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Zoe Mei 3d
Look on me dearly:
your stolen sullied sullen

daughter. I could dig you up
to hold your bones but

want only to wash myself
away, like white foam

from the seashore.
If I burn what is buried,

is it cremation
or disintegration? You would fly

ashes in the wind, like a wish

lift, like an altar of lit

Think of learning of your blood:
yellow skin and rice paddies

and your great-great-granddaddy
grey for the Confederacy.

I take
a breath

and leave it be.
Kamal Jul 8
He clawed his way …
Against all odds and their friends
He stood up
Shrugged off hopelessness
Packed his bags
Threw the “whine”
Killed his fear with vengeance
Never ever looked back
He walked one way … and a long way
Looked back
He was alone
And he would do it all over again
because he doesn’t know any other way
Kathleen Avenue still has houses,
But people left, and trees were felled;
The canopy across the street
Has lost some limbs
And many feet
Of children
Playing hide and seek.

One house, a brown-shingled frame
Is aging there as are our names;
The front yard doesn't boast corn
That Daddy grew
When first we landed;
Not knowing neighbours were offended
With farming behind green picket fences.

      so corn, cabbage and turnip too
      were left to rot. Daddy knew to
      strike when hot.

The locals weren't too much impressed
When Daddy taught them some respect.
The human smell of decaying turnip
Turned noses down that stood straight up. The front was never farmed again.
Recently, I passed that yard,
The picket fences gone;
And someone has a garden there,
The new arrivals,
If they care,
Really see the wisdom there.
I give a nod
To my Old Man,
An immigrant
Before his time.
All true.
Sai Kurup Apr 20
This land, foreign, yet so welcoming
Who would've known
I would own land
halfway across the world
from the homes of my ancestors
or rather,
this land would allow me to borrow it
prosper from it
and make it my home

Trees sway to the melody
of a warm summer breeze
Chirping birds and bubbling streams
the harmony
And I, simply another passing traveller
In the eternal life of this land

Who was here
100, 500, 1000 years ago?
Who knew this land
like the palms of their love?
Who sat here,
as I do now,
eyes closed
taking in the music of this land
soul at peace
knowing it was home?

This land, my new home,
and so, so welcoming
Kamal Dec 2020
Rise and shine my dear ...
Your Green Card is here
Ten years of waiting, hoping, dreaming,
Rise and shine my dear ...
Your application is rejected.
You may appeal this decision.  
No lawyer, nor a friend: Neither a family
Appeal I did.
Rise and shine my dear ...
Your Green Card is here.

And here we go again…
Vive La France
Et le Carte de Sejour
For this man with no love neither a friend
But an endless quest to belong
Here and now
Forgive me and forget me not my dear.
Kamal Dec 2020
I am tired of fighting to survive
I am a tired old man
I have lived but never loved
Please take me home
I am a flightless bird crossed the seven seas
I need to rest
Please take me home
My home is the endless blue sky,
the summer breeze,
the full moon over the Mediterranean Sea,
and words of love whispered in my ears ...

Please  take me home!
Allesha Eman Dec 2020
You’ve befriended discomfort,
Left behind your childhood streets,
only to walk down dark foreign ones.
You kiss away your mother tongue,
Surrendering to an unfamiliar one.


Your battles are carved into my blood vessels
and I will carry them with me
as reminders of patience and faith
Jonathan Moya Oct 2020
It soothes me to keep
the clutter of the past
in picture albums
on my cell phone:
mother’s yellow dresses,
ashes in weighted urns,
birth and death certificates,
enough heirlooms
to make a portable history,
things heavy enough
to resist memory’s drift,
for when
the hills blaze up
and I have to evacuate,
leave everything behind—
I am ready to
be an immigrant
once more.
Allesha Eman Jul 2020
Your heart rests in the palm of your father's sacrifice.
Your breath rests in the nostalgic wind that passes by him
When he remembers his past and reflects on your future.
Your colours run down the lines of your mother's smile,
Whenever she raises her hands to the sky,
Praying for you and a little more time,
Because she left her beating heart back home,
To become foreign and unknown only so you could grow.

Their complexions are painted with fatigue,
Because when you're sound asleep,
they run toward bordered walls,
so that when you wake up in the morning,
There will be open doors at your feet.

When a nostalgic wind passes by them,
They'll tell you stories of their childhood,
And they'll leave each word,
With a taste of reminiscence,
A hint of stolen years reflected in the teardrops,
That rest in the corner of their eyes,
And yet when they look towards you,
In seconds your reflection overshadows everything they once used to dream.

All for you...
Doy A Jul 2020
There are so many words to describe me,
none of them is B.A.M.E.
I've got a foreign name, exotic.
Try to read it before you modify it.

How long have I lived in the UK because
my English is so good, where did I learn it?
My accent is American, it's confusing.
or my accent is too Filipino, quite embarrassing.
How can we come from so far
and be so fluent-- so bizzarre.

My rice cooker is an enigma,
more so the amount of rice I eat, huh?
My spoon and fork don't make any sense to you
But your table knife achieves nothing for me, too.

Why do we dye our perfect black hair?
why do we want our skin to be fair--
why don't we just embrace our God-given tan?
Your president seems like a smart man
Fighting your country's drug war like no one else can
Lastly, "are you a Manny Pacquiao fan?"

It's quite difficult to be a P.O.C.
in a world that doesn't understand our P.O.V.
Why we've immigrated and not always assimilated
Why we've flown thousand of miles away from home
Only to stick with our own
but sometimes there is just some comfort
in not having to explain the way we are
or who we are
and why we are
the persons we are
without having to feel subpar.
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