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Yuki Jun 29
To all the people who
leave their homeland
to escape from their lives
unaware that they
won’t make it alive
on the other side,
oblivious to the horrific
idea that they will
scream and cry
while watching their
babies drown and die:
may the waves carry you
in a better world
than the one in which
we are living now.
aziza Dec 2018
are like some people,
they are victimized to death
within one's palm
they're taken down and thrown

they had power
but no more
human eyes show pity
for picking them,
but not humanity

pressed flowers are they
who sleep under the tents,
walking for decades,
searching for new hope
cause it's crumbled back home.
Maaz Dec 2018
Stand on graves and cast out the helpless.
They arrive in waves to the illusion of hope.
A 'caravan' of people,
All begging for freedom,
But fear not,
They shall be murdered
for they are evil.

How can they expect asylum, safety & security,
from a land built on death?
Where those in power face no scrutiny.
Where an orange haired buffoon can thrive & prosper,
But mothers & fathers cannot afford a doctor.

Yet still these people come here seeking a better life and
how dare they do?
With hands calloused from hard work,
hearts filled with grief,
spirits filled with belief;
Don’t they know?

This is a land built out of the flesh of martyrs,
On a charter that helps oppress its own population,
A country that thrives off devastation.
A sociopathic society
Girard Tournesol Nov 2018
Vinnie had the confidence of a roman statue.  His emerald-isle-fiery-red-hair belied a family heritage that had emigrated to The Promised Land from Northern Italy, not Northern Ireland.  What few friends he had called him “Little Red Ferrari” or LRF for his fiery red temper and uber-ancestral pride.  

Tonight’s rain in Freedomville meant wintrymix.  Vinnie had just been 86’d from the German Brauhaus and now LRF was driving his Pontiac Aztec home at wintrymix+.08 speed,  Statue of Liberty proudly gorilla-glued to his dashboard.  

His mind couldn’t quite process the dark wretched masses to be a family out walking the road at this hour in these tempest-tossed conditions.  He pulled over, flashers blinking, lamps high.  The golden door of his Aztec opened, LRF-adrenaline pumping. What were they thinking?

“Sir, we are hungry,” (señor, we are hong-ree), the man said as wintrymix pelted them. The children—smiled?

What are they thinking/doing, in some human way, suddenly felt like nonsense.  These poor huddled people in freezing-wet clothing were here, hong-ree.

Vinnie’s mind saw his own pride in them.  What courage! This man’s people built pyramids!

“Vieni qui,” Vinnie said in Italian pointing to the Aztec hoping it was close enough.  It was close enough.
Flash fiction entry to Plazm Magazine contest, "Opposite of Hate."  Winning the contest is not the point.  As writers, contribution to the higher purpose is our reward.  Participation our Victory.
Balkus Sep 2018
Small, inflatable dingy
is a very popular thingy
nowadays.
K Balachandran Feb 2018
a fast moving cloud,
soon becomes a flock of birds;
migrants in frenzy!
Balkus Feb 2018
How beautiful would be the sea
without these dots of human lives?

Let's leave them there,
it's wrong, I know,
it breaks my heart,
it breaks
my
bones.
I can't believe my own words.
It's not me who is saying this,
it's someone else.

No, it's me.

Sometimes
you do things you'd never do,
if you weren't here,
if you weren't you.

Let them drown,
let them rest in Peace,
for this place
is the worst to be.

how beautiful would be the sea
without these dots of dying life?

How beautiful would be this world
without us,
who let them die.
The poem was inspired by the news that "Italian Coast Guard let dozens of refugees drown" (Independent, 8.05.2017)
Balkus Oct 2017
There's a country where live
people who don't have their own place.
They travelled the world and never reached
their destination.

They were exiled, misplaced, not admitted
anywhere, drowned in their tiny boats,
shot by steel hearted guards.

There's a country, no one knows about,
like an island somewhere
in the middle of ocean,
yet never found.

Nothing is strange about this country,
except that it exists.

We all one day will arrive there,
it's the matter of time.
Sharon Talbot Jul 2018
Doctor Larch peers out the window,
Pulling aside brocaded curtains to hide
The grief that he will not show,
The rending emptiness he feels inside.

As his son Homer rides past the sunset,
Not knowing where he goes
But aspiring to see the wide world,
The ocean at Mount Desert,
Seeing wonder in the expanse
And worlds inside a circle of glass.

He has taken with him his heart,
A dark picture of frailty.
He finds unexpected work in an orchard,
Leisurely harvesting round, garnet jewels.
The nomads, dark and wary,
Ask him to read about death and stars.

There are rules for the workers.
And Homer finds that they apply
To no one, neither nomads or
Curious young men.
He sees in the errant father
The reflection of his own,
The man who made him good.
“You are my work of art”
He wrote.

Like an artist with his painting,
Who resists giving it away,
So Doctor Larch holds on to him
Hoping his adolescence ends
And he returns.
Finding peace at the last.

The lack of rules bring about a sea change,
Allowing forbidden love and pain.
He ventures out once more into the vacuum
Of conscience set free,
He devises his own rules about the womb
And how to help those in agony
But eventually…

With all the rules now open,
There is nothing left for him to do.
So he boards the migrant truck
Just as the pilot returns, broken.
He watches the struggle with a wheelchair
Sees his lover watch him with her yellow hair
Knows her future, years of sacrifice.
And he admits at last
That he has a purpose,

The train to St. Cloud huffs slowly away,
With Homer standing in the wet snow.
There is the old asylum,
The orphanage and home on the hill,
Almost black, with the sunset behind,
Homer begins the long climb.
He approaches slowly.

But then, a burst of laughter
And children from the door
Flock around him, dancing, shrieking,
Some holding him like an errant dog,
Who must be told to stay.
“Will you stay?” they ask.
“I think so,” he smiles in irony.
He is home at the last.
I wrote this while watching "The Cider House Rules", one of my favorite films. Homer realizes that his life on his own is not that much different than it was at St. Cloud, yet it's much emptier.
spysgrandson Oct 2016
hunched over, a brown-skinned army,
picking, the field soon to be stripped of its bounty;
they will move to the next one, fast,
before the fruit falls to the ground

"los ninos, los viejos tambien"
the young, the old ones also help, though
they are slower and tote less a load  

when the day is done, they build fires
for the frijoles, and to keep the night's spirits
at bay; they sleep in the shanties, the sheds
the master provides  

the next day will be the same, though maybe
not as hot--maybe a rain will give them respite
from their labors  

a gentle, short shower they pray,
for a storm might lay ruin to the crops, the treasure
they borrow only long enough
to basket and truck

not even a cloud visits the white sky
so the stooping, the loading drags on without relief
but from the north, a cool wind does blow

in it they hear a voice without cords vibrating,
yet one that speaks a language their hearts know well,
telling them their toil is to be brief, yet eternal: that winter
only whispers now, but soon commands all to rest
susurros en el viento translation: whispers in the wind
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