#migrant
The 101 slopes like a spine bent too long.
Camarillo yawns wide in the morning hush,
valley stretching slow, hills bare-shouldered,
fields glistening, half-asleep, half-prayer.
Lemon trees blink slow, bruised gold in the mist.
Figtrees call a name behind a rusted gate.
Sagebrush whispers gossip through chainlink,
its breath full of stories that outlive the tellers.
To the east, the nursery stirs,
plastic sheeting *****
row tags flutter in the wind.
A thermos, abandoned, rests by a wheelbarrow.
Mud boots, discarded,
stand like sentinels
against the wood plank wall.
No footsteps follow.
I never asked where they went.
Matilija poppies raise their paper-white heads,
and the raspberries, furred with morning dew,
shiver, just slightly,
as if remembering friends
they were no longer allowed to say.
A coffee roaster hummed somewhere distant,
low and steady, warming the wind.
That scent I never could shake,
burnt and sweet.
I could almost belong here again,
but it’s not mine without them.
I worked inside this valley with my back.
With my knees.
With the same hands,
now soft on the wheel,
muscle memory steering roads
as if nothing ever left,
as if the ghosts still ride along.
I pass a strawberry field, stitched in silence,
no voices rising in laughter today,
no corrido escaping from a shirt pocket radio,
no teasing between the furrows,
no calloused hands tossing tools,
only the soft ticking of irrigation
and the hush of work
that now waits for no one.
This silence has been swept, labeled,
nothing out of place but sadness.
I was here with them,
but only as a pair of eyes,
that never opened wide enough.
The strip mall stands like a broken promise,
painted stucco, faded western wear,
alongside roadside markets
missing the opening crew.
Still, the hills lean in to listen,
velvet green with memory,
quiet as folded hands.
Even now, under this sun,
the dust knows who knelt here.
Who sang into the rows,
who fled before sundown,
their names erased from the ledger
but carved into the earth.
And in soil’s hush,
their names still root and rise.
Jun 19, 2025
Jun 19, 2025 at 5:24 PM UTC
In a realm where whispers weave the air,
Solitude's dance, a lone heart does bear.
Fields unfold in an unfamiliar embrace,
Loneliness waltzes, a haunting grace.
Mountains stand sentinel, peaks in seclusion,
A migrant soul yearns, lost in illusion.
Tongues unfamiliar echo a distant song,
Longing for echoes where memories throng.
City lights twinkle, a far-off embrace,
Yet loneliness lingers, a shadowed chase.
Stars tell tales of another night's sky,
A lonely heart echoes a muted sigh.
Through foreign streets, a lone wanderer strays,
Melancholy shadows in alleys ablaze.
Faces familiar, yet kinship is thin,
Loneliness thrives on the outsider's skin.
Moonlight spins stories, threads of nostalgia,
Loneliness, a companion in shadows' regalia.
A country distant, yet the heart holds dear,
Loneliness whispers, a silence sincere.
Dec 6, 2023
Dec 6, 2023 at 5:59 PM UTC
We slump,
cracks in the cumin seed siding
outside the police station,
stale air suffocates the sun
as it sinks below
a creek and a trash heap
visa papers
clutched like the cloak of God,
a 100 rupee note crumbled in your jean pocket -
just in case.
is it a crime to expect the worst
in spite of order?
blazing dry heat smothers our lungs,
we resemble
shrunken palm leaves held only
by the stone above us.
Jul 9, 2020
Jul 9, 2020 at 6:15 AM UTC
yesterday I saw you.
today only your scent remains.
tomorrow, that too will vanish.
you said
the ache for home rumbles in your chest.
I tried to sooth it with words
in the absence of medicine
or a plane ticket.
when you left I moved,
became an immigrant
and I understood what it meant
to live without living.
I forgo the mall mehndi,
the astrologer on his maroon cushion,
order from the pani puri wala
a samosa and small talk -
for a moment
we breach liminality
but then I owe him thirty rupees
and I go alone,
sitting safe from summer heat
snack untouched.
I wait for the monsoon and hope
you will return for the mangoes,
perhaps then I can tell you
everything I meant to say
yesterday.
Jul 3, 2020
Jul 3, 2020 at 6:50 AM UTC
stood before my misty
bedroom window pane
I saw hazy scenes of future
and my gray reflected face
blotches, smudges, patches
feelings, emotions, thoughts
on that bedewed window
of a million human hearts
my bare palm feels the glass
cold indelible marks.
forms a million faces
in that frosty glass
Gazing deeply at me
from beyond the glass
the hungry and the bleeding
from a thousand miles.
My heart begins to wonder
what scenes are yet to come
beyond that misty window
as the days come and go by
Will warm rays of sunshine
ensure the mist goes dry,
or raindrops bathe the pane
and wash away it stain.
but those searching gazes,
of a million stained faces,
of bleeding feet and wishes
forever is etched in that pane
Jun 14, 2020
Jun 14, 2020 at 12:09 AM UTC
I just watched a news report:
A father and 3 year old daughter
lay dead
half-submerged in the Rio-Grande river
over which they tried to cross
from Mexico into USA,
fleeing from poverty
and violence
in their central American country of origin.
I was left wondering:
Is there something we can do
to relieve poverty
and achieve prosperity,
and stop violence
and achieve peace
in central American countries?
Jul 21, 2019
Jul 21, 2019 at 5:50 AM UTC
leave to remain
stay to move on
tear down to build
some space to call home
make new reminders
keep a fresh store
full of faint memories
with room for much more
drink to old allies
drink to forget
laugh with new friends
shake off your regret
this is tomorrow
a brand new today
this is fresh start
you're welcome to stay
Sep 14, 2018
Sep 14, 2018 at 4:58 PM UTC
I used to hate your healthy avocados...until I had one
Not that your coffee tasted superior to my tea
But what's taste when you season mine with gun powder?
Yes, In case you did not detect
There is a lot of hate in this one
Call me aggressive and spiteful
Whilst holding your rifle
They say hate begets hate begets hate begets hate
So for you to understand
I put aside my ignorance and try to walk in your shoes
OK, let's start:
A lot of trees
Beautiful sky, delightful breeze
A rich land where tenants are a many and they shun the proprietor
I know I promised to be nice
But let's face it for that white picket fence, someone had to pay the price.
Start again:
Sunny coasts
Bacon, eggs on toast
Walk the dog in the park, life is not all that hectic here.
To make it clear, running out of coffee is my basic fear.
Flat stomachs
In fact, six packs!
Cupboard full of knick-knacks
and plenty of time to kick back and relax
Never-ending supply of niceties
Calm waters
Long walks along the harbor
and perhaps a tall pint of lager at the pub
Throw some juicy ones on the barbie mate!
Who cares if 6.2 mil in Somalia are starving mate?
You say to me:
"survival of the fittest, Darwin mate"
"It's so difficult to fit in" I say; so tiring MATE
Did I say that right?
I'm Mohammad, as James in a play called "Aussie Catch Up"
and I don't know how to play that part
What else can I say? they gave me a voice (although in English)
between the self deprecating migrant and the middle eastern rag head, the gave me a choice
And by the way my boss tried to anglicize my name
Said Sebastian had a nice ‘ring’ to it
Well go ahead, march to your colonial tune and have me sing to it
Oh healthy avocados, you're too ripe for my liking
Maybe I'm just used to a bit of rawness in my diet
To be honest
I have a heavy heart, a dark one
Maybe to reconcile, you should take a step
a very very very very very very long one
May 2, 2018
May 2, 2018 at 6:00 AM UTC
One frosty day, the
beggar begged from home,online,
Help! Send migrant home.
Dec 27, 2017
Dec 27, 2017 at 1:36 AM UTC
I close my eyes to live Before i wake up to the reality where im suffering,
I feel , I cry , I believed
My days of suffering are gone ,
But the scariness is still living inside me ,
The sun made me forget ,
The moon made me remember ,
The alcohol is relaxing me ,
One day for sure the happiness will shine for the heart to flutter in her morning tweeting the song of life .
Oct 25, 2017
Oct 25, 2017 at 8:34 AM UTC
salt stings wounds
salt stings eyes, entering, leaving...
healing, healing. The sea will take you away.
I tire of hearing abot these migrants
well they tire of the rick-shaw of an untested boat
of their homes becoming rubble & dust clouds,
of seeing blood in the dirt.
As long as there is war,
as long as there is famine
as long as there exists somewhere
called 'refuge'
then there will be refugees.
Oh child, rocked to sleep by the tide...
you should never have to answer for adult violence,
innocent & sleepy, sinless.
You have been written in blood in the old books
you have been decided for.
Your dice have been rolled by strange hands;
born amid angry eyes,
and so shall die,
washed ashore upon sand,
carried quietly away
to your final crib
to your refuge.
Sep 15, 2015
Sep 15, 2015 at 4:23 PM UTC
Nobody heard them, the 900,
But still they lay screaming.
We were much further out than they were,
And not waving but drowning.
Poor migrants, lured to a better life –
Now they’re dead.
It must have been too hot for them
In Gambia, Senegal, Syria, they said,
Oh no no no, it was too hot always,
Still, the stranded ones lay screaming.
We were much further out than they were,
And not waving but drowning.
Apr 22, 2015
Apr 22, 2015 at 8:02 AM UTC
the motionless air hung heavy
with late summer heat
at a distance a woman's voice in song
the rich sound reaching for your heart
with feelings of life lived joyous and bold
i walk the sunsoaked road
to the farm field to find her
where the dusty faces of the pickers greet with smiles
their great baskets filled with the newly picked crop
its thick scent filling the air with intoxicating fresh natural beauty
**** and tangy ripe to the souls tastebuds
they gather round the water spigot
laughing and speaking
a family of strangers
come to harvest the land
they invite me to join them
for the midday meal
so i sit in the shade of a truck
sipping the cool clear waters
eating the thick rich bread and cheese
such people of the earth
their hands worn with its labor
their hearts alive with its loves
such kind souls of the land
sharing their moment with me
the meal done
the baskets for the picking ready once more
they wander back to the field
and she begins to sing once again
as the sweet summer sun lulls me to slumber
her voice a beautiful tapestry woven with her
love of her people and her life
a rich tender sound
she carried me into sweet deep dreams
of the kindness of people who harvest
with their hands and hearts
the bounty's of the earth
Aug 23, 2014
Aug 23, 2014 at 12:26 PM UTC
Sometimes as I lay still, eyes closed,
Bathed in memories,
Of riveting detail,
I'm not unlike Gulliver, on an island , pinned down by the Liliputs.
Awake, but, I do not know where ,shackled as I am,in time and space,
by these snippets of reverie,staking claim
to my mind
And I am for now, a felled giant.
Jan 15, 2014
Jan 15, 2014 at 11:10 AM UTC