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It felt like crossing      
all things cross, right?

It has been many years since we have walked through that tunnel
and into this land
where the hands of spirits became the wings of ancestors over us
and the quiet inner gust became an orator of truth  

Truthteller could you tell me again my name
They have given me so many on the northern journey,
disguised me to be one of the multiple
flickering pixels on a television screen

eyes darker than their own
but who has darker eyes

She is the barefoot daughter of the Pachamama
womxn of many tongues
womxn whose tongue was not cut off
so you hear her sing when the sun comes up
and sway with the blades of grass
onward in the direction of the voices and the wind
and all the things that cry and laugh out loud  

They made you cross, too
and at the same time
But they made you forget
about the birds,
the wind,
your name- our name
and the alphabet
silence is the alphabet used to speak truth  

They made you forget your name.
Ask them your name as you look up at the sky
cloudy or clear
as  children lay silently next to demarcation lines
housed in steel bars
gloomy and lost
ask and listen
to be humbled by your name  

The spirits call again
can you hear them now?

back through the tunnel of innocence,
they whisper your name.
Michael Hole Aug 23
Your blue blood veins,
red, white, blue stains,
mind closed just like your borders.

Despite the wars,
the foreign and poor,
are given their marching orders.

you just don't see,
is what makes the world so great.

'The futures white, see',
'In good old Blighty',
you bleat as you close the gates.
The man on the street who sells roses to those who are prone to divorces ,in days so cold, ice is no needed,
leave in summer come back in November
thoughts of suicide
stress to my hunger
crackers in my salsas.
where did all the tortillas chips go
Lots of stuff on my minds and tons of drafts.
F A Pacelli Jun 19
if you look back in time
whether near or far
you will see
we are all immigrants
it is a human need
to search for a better home
and be the change it needs
and they escaped the weight of darkness peering over their shoulders
where do these people go,
what belongings do they pack
is there a limit on the heaviness of ones' soul

Can they bring love as parting gift? Hide it in their handkerchiefs, and then go
People are people. No amount of physical, cultural, or ****** preferences  diminishes  the sacredness of someone’s life. Nothing excuses turning a blind eye on the ill treatment of others.  

We must strive to see others as ourselves or we lose our chance to truly manifest the energy and compassion needed to work across nations and tackle the problems we face globally.  It’s on each of us to realize that a fundamental shift in attitude and culture must occur.

The subject of my poem are immigrants. The U. S Mexican border and the inhuman conditions people are facing.
MJL Mar 9
I’m here
No party
Who’s ****?
I'm not afraid
Everything’s primitive
New baby’s old
Suckling eternity
Carrying his mother
Teaching her father
A universe of historic shame
The expanse of senseless
Grasping ignorance by the pores
Infant nails dig in and hold
Evolutions face of madness
Biding a soiled fate
Biting for more
Growing until -ism’s explode
Tears that crave change
Go forward
Moon Star Traveler
Be you
Be here with me
Recede against hate
Be one with the human race
Be one with the universe
Each generation brings us a step forward to ending intolerance.
I was in a geography class,
in a country, my parents immigrated to years ago,
after a war waged,
in my city I never knew about.

My classmates came from the Far East,
and Africa.
Some came from Europe and America.
They were brown, black and white.
They were Muslims, Christians and Jews.
A few were documented,
while the rest weren’t.

My bald teacher was so good.
He was asked to leave his homeland,
after he opposed the government with his writings.
I thought he was so happy after coming here safely by boat,
but I later assumed he was so sad.
He got everything but not a life in his homeland.

We opened the book on a lesson,
called ‘the crises of the world’.
The teacher asked,
where are the crises?
I raised my hands and pointed at the map on the wall,
they are in the East and the West,
in the North and the South.
The crises are everywhere…

-Mohammed Arafat-
When migrants are forced to leave their homelands, art becomes the best way to tell their untold stories.
Juan Bot Mar 1
They come here,
In swarms.

Invade our land,
Take our resources,
Take our children,

They speak a barbaric language,
Like glass breaking in our ears.
They wear wierd clothes,
Like colorful trash bags.

They force us to speak their language,
They take our land,
Call it America.
Tell it to our children.
      They aren't our children.

Where will we go now?
A remarkable bit of history.
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