"migration" poems
Precarious Life
Migration in the Age of Globalization
Various Strife
Cessation in the wage of translation
Starvation in our under age narration
Is opportunity worth the cost
Bifurcation of our to be nations
Will we make it across
Vicariously rife
Location of our permanent vacation
Hilarious fife
Hesitation in the living wage stagnation
Resignation of our own home nation
Will anything become lost
Frustration in this age of relocation
Will we make it across
Gregarious life
Migration in the age of inflation
Precarious Life
Stagflation been gauged with low expectations
Automation when we enrage damnation
It shall be worth the cost
Fixation on a whole new acclimation
Will we make it across
Nov 2, 2014
Nov 2, 2014 at 2:46 PM UTC
I fear thyself
I fear attraction
I fear unfamiliarity
I fear attention
I fear incidence
I fear conversation
I fear interaction
I fear answers
I fear questions
I fear to tell my story
I fear to hear yours
I fear compliance
I fear conflict
I fear benevolence
I fear mutuality
I fear victimisation
I fear change
I fear to love
I fear to hate
I fear significance
I fear insignificance
I fear the lies we tell
I fear the truths we hide
I fear imprisonment
I fear freedom
I fear hope
I fear despair
I fear old age
I fear children
I fear intelligence
I fear ignorance
I fear to take
I fear to give
I fear to borrow
I fear to loan
I fear to exchange
I fear to teach
I fear to learn
I fear to laugh
I fear to cry
I fear to be
I fear not to be
I fear to be afraid
I fear to be brave
I fear to die
I fear to live
I fear discomfort
I fear responsibility
I fear to gain
I fear to lose
I fear victory
I fear defeat
I fear antrophy
I fear hypertrophy
I fear inertia
I fear activity
I fear obedience
I fear disobedience
I fear justice
I fear injustice
I fear totality
I fear poverty
I fear embarrassment
I fear addiction
I fear declamation
I fear guilt
I fear pride
I fear delusion
I fear unfulfillment
I fear my apathy
I fear to be wakeful
I fear to be tired
I fear my capabilities
I fear my incapabilities
I fear my dreams
I fear my nightmares
I fear women
I fear men
I fear being disabled
I fear misinterpretation
I fear misrepresentation
I fear altruism
I fear limitation
I fear to endear
I fear to inspire
I fear to forget
I fear to remember
I fear self doubt
I fear discrimination
I fear starvation
I fear migration
I fear fragility
I fear formality
I fear banality
I fear enticement
I fear cruelty
I fear judgement
I fear to embrace
I endure what I fear
I endure because I must
I endure myself because I fear
Endure thyself
Dec 11, 2014
Dec 11, 2014 at 6:37 AM UTC
Your body
Is a creation of the galaxies
A coming together of milky ways and solar flares
When I first saw you, I was stunned
At the sheer amount of stardust it would take
To make something that beautiful
Your body
Is a glass case
Struggling to hold rivers in your veins
Herds of wild horses in your chest
The monarch migration in your stomach
Slowly you are cracking
The glass relenting to the spirit it cannot hold
But when it breaks you will not hurt
You will be free
Sep 9, 2014
Sep 9, 2014 at 8:25 AM UTC
We are a puzzle with missing parts
That is why we make art
It is a healing start
We are all dream chasers
Until pencil meets eraser
Until boat meets glacier
Reality we must face her
When we sacrifice imagination
For societal integration
We search for placation
In lonely play stations
And through vacation
We experience migration
When the results are doubtful
And the response a drought mold
Because people are skeptical
Until there's a shiny scepter sold
Then you're put on a pedestal
And have your pecker pulled
By various industry tools
Loading you like a mule
With expensive jewels
Art must be the only motive
Not climbing any totem
Because once you're dead
Your art can still be read
Audiences may still be fed
But there's a frivolous influence
So you must be vigilant and prudent
To cut that from your life
So art may be your wife
That works to end strife
Yet that kind of help
You can't put on a shelf
I strive to make my art timeless
Though my pockets are dimeless
We live in a world of depression
That carries the risk of regression
My art could help push past it
Now that would be classic
Nov 18, 2017
Nov 18, 2017 at 5:43 AM UTC
the sunset imbues its last glance
as molten lavas cool into exotic crimson
painting the color of romance over the horizon.
the clouds flew,
and you closed your eyes,
cicada songs humming through your ears,
and pink hues glowing across your cheeks.
then, i saw your chocolate brown
eyes gazing out in awe.
your fawn satin skin seemed so delicate,
as did your jet black hair.
coral florets glowed among fluorescent orange, yellow, pink flavescent clouds, calm in migration.
the west reaches for clothes of new colors
which it passes to a row of ancient trees.
you open your eyes, and soon these two worlds both leave you;
one part climbs toward heaven, one sinks to earth.
it's nearly dark now, and the stars are peaking out amongst the clouds.
you're lying in the grass, feeling every strand tickle your bare legs.
you close your eyes again, and the air you're breathing is hot and heavy.
i strode my fingers through your hair, sighing softly
gazing away at
blue evening grandeur skies, and you smiled…
pastels in yellow flow around my scene
and i relish in the comely gold light for at last,
we are gazing at the same sun.
Jun 6, 2017
Jun 6, 2017 at 9:41 PM UTC
mean beam bottom ***** without reluctance.
\\ air above \\
since forever baby boy: since forever liquid sparkler.
he has sense
& peanut butter jelly geography to his page.
his romance is of the west.
his eyes are of dandelions kicked & to the wind.
he moves like ancient turtle migration.
reaches feet to sidewalk \\ sand to depths \\ ride \\
night:
velcro-tightened mind withstanding.
party lights, ***** willows, retro punch, he
is orpheus descending: with all the elements positioned just so.
\\ jellyfish electric \\
he says he likes the loneliness.
he says it’s the water.
& so he moves \\ wills himself into the next measure.
liquid resolute bits.
so move \\ orca \\
curl of eye \\ so ride \\ black rollo wave \\
basilica \\ & \\
coral reaches below \\\\\
he likes to tell it, with warmed exaggeration.
slow-motion buffalo stampede. ride the railroads free & easy.
orange glowing bars of elsewhere. oscillating seal calls.
oily portland hipsters howling on the beach. those
juno cheeked rosy-red lips.
somewhere, sister getting married.
spring, summer, fall, winter, spring.
africa girl on a branch of a tree of a forest, overlooking elephant burial grounds.
color & white material:
plantations, gas stations, diners, & sharks.
this is the morning lunar \\
sweet blue beach of the old & awakening.
he crawls out & into her breaks.
her deep heights & bombora reef. the serotonin
functions twice, exposed between thin tissues of warm-blooded neurochemistry.
human, shown.
he is as a raw page, blank, yet
dipped \\
\\ so ride \\ bulbous waves of air mother agua \\
ride \\ &
\\ ride \\ &
brew by light these occurrences forever.
Mar 28, 2014
Mar 28, 2014 at 4:41 AM UTC
Oh they pleaded,
women, men
young and old,
'let us pass through that sea'
to a place where we could start all over',
yet their voices fall into deaf ears
of their brothers and sisters
from another mother land,
hopeless they remain drifted
in the treacherous sea
feeling unwanted, unloved
forever rejected,
by the policies of the modern
migration...
the unworthy sea-going boat,
becomes their coffin
and the sea and the seafloor become
their graveyards,
the common fate of boat people - the asylum seekers.
Aug 14, 2015
Aug 14, 2015 at 1:44 AM UTC
resuming vogon poetry
altering website logos
pretending everyone cares
playing "east hastings"
asphyxiating well-nigh denouement
depicting twitter status
obfuscating coincident deletions
translating from Sḵwx̱wú7mesh
assuring Sḵwx̱wú7mesh exists
painting skwiḵw's mother?
decrying micropolitical maelstrom
imbibing fireball fountain
inundating lexical foofaraw
crafting poetic wonders
desiring other mediums
remaining practically invisible
ending internet-only depression
drafting noetic blunders
requesting astute clique
blazing perilous trail
aging ominous grisaille
depicting kmart realism
seeking darker groups
increasing pre-weekend laughter
appropriating communist symbols
making lone chuckle
offending worldwide communists
colonizing hello poetry
colonizing parallel universe
relaxing e-migration policies
пить чистую водку
photographing abduction scene
¿losing consistent format?
increasing bluebird insignia
avoiding frivolous legalities
striking astraphobic comments
assuming near-universal automation
lowering latent inhibition
traversing oneiric plane
laxwadding afebrile loodies
wallscaping pitchsourced chthonicities
closing one-star conveniences
sharing alien-looking alphabet
writing system downtimes
Sep 13, 2015
Sep 13, 2015 at 7:42 PM UTC
~
*Hark!
He knocks.
Time, it's time,
the Kuroi Jukai within me.
Finding an unordinary
drifting off to sleep point,
a hollowed-out spot,
where I can let
God dream for me.
Whistles in the wind,
in lullaby the sky and sea
seem to trade places,
bending around me
as vertical blanketed surges.
My carcass is a colonization (of bones)
for my dearly departed ones,
forbearers of migration,
seeking endless sea,
until like them,
I settle upon
their ancestral shore.*
~
Sep 28, 2021
Sep 28, 2021 at 2:13 PM UTC
Change, the word which makes us new
Rarely fond of me or you
Of all the variance
Soon to come into view
Some will greatly challenge you
Infinite possibility lies in wait
Never straying
Greatness awaits
Beyond oceans and walls
Obstructing our view
Resides a world
Daring and new
Endless unknowns beckon
Requesting more than has ever before
Something large and yet untoward
(Precarious(Life(and(Migration in(the(Age(of(Globalization
Nov 2, 2014
Nov 2, 2014 at 2:09 PM UTC
A summer of discontent
Uprooted families swap a bombed house for tent.
A summer of disbelief.
Acts of terror but where is the relief?
A summer of turmoil.
Mass migration not safe on home soil.
A summer of confusion.
Gangs, traffickers, corruption collusion.
A summer of down trodden flowers.
The tears we shed from the sins of powers.
Oct 14, 2015
Oct 14, 2015 at 1:45 PM UTC
How do you know who I am
Or what I stand for
I look ordinary
No dreadlocks
No paintings on my body
No rings piercing my ear
My eyes aren’t weary yet
My skin is white
I am educated
I have a piece of paper
I wear cotton clothes
Black pants
A clean shirt
I look like I am comfortable
That suffering is foreign to me
So what is it that I can say
When my identity is so plain?
But who must declare themselves openly?
Is it the man who has decided he has become all there is to be?
Is it the man who is unsure of the facts of life that he reads?
Is it the man who gives up his ambition to be what does not pay?
Is it the man who tells everyone the streets are where there are real men?
It is him who suffers most who becomes the angry man
It is him who becomes angry that is liberated
It is him who is liberated who can tell the truth
And so what do I tell you?
I am not him
I have no right to be angry
I have no right to be liberated
I have no right to tell the truth
Is that my identity?
No right to speak harshly of oppression
No right to speak harshly of poverty
No right to speak harshly of hunger
And it is true
I am not oppressed
I am not poor
I am not hungry
So I cannot pretend to be any of these things
I cannot pretend to have that connection
Who do I have the nerve to be?
So I spin a tale that I imagine of a life that I know exists
I think about what it would be like to watch an angry man
I think about what it would be like to watch a poor woman
I think about what it would be like to watch a migration
I think about what it would be like if I lost everything
I think about what it would be like to give everything away
Then I know
And I am ashamed
I know I would not survive
And so it is not because I am not poor
It is because I wouldn’t know how to live
Like they are able to live
Without hope
But with life
Without respect
But with pride
Without relevance
But with identity
Because they know who they are
The chosen ones
Who have the right
To smirk at those of us who visit the poor on a field trip
And then go home and forget
Forget them
While they remember us
The soulless ones
Without the knowing of anything
Without the knowing of how to live
Without the knowing of survival
Without the knowing of will
Without the knowing of who we are
Aug 24, 2015
Aug 24, 2015 at 9:48 PM UTC
I rode the wings of night on rising air
That carried me from Africa's wild shore;
To fields of meadowsweet and maidenhair
To sing of heaven's dome and ocean's floor.
Spring greets my song with hawthorn flower and briar.
Rewards my voice with nectar-tinted sun;
The thrum of earth's renewal is my lyre
As thaws begin and waters speed to run.
I sing for memories of sultry days
For zebras racing over arid plains.
I sing of England's tepid Summer haze;
Slow-strolling shire horses with plaited manes.
From heaven's heights I sing, for life's divine,
The purest voice, the lightest heart is mine.
-------------------------------------------------------------------
NOTES:
Written on 22nd June 2003. I did some research about where the Willow Warbler goes on its "migration holidays" before writing this sonnet.
Sep 6, 2009
Sep 6, 2009 at 3:14 PM UTC
Petite arctic terns
navigate the sky
on epic migration
wings clocking
45,000 miles each year
it seems they know
how to go
with the flow
by thumbing a lift
on atmospheric airways
that crisscross the planet
adding thousands of
seemingly needless miles
to an already
arduous journey
flocks congregate
in open ocean
to rest and fuel up
on fish and krill
for the last push home
these tenacious birds
understand
the cliché
it's all about
the journey
they synchronize
with invisible currents
because to beat
into the wind
is a futile expenditure
they pause
in community
to re-energize and feed
on unfathomable
bounty
four ounces
of feather
and hollow bone
instinctively holds
these truths
there is much
to be learned
from an
arctic
tern.
Jan 15, 2016
Jan 15, 2016 at 1:57 PM UTC
He greets me with a light kiss
reminiscent of a monarch butterfly
delicately landing after a long migration.
Iced lemonade in a glass
rests on the table in front of us,
witnessing the butterflies on our faces.
Water vapor relaxes when it sees us,
and the glass leaves a culaccino
for forever and a day.
Apr 15, 2022
Apr 15, 2022 at 7:17 PM UTC
Heat
Calcification
Incalescence
Swelter
Suffocation
Arctic circle above 32 degrees Fahrenheit in December
Leaking lakes of Methane gas in Siberia
Scientific data to price
Changing 2 degrees
has caused mass extinction
Melting glaciers
Oceans 7 centimeters higher
Drought in the Amazon
Changes in migration
Disruption in pollination
Heatwaves:
high death tolls
Decreased plant growth
Zika in Florida
Ignorance from the government
Refusal of proof
Nonbelievers in the White House
Dec 16, 2016
Dec 16, 2016 at 12:12 PM UTC
Note the time
by seasonal migration
return of osprey, eagle
each feathered pearl
a moment strung
on the banded necks
of brants and loons
velvet-lined memories
gathered within
my threatened
wild spaces
raindrops find
their way home
watch them bead
on the backs
of sitting ducks
serenely surfing
sibilant waves
silkily filling
oceans within
my tumultuous
wild heart
Apr 13, 2017
Apr 13, 2017 at 10:11 AM UTC
she saw things that made her malfunction
she broke down to words that should've made her function.
she tortured herself with plastered screenings
repeated feelings
not wanting to be of perceiving
she was in and out of it, saw the fault line, lingered a bit.
she then took it for what it was, saw what he was, realized he never was.
Next she then meddled with hard hit reality.
she understands to not give herself up, she gets the places it'll mess up, and all she wants to go is up.
So time dwells, she wants to be over it, she wants nothing of it, only to be everything above it.
she does not self harm anymore, because she is of no harm, she is just charm.
he's made her realize that.
he's accompanied her to that.
so she thanks him for that.
she will not whither, she is winter, with personality of a spitter
she is summer with hints of glimmer
she is now full of no more sorrow, no bitterness, or self wallow
she is content, she is fluorescent.
she is better than ever yet.
the muggy cloud has gone and surpassed
therefore leaving everything in the past.
so she says,
see you later,
thanks for the class,
hope everything works out for you in your middle pass,
just remember to not let the next one pass and remember to not be an ***
with that being said with wise words from this *** that you can kiss.
hahaha so see you in the free world, and maybe then can we pass, hit a space migration for our integrations.
May 27, 2014
May 27, 2014 at 10:07 AM UTC
The slaves of their passion built this pyramid
But now there’s no sign of civilization
But ancient artifact have been found
The great migration to the underground
I look at the hieroglyphics on the wall
It’s an epic story oh I’ve seen it all
This place was taken by industry
Powered by fame and the illusion of money
They perverted the artist’s proud, heartfelt ways
Forced the true artists out for the ones who stayed
They create things that sound the same to us
Dropped their talent sold their souls to business
Lost their land to a cult of executives
So now they put out songs without messages
There puppets without any ideals
But it’s amazing for album sales
They were tempted by the glorious pop charts
Every follower goes by the formula
Produce garbage without connection
With no real emotion or expression
Their distorted auto tuned emptiness
All to be on TV and in magazines
Want exposure to be recognized
Their careers won’t fade they were never alive
This place ***** robbed lied to n even forgotten
The ones who stayed chained to the corporation
Not for the sake of art but for the money
Lack of feeling and effort plain to see
The slaves of their passion built this pyramid
But now there’s no sign of civilization
But ancient artifact have been found
The great migration to the underground
Can’t understand what their saying
Fan base is alienated
Rather be an icon than a star
The space between performer and audience grows more and more
So the true artists have left n disappeared
They’ve been out of sight for many many years
There somewhere where you don’t need to be in style
Might not find them at the left of the dial
No they don’t care about TV or radio
They just want to make something with all their soul
They are all now opposed to the fame
Crossing their fingers it won’t be the next craze
But today we still have the artifacts
Amazing and impressive sounds of the past
Better than the sell outs we all know
Talent, determination, originality flow
The slaves of their passion built this pyramid
But now there’s no sign of civilization
But ancient artifact have been found
The great migration to the underground
Someone poisoned the main stream
So now it’s the same to me
Did I read the hieroglyphics wrong I don’t know?
But it was the rise, fall and return of rock n roll
Dec 5, 2013
Dec 5, 2013 at 1:39 PM UTC
Waiting in the winds.
Squinting in the sunlit hills a group of people wait for darkness to fall.
Against all the odds they have travelled land and sea to make it this far but not far enough for THAT better life.
What do they seek on the other side of that dark tunnel?
Health wealth happiness.
Could it be a dream too far?
Even the fittest fail to survive as night after night death grips the bravest to jump onto a moving train destined for Grand Bretagne.
Aug 17, 2015
Aug 17, 2015 at 12:59 PM UTC
Nine months after I was born, the Twentieth Century began to collapse.
East Berlin,graffiti-mural concrete, a jutted enigma scratched
on ordinance maps, the sort found
landscaping westernized Primary School walls.
Where within, labored in real time, the television told my parents
(and everyone else given to social conservation in 1989) that a wall falling down
would bring an end to the gap between the working and the working poor.
Freedom waited for many on the other side.
But of course, History draws up different plans.
Never content to just go out with a bash, or to
fleetingly drift by leaving
in its absence an underwhelmed lull
The bloodiest century yet
left the new world entrenched
in an odyssey of hatreds
handed down from the past
right about the time human suffering became a bit dull
and the peaceful countries were too busy
tripling their money instead.
What does History really teach us and what are the real benefits
of being free, or freer than you were before?
Human ambition, which burns it way out of any oasis of calm,
which calls children out of sleeping in the night
Always seeks out the exhaustible
An inveterate Black sheep leading astray
the ever susceptible ****** lamb
Delusion’s strange bedfellows are the worthiest adversaries
to run away from, to reserve contrition for.
Unlike the inevitability of uprooted animal migration
during a monsoon swell
Can a people with an invested addiction
to the pursuit of happiness
Ever truly be prepared
for the inevitability of rapid change?
Jun 16, 2013
Jun 16, 2013 at 6:00 PM UTC
A Catastrophic explosion in a constellation ..........
Following the super nova , expansion of the universe....
A supersonic flight on suborbital spacecraft ........
Accessing meteor , an unknown lonely atmosphere ....
Away from thousand light years.........
Taxonomy a new solar system with red planets........
Peeping from the glass cockpit , all planets appearing blue.......
No moon in their orbit , no networks with DSL(Direct Satellite Link)......
No human , no existence of love...........
All nonfunctioning satellite moving bizarre ..........
Whole system collapsed in that collide ........
Explosion relocated moon with planet earth .......
A symbol of Cosmic Love , shining through human hearts ........
Discovering love bond in the solar systems...
an unique lodge.............
Migration of youth Love .....an effort to save those lonely planets......
by
MAHI -GALAXY ...........
Oct 4, 2013
Oct 4, 2013 at 4:50 PM UTC
My grandad
He parts wise words
He tells a story
Of once in a lifetime
Migration to England
Fresh off the boat
Earning at fourteen
To lend a hand he was keen
A tale
That could only be his
Of travelling to Afghanistan
Him and his car in 1966
A young wife and 3 sons
Along came a daughter
When he needed one
Got them married his job was done
He is the vision of hope
For without that
You might as well be a dead man
Work hard and live honest
My grandad always says
Do your bit
And stand tall and proud
Keep your feet firm on the ground
And now he speaks
Of friends all gone
Wrapped up in a shroud
That day will come for us all son
You'll lose your sight
Hearing
Teeth and hair too
Remember this no matter what you do
Never do anything
Which one day you will rue
And if you don't learn from your mistakes
Don't weep and expect anyone to pity you
Jan 31, 2014
Jan 31, 2014 at 10:29 AM UTC
Aural sounds of delectation
funk-fuel in fervent distillation
undertones of jazz-swing in migration
electronic clicks and blips for relaxation
ambience is my one true occupation.
The resonance of sound in rotation
the initiation itself a radiation
morphological alternation in isolation
as the hubbub of voices echo respiration
breath in, breath out, in elevation.
No underlying obligation, only inspiration
and celebration of collaboration
revel in the pleasures of sensation
like the first discovery of amplification
and in its appreciation and stimulation
embrace variation in all its illumination.
Seek out new music from recommendation
the gravitation towards transformation
the re-education and regeneration
this musical manifestation of civilisation
saturated in complex contemplation
adoration in meditation
the simplest form of gratification
the creative urge for diversification
and technological intensity
of electronic experimentation.
Jul 23, 2014
Jul 23, 2014 at 7:26 AM UTC