"emigrate" poems
You're progressive; and so you must denigrate
our triumphant victorious candidate.
Yes, you shot off your mouth.
Now you're trapped to the south
of the land where you promised to emigrate.
Before your resolve starts to stall,
you must heed the Canadian call.
Pack your bags and go forth
to your home in the north.
(or climb over that Mexican wall).
It's the END ! Now the Right will resurge,
and a new coalition emerge.
A Canadian rental
might help with your mental
well-being. We'll play you a dirge.
Nov 9, 2016
Nov 9, 2016 at 4:04 PM UTC
Starving his people so that they eat off dumpsters is not enough;
Causing more than 3,000,000 of the best and brightest to emigrate is not enough;
An annual inflation rate of 60,324% today (source: Forbes) is not enough;
Rejecting at gun point foreign food and medicine to aid the sick and starving at the borders is not enough;
Trampling on the Constitution and establishing a dictatorship is not enough;
Billions of dollars stolen from the Venezuelan people by cronies is not enough;
Destroying hope, progress, and a leading world economy is not enough;
Today government thugs are literally running over protesters in armored vehicles.
A small group of rabid-left apologists in the U.S. telling us to ignore the man behind the curtain in an insane attempt to defend the indefensible must face reality.
Maduro must go.
His Marxist dystopia must be dismantled.
The Venezuelan people must regain the right of self determination through free and fair elections--not the sham elections all Communist nations use to show close to 100% approval of the ruling tyrant.
Enough is enough!
Apr 30, 2019
Apr 30, 2019 at 2:00 PM UTC
She's an emigre,
From the Old Country
Her side of the bed,
To a new continent,
My rising and falling chest.
With every breath,,
An oath of allegiance pledged.
This continent,
On the Planet Bed,
In the Galaxy, Our Apartment,
A speck, a neutron,
In the Universe of My Mind
Her action, precipitates a chain reaction,
And the atoms rearranged, present themselves
As first poem of the day.
Tho time doesn't exist in this space,
Einstein's theorems irrelevant, passé,
Nonetheless, a passing-by comet,
To its tail, an airplane banner affixed,
for the beach blatherers,
To read:
*Son, you're late for work,
Time for you too,
To emigrate.**
~~~~~~~~~~~
In a taxi
7:12 AM
Jun 12, 2013
Jun 12, 2013 at 7:21 AM UTC
i meddled in egypt a third time,
and all i said was...
a. you ancestors will say the same thing
i said, but unlike me
your ancestors will say it unto you, directly;
b. never meddle in the affairs of female
genitalia of poetics of the burning bush / *****
c. you were given judaism, christianity,
islam... instead you settled for mongol;
d. begin to believe
that riyadh is further east than expected,
as is the warsaw pact closer to the west
than the right blink of the eye of john paul ii,
FOR, I, WOULD, REMAIN, ENTICED, BY, A,
HOMELAND, I, RATHER,
THAN, TAKE, OFFERS, OF, A, SAXON, TO, EMIGRATE,
I’D, DRENCH, MY, HOMELAND, IN, BLOODED, NILE,
TO, SEE, THE, WAKE, OF, MY, THOUGHT, ELSEWHERE,
OTHER, THAN, THERE... HAR COO! JANISSARY OF VIENNA,
signed the he of whom read the book above all other books,
who wrote against the book poetry,
who wept, who liberated the eye from the mind
and endeared it with a heart,
of the slave kept captive in solemnity
for the once thought of encryption of the eunuchs,
of those who read but dared not speak,
who thus was made the claimant of the title:
the bridge over the waters of Bosporus... that kindled
the turkmen with the ottoman and the mamluk sheiks.
indeed what pretty cauliflower for a daffodil in hymn...
but lessened beauty if one should come untamed and hooded
in footstep of being recognised -
then the merchant’s (muhammad’s) price would be less
than that of an antique dealer.
Jan 8, 2016
Jan 8, 2016 at 7:56 PM UTC
911
Too little way the House must lie
From every Human Heart
That holds in undisputed Lease
A white inhabitant—
Too narrow is the Right between—
Too imminent the chance—
Each Consciousness must emigrate
And lose its neighbor once—
967
It’s been over a week now,
To be exact, it’s been twelve days.
If we are being really honest,
It’s actually been twenty nine days.
But, in reality it’s been so much longer.
You hopped on that plane,
That I had hopped on before.
Neither of us knowing how different it would all end up when you came back off the other side.
We are two birds who emigrate the opposite way from each other.
Crossing paths for only a day or two,
Spending the rest of the flight remembering what used to be.
You soar one way, I soar the other
‘Real friends, they never leave you’,
If only that was true,
To have a reason would make it easier
Us humans, we are just like pieces of drift wood floating down a stream
There is no saying if we will cross paths again,
Or only have a few fleeting moments together
As your wrinkles grow,
You realise that life is too fleeting to be mad anymore
Instead, you look at the moments from behind
You mourn the friends lost, the memories missed
You put down the album and let it drift away
You have learnt to forgive
Every now in then,
You dream of your paths crossing again,
But then you look around and see what you already have.
Sometimes the thoughts pour in and you wonder,
Will they leave me too?
The thing is in life, you just never know.
Apr 17, 2021
Apr 17, 2021 at 12:19 PM UTC
We can't know them
By their religion.
Too much hypocrisy.
We can't know them
By politics.
It's ever-changing... or not.
We can't know them
By country.
Zillions emigrate and immigrate.
We can't know them
By their clothes.
Emperor or not.
We can't know them
By their words.
Too many equivicators.
We can't know them
By their jobs.
At home or away.
We can't know them
By their family.
Nuclear or extended.
We can't know them
By their deeds.
They say one thing, and do another.
But look to the roadside.
In the ditches.
By the curb.
In the bins.
Ye shall know them by their garbage.
Nov 21, 2024
Nov 21, 2024 at 10:11 AM UTC
Leave and emigrate ...
as you like ...
I will not stop you ...
because ...
the heart has sworn sincerely ...
to follow you..!
however ...
i still alive ...
leave ...
as you like ...
And travel...
Wherever you want...
And I live in any country...
you want ...
but be sure ...
my heart ...
always will follow you ...
wherever you be ...
sweetheart ...
wherever you fly ...
my heart there ...
watching you ...
hazem al ..
Jun 29, 2022
Jun 29, 2022 at 5:27 AM UTC
You are not a narrative,
not prepared, not braced
save for your teeth.
Your eyes, surrounded by
shields of glass have their
quotas of emigrate emotion
to fill like morning mugs,
so they're seldom gone
from their post upon the
crossing bridge of your nose.
Your eyes, with their Chernobyl centers,
like candied apples with caramel lace,
blanketed with coldness and a
cunning vision glaring from the pupil
with a sparkle smirk.
Your cheeks are, like you, high and haughty,
bones pressing against the cream of your face
like a lover needing release from these
non-consensual bonds.
You seem to have a thing for blondes
and non-committed things: shrugs and loves.
Your podium skirt, your pedestal boots
do little to solidify. You are sly liquid
slipping between mental cracks
and broken minds like Eden's serpent infestation.
You're the breaker of greater paradises.
You revise the despised accent to suit
you like a tailor, a censor, black bars
going lengthwise across your chest
when you wear that dress
and vertically in your future.
Get used to grey.
You're a marker, standing tall like a tombstone,
dates written in sharpie, a conviction epitaph
from your days of being corrected
by greater minds you accept like false diplomas.
A crimson bracelet once twinkled
around your wrist, or so you say
with your eyes. You think you've died
before, once more to live.
Maybe once you were someone worth a ****
before you turned into prom incarnations.
You seem to think that, like the wine
your daddy bought you, you have a kick,
and even though you're all leg, your
thighs were never good enough for you
and maybe you show them off too much.
Like a hotel, you try to accommodate
other souls within you, a biome,
but there's only vacancy inside your heart
and that's the pool with the broken filter.
Your sign mouth, neon lips all aglow
promote you and your greater
philosophical concepts written
from eight thirty to eleven
on notebook pages and margins.
Mar 20, 2014
Mar 20, 2014 at 8:57 AM UTC
Our faults shimmer before the public
Like lies in the eyes of teens
But our good hibernate from others
Advertising our wrongs and sins
Friends and trust are what blaze our hearts
To hurt us ere our sights spot
And it takes us long to hang lens
To audit what's dense to float
We hardly contend our lacks
That lay fresh and young to cure themselves
And our needs emigrate the earth
After the betrayal from what we thought helps
Sep 15, 2014
Sep 15, 2014 at 6:56 AM UTC
Were you born into wealth
As a lonely heir;
Are you rutted in poverty
And don't want to be there?
Did you emigrate,
And take your world with you;
Are you an immigrant,
And find one that fits you?
Were you born a she
That should be a he;
Do you feel the red shame?
Are you gifted,
Do you think you're insane?
Was your upbringing
In a scholar's home;
Did dear old Dad leave
You alone to go roam?
Should you blame Mommy's drinking
For your lack of get-go?
Did a brother abuse you
When you were young;
Did no one amuse you
At night with a song,
Or read bed-time stories,
Or say Good-night
With a hug?
Whether well-fed
Or well-read,
You've a future
Not used,
A conscious decision
To do what you choose.
Whatever the condition
Of your initial on-set,
Whatever's your story,
It's not over yet.
Jul 24, 2015
Jul 24, 2015 at 5:55 PM UTC
They flow in the meanders of streets and bars,
Warnings by enslaved sugar cane harvesters from afar.
The produce as dangerous as lashes on disobedience,
From sloshed owners of plantations delirious. Tipsy greed.
Known to colonists for driving drinkers mad,
“Le rhum rend fou” they whisper in France, gulping
The brutal inebriating substance of wrong doings,
Turning blind eyes to ancient ports of human trade.
He was a descendent of those who stayed behind,
Only to later emigrate to the Metropole, unwanted
Reminders of ungrateful history. Parents working
Hard to fulfil disillusioned dreams of opportunities.
His amber bottle, his best friend, able to turn white
Sclera red, smiles into raging smears and slurs, be it
Not a swear word, using lexicon to hurt as pupils
Dilate, for looks to stab and offend, cursing blessings.
Easier to be a victim than take responsibility, blaming
All exception made for the precious liquid, bashing
Intentions with statements of futility, projects with
Sentences of failure, as the last drop burns a sore throat.
Oct 18, 2017
Oct 18, 2017 at 1:59 AM UTC
My last grandmother’s heartbreak
was caused by an accordion,
his husband played it so well
he must have sold his soul to the devil.
When my father gave it to buy new coats for winter
she cried for the memories and lost years,
the widow of a man who was still alive
only continents away.
He said his soul costed a fortune
but one that could keep his children’s stomachs full.
So he played all night long
in the streets of Switzerland,
over much colder pebbles than our damp Galician fields
without knowing if he will ever return,
but that hunger and poverty was the worst war of all.
Now I know my homeland is a grandmother
I am sure,
she has seen all her lovers emigrate
to a fertile land, a richer paradise.
She could not bear fast enough,
so her children scattered away
and died like Icarus,
burned and buried
by their killers in the plain.
Our country has made us weary of leaving,
that is why most of us stay
in a place that hasn’t been able to stop mourning.
How can one leave this ancestral sacrifice,
the beautiful language
of a quiet Sunday morning,
and the piles of leaves always gathered at your doorstep
ready for you to play with them.
A place that weeps for months
for those lost at sea,
it wasn’t the lighthouse fault,
they were meant to return,
only not to us.
There is no forgetting for us,
who still keep the instruments locked away.
Maybe that is why we learn to use our voices,
but here, it’s like screaming over the noise of the oceans,
here, it's not loud enough,
maybe it never will.
We’ll choke with the blood of our sore throats
and swollen tongues still not used to
the language who killed our grandfathers in the cornfields.
We will die repeating the same sung history,
like our grandmothers before us.
Apr 12, 2019
Apr 12, 2019 at 12:15 PM UTC
a paradox, perhaps you'd say
imagination frees reality
what if it's the other way round:
reality frees imagination
my lips forget your ironies
waters feel your surrender
the rush hour of something ineffable knows
you are caressing the back of the light
your words are crispy and salty
I emigrate into a silence that keeps its promise
I'll learn your steps like the worm learns the apple
or the sea learns the depth
light learns colour from its carbon dreams
Mar 11, 2025
Mar 11, 2025 at 6:04 PM UTC
as i wax older
memories get stronger
ghosts get bolder
their haunting, longer
whispers always been are getting louder
this world seems much less real
the spiritual that much prouder
trying less to conceal
but woe the strength that once was mine
the strings i used, strong as twine,
to attach 'n bind to Supernal Mind
have fled 'n left me crippl'd 'n blind
i knock on a door feeble 'n lame
shivering reed, battered, ashamed,
stutter as i've forgotten his name,
i lean, exhausted, on door-frame
beyond i sense a thousand souls
connected with mine that reached their goals
deeply embarrassed I curl up inside
but now there's nowhere, nowhere to hide
is there anything, anything at all
that'll allow me to stand up proud and tall,
to emigrate to yon Elysian Fields
as body surrenders to dust and yields
May 31, 2021
May 31, 2021 at 7:23 AM UTC