#deportation - Hello Poetry

I’ve heard their lies. I heard them all. I read the names carved in the wall. I saw the soldiers clear the hall and sort the shoes by size. I ate. I worked. The day was long. I learned the nation’s favored song. I signed my name. I moved along and left you there in hunger I went to find the name I sold. I walked at night between the folds. and there were phantoms on the road who died in ash and wanting. I traded bread, I looked for clues, seeking victims I could use. I stole a coat that you would choose and wore it through the winter. I spread the map across the ground, the river bend where you were found. I knelt beside your fallen gown. I'd lost my only witness. I'm taking back my broken life, my spoon, my tin, my sacred night, the hand I’ll need to gently write my song of ash and wanting. They haven’t found me. Never will. Footsteps silent. Breath so still to move through shadows, choose the hills. A ledger line is there to fill the name of one surviving.

0

Jan 11

Jan 11, 2026 at 5:29 PM UTC

William-A-Gibson

Ash and Wanting

I’ve heard their lies. I heard them all. I read the names carved in the wall. I saw the soldiers clear the hall and sort the shoes by size. I ate. I worked. The day was long. I learned the nation’s favored song. I signed my name. I moved along and left you there in hunger I went to find the name I sold. I walked at night between the folds. and there were phantoms on the road who died in ash and wanting. I traded bread, I looked for clues, seeking victims I could use. I stole a coat that you would choose and wore it through the winter. I spread the map across the ground, the river bend where you were found. I knelt beside your fallen gown. I'd lost my only witness. I'm taking back my broken life, my spoon, my tin, my sacred night, the hand I’ll need to gently write my song of ash and wanting. They haven’t found me. Never will. Footsteps silent. Breath so still to move through shadows, choose the hills. A ledger line is there to fill the name of one surviving.

29

I sit in a trance as the morning sun sifts through the porch window. Music from a Carolina wren taunts the world with a glorious tweet. My wife invades my trance, “Look what Amazon brought me.” My reply, “That’s nice, honey." My eyes fixed on a headline, “Colleges are cautious about graduation speakers who might provoke the government!” Freedom of speech, where have you gone? Are you hiding in the canyons of the Appalachian Hills? Concealed in the wheat fields of Kansas? Will ICE deport the songbirds to Latin America because they sound like freedom?

0

Apr 27, 2025

Apr 27, 2025 at 1:51 PM UTC

william-a-poppen

Where Will the Songbird Sing?

I sit in a trance as the morning sun sifts through the porch window. Music from a Carolina wren taunts the world with a glorious tweet. My wife invades my trance, “Look what Amazon brought me.” My reply, “That’s nice, honey." My eyes fixed on a headline, “Colleges are cautious about graduation speakers who might provoke the government!” Freedom of speech, where have you gone? Are you hiding in the canyons of the Appalachian Hills? Concealed in the wheat fields of Kansas? Will ICE deport the songbirds to Latin America because they sound like freedom?

9

Mama told me we're just playing hide and seek with men pretending they're police. I love to play hide and seek. Don't you too? We are hiding in my neighbour's closet and I'm giggling. My mama holds her hand over both our mouths. I and my mama sit together quietly but I am hearing grown-ups yell outside. I ask my Mama why? No reply. Then I heard a man and mama's face was ice. He sounded very angry and he asked me where we are hid. Then I jumped, yelled at him: peekaboo! Now it's my story – and others – you read on the news, hidden by the oversaturated, gold photo of the front-man; my miserable life made by him

0

Apr 18, 2025

Apr 18, 2025 at 5:57 PM UTC

Nebylla

Peekaboo

Mama told me we're just playing hide and seek with men pretending they're police. I love to play hide and seek. Don't you too? We are hiding in my neighbour's closet and I'm giggling. My mama holds her hand over both our mouths. I and my mama sit together quietly but I am hearing grown-ups yell outside. I ask my Mama why? No reply. Then I heard a man and mama's face was ice. He sounded very angry and he asked me where we are hid. Then I jumped, yelled at him: peekaboo! Now it's my story – and others – you read on the news, hidden by the oversaturated, gold photo of the front-man; my miserable life made by him

16

a letter unread is left outside the door like a snare of anxiety left to uproot all security in bone. hanging heads- hung themself; what difference does it make when choosing different hells. what can i do? a poem lamenting their anguish so i can feel proud to have whispered a word: justice to the oppressed and undeserved. what power lies in my hands to give to those with none- a transfusion of privilege; one couldn't even dream it to be possible- once diversity is blanketed in white like harsh winter, we will starve of life itself and weep for days void of color.

0

Apr 3, 2025

Apr 3, 2025 at 11:33 AM UTC

we-are-stories

privilege

a letter unread is left outside the door like a snare of anxiety left to uproot all security in bone. hanging heads- hung themself; what difference does it make when choosing different hells. what can i do? a poem lamenting their anguish so i can feel proud to have whispered a word: justice to the oppressed and undeserved. what power lies in my hands to give to those with none- a transfusion of privilege; one couldn't even dream it to be possible- once diversity is blanketed in white like harsh winter, we will starve of life itself and weep for days void of color.

20

My bones are young. They know this land. They were created, formed, and tendered in this land, but my blood. She is ancient. My blood speaks of my ancestors. She cries out from injustice. From pain and suffering. Her strength is unmeasured. My blood demands justice. Her power building, supported by my mothers and my grandmothers. We will not let you destroy us.

0

Feb 21, 2025

Feb 21, 2025 at 12:29 PM UTC

Thisisme

Bones and Blood

My bones are young. They know this land. They were created, formed, and tendered in this land, but my blood. She is ancient. My blood speaks of my ancestors. She cries out from injustice. From pain and suffering. Her strength is unmeasured. My blood demands justice. Her power building, supported by my mothers and my grandmothers. We will not let you destroy us.

1

American dreamer. Southern border divide, holding me back. A new hope, I dream to seek. An escape from the land I once knew, A place that just isn't meant for me. Strange views, The mainland holds. Keeping me from something new. I promise I'm not here to take anything from you. I understand laws. I understand policies. But I'll give you anything for a hand. Strange views. Your word doesn't match your action. How terrible for my copper skin brothers and sisters. Not a chance for them to live. Not a change for them to believe in a new. So take our land and take our food. Take our love and our culture. But leave us in cages left to rust. Strange views of babies in tears and the smell of fear coming from grieving mothers and fathers. As their babies are now out of sight, separated. What a strange view to see. Why does this seem so familiar to me?

0

Jun 19, 2018

Jun 19, 2018 at 10:40 PM UTC

morganmercury

Strange Views

American dreamer. Southern border divide, holding me back. A new hope, I dream to seek. An escape from the land I once knew, A place that just isn't meant for me. Strange views, The mainland holds. Keeping me from something new. I promise I'm not here to take anything from you. I understand laws. I understand policies. But I'll give you anything for a hand. Strange views. Your word doesn't match your action. How terrible for my copper skin brothers and sisters. Not a chance for them to live. Not a change for them to believe in a new. So take our land and take our food. Take our love and our culture. But leave us in cages left to rust. Strange views of babies in tears and the smell of fear coming from grieving mothers and fathers. As their babies are now out of sight, separated. What a strange view to see. Why does this seem so familiar to me?

32