leg sliding close to the knee
- Efface: Dancer stands at an oblique angle to the audience so part of the body is hidden from view. Legs are open and uncrossed
- Crypsis: The ability of an organism to avoid observation or detection by other organisms.

my secrets in your fibers.
Each strand a story,
that I have burdened you with.
Hidden from sight under your layers,
as hard to find as an ancient grotto.
You protect me,
as the canopy shelters the rainforest,
sheltering me from fear.
Your scent pungent,
Age fragrant
as a musty book in an attic,


Marissa Navedo

-  The nickname Oscito means little bear in Spanish