The Immigration Act
of 1917,
barred
"all idiots & imbeciles,
feeble-minded persons,
epileptics,
insane persons,
... persons with chronic alcoholism;
paupers,
& professional beggars,
and those with tuberculosis"

It barred ...
"felons,
polygamists,
prostitutes
& their traffickers."

Trump & Bannon's
Immigration Act of 2017
bars Muslims,
able-bodied Muslims,
needy Muslims,
starving Muslims,
fleeing Muslims.

Muslims in refugee camps,
student doctor Muslims,
short-sighted Muslims,
limping Muslims,
school-teacher Muslims,
ordinary Muslims,

in a word,
Muslims.

Donald Trump has slammed the door
on families that had to flee
from zealots who perverted faith
and turned them into refugees.

He made a list of seven lands
where free will's treated as a sin.
Their people flee to squalid camps
until a new land lets them in.

But Donald Trump has made it clear;
he hates on basis of belief.
He's stoking ignorance and fear,
inspiring terrorism's grief.

These refugees have nothing left
but hope and will to work so hard
to build a free and better life,
but now they've been locked out and barred.

What of the Muslims in the states
who patriotically defended
the land whose leader now spews hate?
Is all their hope and love now ended?

Someday, if karma catches Trump,
he'll lose it all and have to flee.
Let him experience, first-hand,
the tears of the refugee.

A sallowest silence drips,
drop  by  drop,
into open muddy palms

The ripple in the gathering cup
of hand, undulates within soul
like poignant ocean waves
eat away at the sands of time ,
just  below  where
a lighthouse beacon beckons
shining from someplace I can’t find

A hidden pathway
lies  untrodden
beneath a thousand
dew drop clad ferns ,
fronds bestrewn with autumn’s
befallen sleight of hand
swaddled in her fading
manifest guise

Where wild mushrooms
rise  blindly  from
resplendent darkness
beneath silken earthen moss ,
to teach the parables ,
how fleeting a moment passes

The moment enwrapped
in nature's solicitude ,
the  only  shelter
mother nature's own refugees
whom dwell in an ever fugitive
sense of belonging

Fallen Lichen scattered
like  wild  feathers ,
traces from a higher ground ;
sown bread crumbs
of  the  heavens ,
abandoned like slowly falling
snowflakes upon a labyrinth
coursing    beyond
emerald dank bejewel

Leading me willingly onward
beyond belated familiarity ,
exiled  void  of  affinity
a Trumpeter swan
in search of wapatos

The stone cold silent languor
rises  up  through
thickly grasping moss

Wind  stirs the ennui
with a breath of kindness ,
chilling a body in a soul
as cold as lonely stone ,
sheathed beneath
its hard yet fragile disguise

A twisted pathway
leading  somewhere  
I  yearn to follow ;
somewhere unknown
beckoning  from
deeply hidden hope
and its urgent calling

Somehow the uncertainty
of the path I am drawn
makes   me   feel
a  little  less  removed

Assured by the gentle touch
deeply rooted ancient earthen spirits ,
beyond doubt , I’m never alone
deep beyond wooded margin
Cocooned in creation’s sanctuary
mother nature’s own refugee ...



                                                          ­*wild is the wind

Cellophane mounts,
Where the sacred forbids,
     And my ribs ache a little,
     And the sofa’s rotten,
Come the morning you weren’t here.

Laundry molds,
When the dishes welcome roach,
     And my tongue’s among dry,
     And my ankle’s gone numb,
Come the morning you weren’t here.

The music’s somewhere else,
Where the air’s more stale than before,
     And my finger’s twitch a’call,
     And my ears cry before the baby,
Come the morning you weren’t here.

Plaster cakes the floor,
When the door knocks certain death,
     And my bones start to bare,
     And my shoulder’s poking through,
Come the morning you weren’t here.

Green becomes a the fridge,
Where night’s now alter years,
     And my side starts to burn,
     And my lungs whimper when eased,
Come the morning you weren’t here.

But I am. Oh Lord! I am! And near ends
When the state sucker-punched,
     And I know you feel the same
     And our son feels the same,
Come the dawn prior day we’d fled.

I was born into this
I had no choice
I love my war-torn country
It is, er, was my home
But I'm a refugee, along with 5 million others
And you, the world, don't want us?
Like you own the earth God put us on?
We're all entitled to food and shelter
I will work to the bone
Be a good citizen
Bombs and bullets have driven me from my home
I just want peace
To get a good night's sleep
To get out of this tent
To have a hot meal
To reunite my family
To live
Simply to live
To find the love in this world.

There is more to a refugee than what you see,
behind the closed doors lies tragedy surely,
oftentimes there is despair,
most surely there is hope,
for in the heart of a refugee is a desire for life,
without conflict and hatred,
if we offer refuge we save a soul,
moreso we will save ours.

A lifejacket whistle becomes a toy
Instead of a call for help

Chilling new games on the beach
Lives in limbo

While politicians and governments
Change their mind by the second

And young men whose muscles ache to work
And women who were used to wealth

And children who had a favourite stuffed bear
And a best friend who they shared lunch with

Are all equalised
A new label called “Refugee”

Stamped across their very being
Dismissed for having an expensive cellphone

And a lifejacket whistle becomes a toy
As they are rocked from shore to shore