she could she would have she spoke the language (how did she learn it?) my mom eats a soda c r a c k e r and looks at me bewildered: "Huancavelica," she says to me (oh they speak it there) she could have she would have taught you how to speak it she died of cancer my poor tia tu abuelo he speaks a little he learned it from her and his mother, mi abuela she told me a story when i was little she said dogs used to speak but they were gossips one day god came down fed him a piece of bread it stuck in his throat so he could never speak again as punishment you see? (then mi abuelo had his piece of bread) why do you mean? (the stroke it silenced him) just for some time (yes but he cannot share with me the words he knows he is far away and meek as an infant he probably does not remember but then again el language it has been lost for many years)
The east side The drug pushers Pimps And hoes The ***** alleys ways Grass growing up through every single nook Crevice And crack of the imagination
The east side How I love you Only there I can see a homeless black ****** Gingerly crossing the street Only there do I see men walking Holding their beers Wrapped up in brown paper bags Where the Latina girls wear large hoop earrings Dark make-up and hair The black girls with their red lipstick
The east side Smelling of dirt and **** The internal engine of the city The cracked houses The homeless riding electric wheelchairs in the middle of the street The tagged walls The abandoned houses The sign throwing The shootings The stabbings The killings
I think love is what we need in the world. We needed it so badly we created it. Then we fought over it. And we corrupted it. It even became a disease. Until we found it had a medicinal effect. It could heal.
Love seeps into the ground where we bury it. The decay leaves traces of it. So is love also in death? Love is powerful indeed.
If love can find its way in life and death, it must not be mortal like us. Perhaps we can call it Divine. It must be what we see when we look up to the sky.
That’s why we describe it in so many ways. It flows like the blood in our veins. And when we no longer have the strength in our heart, it becomes the soul of our own.
A city abroad. A long way from home. New country to new home. And the universe gave birth to the one body a second time. These pavements have never been walked upon by the little feet of Vietnam. Pavements walked by many; yet the feeling is so refreshing. A Street she will never walk down, decisions she will never make. As irrelevant as it may seem, no matter how pointless our existence may be. A human can wonder, and wander. A human. That is all I am, and that is all I will be. Nothing we do makes a difference in the great scheme of things. As we are a speck in the history of a universe that is billions of years old
this poem was extracted from a short story I had written from an English assessment I submitted for a creative task. The task was to write a minimum of 1700 words about an experience of cultural difference and power structure. There are two more parts and I will be posting them straight after this is posted please read them also. These poems are of the character 'Minnie Ngyuen's' own work. Minnie would like to share with you her experiences