a flock
of ducks
and first
of seven  
tonight at
horizon's edge
did sputter
their qualms
with habitual
wings while
they gander
this land
out west
with fair
game and
a descendent
of lore
As thousands of migrants sojourned from Timbuktu
All destined for Libya from the ancient Kingdom of Mali,
One ,a patched lip skinny kid , greeted them''Assalamualaikum''
''Why are we dying in Libya ?'' asks the young migrant called Ali.

For several months , everyday , from sunset to sunrise
Ali said he too dreamed of being a part of the mass migration
'' Oh my dear brothers, I wish your plans were otherwise ''
For many of you will not reach your final destination.

Ali said Libya was the cradle of modern day slavery,
Death trap ,a magnate that lures desperate poor Africans
Escaping prosecution, economic hardships and poverty
Just for them to end up dead like sardines in cans.

Oh Africa Ali asks,where are all of your leaders?
What have we done to deserve this unspeakable evil?
Is it because of the hues of our beautiful black leathers?
When did we become the slavery anvil?

Man to man , is so unjust '' he quoted Bob Marley
'' But Arab to Black Africans is another sad story ! ''
'' Why are Black people being sold into slavery?
Why is the whole world sitting so supinely?

~ Ivan Brooks Sr ~
Man to man is so unjust ''says Bob Marley
''Arab against black man is another story'' says the migrant called Ali
Echo Floating Nov 2017
Autumn has fallen.
Bowed her umber head
On bended knee
In supplication

A new reign begins

The geese in formation flee
Their discordant cries
a perfect counterpoint
To their orderly V

The banished army of summer

Still Sunday mornings
Frostbitten silences
Shattered by the cacophony
of hunters' guns

Reaping the spoils

Hedgerows thickly laden
Berries of holly,
sloe, ivy, crabapple
After sweeter fruits are gone

Provide a bitter feast

Coldness brings clarity
Stripped away
of the raiment of summer
The bare vista in her true form

Naked, cold and beautiful

Only the strongest scents survive
The salt tang of the sea
The sharpness of evergreen
Joined now by a new one

The tingling promise of snow

Onward she sweeps
A glittering queen
Tracing filigree on
leaf, pond and pane

Marking her conquests

The world is struck numb,
Dumb
By this terrible beauty
This force of nature

Now is the cusp of Winter
aurora kastanias Oct 2017
I was born in a city and time where and when
things were described by their name in the name
of realism and truth, uncoloured nouns of honesty
depicting society as it was fearing nothing
while no one took offence, as none was intended

in the atmosphere of autocriticism and self-
deprecating humour. In the countryside village
peasants called my father the Greek, as there were
no aliens other than us and the English man
who lived down the valley. Black skins

only existed on TV, and Africa was far more distant
than maps ever suggested. Our Ghanaian origins
were a mesmerising fable to the curious ears
of those willing to imagine exotic airs, indefinite
populations they had never seen. Italians

were used to migrate abroad in search of dreams,
though no one came to dream in Rome until, they did.
First strange faces appeared for myths to become
realities integrating slowly fast-forwarding thirty years
to see, Filipinos housekeepers, cheaper butlers,

Rumanians and Moldavians caregivers to our elders,
Chinese empires beginning with restaurants and shops,
Selling almost anything one could ever think of affordable
to all, now expanding to own bars creating jobs,
employers of impoverished locals and new arrivals.

Bangladeshis taking over once-was Italian grocery cash
and carries working hard, a 24/7 policy just for some.
Those who don’t are found selling umbrellas on the road
a minute before the storm, or taking polaroid pictures
of tourists at night when the gypsies come out

of nomad camps to sell, unscented roses to lovers
unnaturally blue for the day is reserved, to picking
pockets on public transports everybody knows,
signs are put up for those who don’t. Lebanese
hairdressers hiring young Italian girls, eat in Turkish

kebab fast-foods buying halal ingredients in Iraqi stores.
Only blacks in Rome own nothing but their shoes
and reputation. Those from North African countries often deal
on sidewalks for drug addicts playing instruments
sitting next to dogs on Tiber bridges as they beg

for one more dose. Though Egyptians mainly deal
with chefs, closed in restaurant kitchens learning
pizza-making skills, while Pakistanis make excellent
dishwashers. Turning back to blacks Nigerians,
Senegalese, Malians and many more improvise

themselves as clandestine street vendors
of jewels and fake bags, the latter secretly supplied
by Italian mafia-like wannabes. Often spotted running
away from police, packing goods in white sheets, held
on their backs as they flee, leaving fallen merchandise

behind them. Finally some remain unseen, straight
from heart of darkness and surroundings they stay
strictly on TV, passing from satiric sketches of the past
to NGO adverts crying out, for help against famine,
poverty and sickness, calling for action two euros a day

via sms to keep, consciousness clean, as we close
our eyes not to see, pretend we do not know, hiding
behind words we call, politically correct not to face, take
distance from reality and truth, disguise inconvenience
and uncomfort with ridiculously embellished, jargon.

Some exceptions obviously exist, as many manage
to live outside the box, though alas and do not blame me
for speaking the truth, they remain to date exceptions
dear to my heart, as are all the characters of this portrait,
scattered pieces of humanity, pieces of me.
On political correctness
aurora kastanias Oct 2017
Humankind, roaming tribes,
in search of food and natural
resources to live, procreate,
ensure survival of the species.

As it encounters strangers
to its likes, it fancies the unknown,
mingling, giving birth to new heirs,
original unparalleled half-castes.

Homo neanderthalensis and sapiens
the first, of which we still carry four
percent, in the meanders of our DNA
migration heritage, globalisation prelude.

Ever since, many mixtures more
for stronger breeds, offsprings
of diversity, races, cultures, creeds,
to unite what geography divides.

Evolution to allow trade of local
artefacts and products worldwide,
tasting foods and all spices, ideas,
theories, discoveries and creations.

By boat, on trains, aboard planes,
surfing the net, we share existence
daily, acquiring knowledge in due
course flowing into globalisation epilogue.

The rise of an undivided kind,
so entangled to absorb essence
from one another until the day
inexistent individuality makes way,

To a unique and united creature
called Humanity residing in and
an intrinsic part of, an immense
outstanding masterly Universe.
On history of mankind and evolution
Lori Oct 2017
You have taken my best, West.
My perfect GPA kids and my poorest.
You promised them dreams of
overflowing candy and they never
came back to my East coasts.
When she first came to Denver from Florida,
She seemed like such an intriguing,
Beautiful mestiza girl  of Panamanian ancestry,
But she was desperate to fit into a clique......
Dyed her hair green......
Hardly talks to me any more.
I belong someplace,
Where she doesn't go.
That sort of insecurity
Makes me sick.
Oiciruam Aug 2017
The language I write in is not my language
But it is the language of my thoughts.

This is not the language I spoke to my parents
That is not the language I speak to my love
That is not the language I spoke on the streets
That is not the language I prefer to read
That is not the language I spoke to my first kiss

So then, what is my language?
Is it the language of my great-grandparents?
And if so, which one?

Is it the language of saudade,
Habibi, cariño, or serendipity?

My language is none of these
And all at the same time.
craters won’t move
but some things
have to stay where they are made.
humans are not
one of those things.
the folks who move all smile,
the people that stay
are unusually angry
they can’t preserve themselves.


but that is a strong accusation
kind of an asshole judgment
Sandoval Apr 2017
I miss you, the same way

the butterfly misses its

cocoon on a long journey

to migration.

*Sandoval
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