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Zywa Feb 4
I penetrate her,

digging for her promises --


my soul roves about.
Immigrant
"Genker liefde" ("Genk love", 2017, Mustafa Kör)

Collection "Truder"
Francie Lynch Jul 2021
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.
DElizabeth May 2021
There are cracks in the mask
because there are cracks in the foundation.

Hazy,
what was it all like before we divvied our nation?

Mother's and children
helpless in separation.

Give me the good news
when all I see is complication.

Who decided what's ours isn't theirs?

Crossing, drowning, they're running out of flares.
Penny Z Mar 2021
You tear our kind away,
those pesky weeds        
                                    that stunt
your plump full seeds  -
that steal and cause decay.
You landed by fortune,
fortune of the windy chance -
you earned it. What is different is dangerous
less valued - not worth a glance.

Warm soil in-between your fingers,
You have power here in the garden,
Pulling and wrenching the stems from
home
We’re unwanted, not needed
Not useful, not beautiful,
Not enough,
                      but too much.
                                    

Strong weathered fingers grip our necks,
Trampled under steel studded boots,
We seep into the soil disappearing,
Just like you wanted us to.
Suffocating ignored as grassroots,
condemned to be always taboo.

Weeding is good, you say.
Weeding is important.
It keeps the garden healthy, comely,
presentable.
We’re the intruders, thieves!
in search for better light.
Worn down we grieve.
why do you see not our might?

A garden improved

Standing up I arch my back,
rusty and cramped.
Tiresome work removing the
unwanted.
My hands scratched and torn,
the limp bodies neatly packed,
the garden is reborn.


The flora look uniform now
no insulting dark stems,
only the long strong boughs
of rightful King Oak,

and no more of them.


But a king without his subjects is a peasant.
With our loss fades your treasured soil,
your sterling root networks anchoring your  
flowerbeds of wealth.
We are the pests,
we stole your soil,
so why does it grow grey?
You wanted growth
I heard you say.
You can’t have both.

What a nuisance.
Us or the decay?

So I am a pest, you say?
Well, to that I say, we pests always grow.
Your tulips and rose corrode,
but you reap what you sow.
No matter the hate that spits our existence,
the sharp teeth of the chainsaw or
poisonous pesticide bidding good riddance,
we are green, and life sustaining, and we are resistant.

The aim is not good riddance,
but co-existence.
An allegorical poem on the importance of assimilation of differences rather than separation
Gabriel Herrera Sep 2020
I wonder how my ancestors feel
Knowing their escape from home
Would lead
To children ***** in cages

Traced
Nameless
Unheard of conditions
Like their rabid dogs

But really puppies still needing their mothers milk

Who made those cages you call sanctuary
Who made those tinfoil sheets you call warmth
Who made those regulations?
Ripping the child from their parents grip
I've seen the ******* pictures
Those kids were strangling their mothers and fathers in order to not let go

There's no need for translation
This is universal
These children are treated like felons
With no warrant
No warning

Is this justice?
Does my so called president get off to this?

Is he not satisfied enough with his spray tan?

He takes it out on us?

I wake up in my bed
Every day I cant fathom
The nightmare those children wake up to
Alone with others like that look just like them.
Looking in the reflection their tears molded onto the shivering pavement

I cant even imagine

The thoughts that may race through their young and impressionable minds

Do they think they deserve it?
Do they think this is their fault?

If and when they do finally escape

How scarred will they be?

They already have a criminal record for being born

How will they survive in a society that imprisoned them before given an education

Before given a ******* a chance.
Sirad Jul 2020
I imagine you at my age
Younger, stronger and ambitious
You literally cracked your spine
Once healed, cracked again by soil foreign  
That bore you no fruit
But fruit were born from the womb
Of the love of your life

I imagine you had it all
But poverty was placed between your eyes
Tried to go back home
Catch the dream you once had
Build a home your children could inherit
But all they wanted, was to snuggle in your strength
Listen to a strong heartbeat
Reading them nursery rhymes

Tears begin to flood my vision
When I realise, your life
Is mirror to my own
I inherited recycled dreams and hope
From a land that bore me no fruit
When all I wanted, was to inherit extra time with you
Snuggle in your strength
And listen to lullabies
Kelsey Banerjee Jul 2020
if I stay, I miss the BBQ,
if I leave, I miss the mangoes.
There is no hope for
those of us trapped
between two worlds.
Kelsey Banerjee Jul 2020
We slump,
cracks in the cumin seed siding
outside the police station,
stale air suffocates the sun
as it sinks below
a creek and a trash heap

visa papers
clutched like the cloak of God,
a 100 rupee note crumbled in your jean pocket -
just in case.
is it a crime to expect the worst
in spite of order?

blazing dry heat smothers our lungs,
we resemble
shrunken palm leaves held only
by the stone above us.
Kelsey Banerjee Jun 2020
no one tells you
being an immigrant
is being a stallion
front hooves tied knotted
course rope
chaffing at your ankles
holed up in a greener pasture
gnawing at tender leaves
while watching
acres away
those you love
wild and free, wind
whistling against their cheeks,
a throbbing ache to be with them
but knowing you cannot.
Naveen Kumar May 2020
India is about to war
on Pakistan.
I'm busy getting my
degree.
Climate is burning
the ice.
New parasites are evolving
in our lungs.
Immigration is devastating
employment.
But people are busy
paying their bills.
Spaceships are surrounding us.
Government is announcing
a new refugee scheme.
ISRO is launching
forty satellites.
But kids are busy
practising their parents' signature.
Young is busy
risking life to buy marijuana.
Youth is busy
begging for jobs.
Adults are busy
spying kids' notebooks.
The world has enough problems
already
to make something new.
It is like adding
a new task in the to-do list
in the rush hours.
Bees becoming extinct.
Well-
let me get my degree first.
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