My parents left our homeland for me
More than five thousand, five hundred miles
To travel to a land ripe with opportunity

But at times the ripest fruit tended to spoil
However, they always counted God's blessings and moved on
My parents have endlessly toiled

With their younger son on the way
And four years of American experience
They strived at greater lengths each and every day

It is difficult to set aside one's own will
To tend to a family
To pay an immigration agency's bills

Yet they have done it, tried and true
Citizenship, I pray
Is coming soon

One day, I will properly honor them
Meanwhile,
This country will learn to accept others, but only with Him as its precious gem

never look back,that easy to say ,
harder to do when you're stuck in your ways,
replace lots wife with a Pillar of Sand...,(man-echo)
that's me to a T,never mind the plans,

but...-that was yesterday,clipped that string,
metaphorically,physically taking wing,
movin up-outta my shell,
like a Pupae burstin,time to raise hell,

The original Butterfly Effect in motion,
Sandman's Dreams cross time and oceans,
flap my wings-watch the firestorm,
EC take another land by storm,

Huh!-that's my role,the batterin ram,
mad March hare with the guile of the Sandman,  
Kilojules outstrip a railgun,
first blast to the past,never goin back to Square one.

I've got a new friend, he is called... I forgot.
He told me the other day.
He said he's got many names. At least four.
He told me how is he called.
But I don't remember at all.
He said:
- Don't worry, maybe it's even better that you don't remember,
don't worry my friend. Just call me a friend.
Sometimes I forget my names myself. Who cares!

My new friend comes from... I can't remember.
He said he was born in one country,
and raised in another, then moved somewhere else,
only to move yet somewhere else.
He told me all these countries names,
but I forgot. What a shame.
I said to him: My friend, I'm sorry, but I don't remember them,
the countries you were born and raised, and the countries
you lived before we met.
But he said:
- Don't worry, my friend, I don't take offence,
maybe it's even better that you forgot it,  mate.
It's fine. Let's forget the past. Let's say I'm from here, okay?
Okay. But...
- No, no but, mate. It's not a problem at all.
Sometimes even me I forget when I was born
and where I lived. Who cares! I don't care myself.
It doesn't matter anymore what's your name, where are you from.
It was never a big deal to me. Never something to be proud of, to brag,
more likely something to hide, to cry about.
I asked him: Why?
He replied:
- You wouldn't wanna know.
I said: I would.
He said:
- Nevermind.

Brigid was born on a flax mill farm,
Near the Cavan border, in Monaghan,
At Lough Egish on the Carrick Road,
The last child of the Sheridans.
The sluice still runs near the water wheel,
With thistles thriving on rusted steel.

Little's known of Nellie's early years;
Da died before she knew grieving tears,
They'd turn her eyes in later years.

She's eleven posing with her class,
This photo shows an Irish lass.
Her look is distant,
Her face is blurred,
But recognizable
In an instant.

She was schooled six years
To last a life,
Some math, the Irish,
To read and write.

Her Mammy grew ill,
She lost a leg,
And bit by bit,
By age sixteen,
Nellie buried her first dead.
Too young to be alone,
Sisters and brother had left the home.
The cloistered convent took her in,
She taught urchins and orphans
About God and Grace and sin.
There were no vows for Nellie then.

At nineteen she met a Creamery man,
Jim Lynch of the Cavan clan;
He delivered dairy from his lorry,
Married Nellie,
Relieved their worry.

War flared, men were few,
There was work in Coventry.
Ireland's thistles were left to bloom.

Nellie soon was Michael's Mammy,
Then Maura, Sheila and Kevin followed,
When war floundered to its end,
They shipped back to Monaghan,
And brought the mill to life again.

The thistles and weeds
That surrounded the mill,
Were scythed and scattered
By Daddy's zeal.
He built himself
A generator,
Providing power
To lights and wheel.

Sean was born,
Gerald soon followed;
Then Michael died.
A nine year old,
His Daddy's angel.
Is this what turns
A father strange?

Francie arrived,
Then Eucheria,
But ten months later
Bold death took her.
Grief knows no borders
For brothers and sisters.

We left for Canada.

Mammy brought six kids along,
Leaving her dead behind,
Buried with Ireland.

Daddy was waiting for family,
Six months before Mammy got free
From death's inhumanity.
Her tears and griefs weren't yet over,
She birthed another son and daughter;
Jimmy and Marlene left us too,
Death is sure,
Death is cruel.

Grandchildren came, she was Granny,
Bridget, Nellie, but still our Mammy.
She lived this life eduring pain
That mothers bear,
Mothers sustain.
And yet, in times of personal strain,
I'll sometimes whisper her one name,
Mammy.

A year ago today my grandfather passed away, but he did not die. He lives.. and if you want to find him, find him within the crevices of my actions, my tenacity, and success. Crouch down and find him underneath all that I believe in, all I stand for, and all I will accomplish. Open me up and find him in everything that empowers me. He is the fight inside me.

Abuelo, a year ago you passed away, but you did not die. Your story radiates through my reality. Because of you I wear Cuba on my sleeve and I made sure that when you passed you did not take our story with you. Abuelo, I knew you were of Cuban pride, but I did not know that the shop you struggled to open is what allowed Cuban culture to cultivate so strongly in Elizabeth, NJ. I did not know you gave refugees gold jewelry for free so they could sell it for profit, and that you trusted them to pay you back whenever they could and settled that on a handshake. I did not know you were part of an organization of Cubans. I didn't know that hundreds of men revered you within that organization. I did not know you can make a room full of grown men cry. I learned this at your funeral.

A year ago my grandfather passed away, but he did not die. I am here, in the US, succeeding without financial burden. I am here because he left everything behind, including old friends, a successful business, his money and his culture. I am here because he took all four of his children with him. I am here because he refused to stop there. I am here because he had deep-seeded ambition and pushed through every challenge with his chest out and his head adamantly on his shoulders. I am here, I am happy, and I am secure--And because of that, he lives.

Abuelo, I must confess I took some things from you without asking. In the pocket of my heart I hold your ambition. In the pocket of my conscience I hold your integrity. Abuelo, you are in peace, but never will you be put to rest. Not within my lifetime.

With a Jewish religion and a German Queen,
Who has a clue where the Brits have been?
Mum’s clan were Huguenots,
Dad’s maybe Welsh.
Lots of Africans in our football teams.

Keep out those immigrants many do say,
Even those whose parents came from Bombay.
We’ve lots of patriots from Pakistan:
The younger generation, Brits to a man.

But some are Radicals I hear you say,
We should be sending them on their way,
Back to Asia where they belong,
To the tunes of a UKIP song.

So what is “British” we must ask,
For this is not an easy task.
Justice and Democracy I hear you shout,
Tiny islands with some clout.

Shakespeare, Beatles, Rugby Lions,
Churchill clapping foes in irons.
Let’s be glad that we are free
And settle down to a cuppa tea.
Paul Butters

The border to me
XUAN CARLOS ESPINOZA-CUELLAR·WEDNESDAY, OCTOBER 21, 2015
  
The border to me is a constant anguish,
A big pause button,
Often in dreams I dream of Mexico as my lover
And he waits for me,
And waits.
The border to me is my grandma’s rosary,
She said she’d hold on until I could go back,
Until she couldn’t.
I recently found out that for years she’d scold my cousins for using my table games “he’s coming back, and he’ll ask for them…”
And she’d save t hem in her old, rusty closet.
The border to me is a big pause button,
I often dream of going back,
Who will I be then, when I hit play?
Who will I speak with to recover my grandmother’s prayers,
To collect 12 years of unclaimed hugs,
All the wrinkles and gray hairs I missed on her hair,
And every step I couldn’t walk by her.
But one day I will cross back,
In the middle of songs and candles I will conjure her spirit,
And I will look in the back of that old closet
Where she saved my table games
And there I will find her love
And her songs, her advice, her songs,
And the little pieces she left for me, hidden for me,
When she envisioned the day
That this pause would be over.

It was a lovely tree
Green like a meadow all around
Bark as thick as pine cones
Ants crawling without a sound
Covered by birds of a feather
Whistling chirping  to each other
The sun and moon overhead
Taking turns from one another
Yes it was a lovely tree
Peaking above white plumes
Always looking for blue skies
And room to grow for its blooms
But it wasn’t long in the life of a tree
That its branches held aloft
Birds that seemed of another sort
Sometime landing not so soft
The air around it was free
But not so much the tree
Though it thought it was
Only the wind could really see
As each new bird took its place
Each tidal pass could only sigh
As storms of horizon shadows gathered
But a bird will perch no matter who may cry
There are only so many leaves
There are only so many ways to live
And as each feather sought its own
The tree wonders how long it can give

Godless men wearing back
sit within blistering sun.
As they carrying their sacred book
soaked in an evil not from any GOD.  
And they some how get
**** **** ****
**** for God.
As they ironically tell the
world that it is
blaspheming.

Come and join us
or be buried alive.
Yes come and join us
Let us brutalize and castrate
your daughter your child.
And give your son a gun while
we go cut of some heads.
As we rip out your heart
with blood and violence.
And ask you to spit on all
love and humanity.
As you stand within your shaking bodies
you look into the eyes of your
wife and only see terror in
her heart.
You know that you must
RUN

Thousands of you are swept
like the dirt into the sea.
Mothers and Fathers crying as
children are lost and drowning.
Someones baby washed up like
drift wood or a log.
Cut all with razor wire
climbing caged out fences.
As a heart cry's I only want a
new family home I will polish
your shoes wash all your loos.
Please they scream we are only
human
Sorry I don't think anyone
is listening.  

Westerners wake up lounging
on their sofa belly's spilling
over their trouser.
Stomachs extended inflated
from just a little to much
extra seconds.
Looking on disconnected
at those who traveled risked
their lives even walked
a thousand miles.
And some how spill out with
their lager down their cheek
thieves  ****** and
lazy freeloaders.

And those who succeed to
find a new home some how
elegantly find a dignity
in being unwanted.
And those who failed their
perilous path trust in God
has left them homeless
As they find the west
also Godless.
As we with a cool glare tell
them go back to your guns
bombs your not welcome
here.
Stone face matter of fact
immigration explained
take your children back.
As we try to through them
back like babies into a dog
or snake pit.
SHAME ON US
for this frosty reception
and cloudy perception
I hold out hope for a
better conclusion.