Immigrant Stories

He was a big man with
big hands
That was all Sarah could remember
about Papa
........................................................................................
When they arrived at Ellis Island
he called her and Mama
"little greenhorns"
Sarah thought it was a term of endearment
.......................................................................................
She wore her bruises
like her daughter would one day wear
Girl Scout badges
She had a story for each:
The time she spilled her milk and broke the glass
The time she spoke Yiddish instead of English to Papa
The time she let the ice block melt
on her way home from the iceman
There were many more
.........................................................................................
Papa called Mama a fat cow
When Mama wouldn't stop crying
he hit her-hard
Sarah hid in the closet
hands over her ears
...........................................................................................
Mama lost the baby
Sarah didn't understand
but vowed to find it
Maybe then, Papa would smile
and Mama would stop crying
But Papa slapped her across the face
and Mama cried even harder
..........................................................................................
Every Friday night
Sarah says the berakah over the candles
The golden candlesticks,
the only possession they were able to bring to America,
remind her of Mama
Tarnished by the years yet
still strong,
still valuable.

submitted for Imaginary Garden With Real Toads, Open Link Monday

After

source

She wraps herself in sheets

stained with tears and sweat

She has been stripped

of something vital

that she can't quite name

It makes no sense-

She had wished it all away

but still,

there was an undeniable connectedness

She makes the sign of the cross

though she stopped believing long ago

She closes her eyes

feels between her legs

She bleeds

a broken poem.

submitted for Imaginary Garden With Real Toads, Open Link Monday
and The Sunday Whirl, Wordle 181

Another Icarus

He always knew that he would die this way

From the moment he first felt the fire,

the warmth spreading over his body

that made all the pain go away,

he knew that he would never stop

He wasn't afraid of being burned

He flew higher

and higher

He wanted the sun for himself

if only once

And when he gave that final push,

he almost made it

Almost

But in the end

his wings turned to ash,

his body to dust

And the flame still burned.

submitted for Magpie Tales, Mag236 and
Imaginary Garden With Real Toads, Open Link Monday

Warrior Princess

image source

  She births stars from her fingertips

Dances with fire

Wraps herself in comet tails

Spinning the flames

As graceful and dangerous

as a tigress

Fierce

Fearless

Feminine

Wild as summer jasmine

She dances with fire

to moonlit music.

image source

Note: This poem was inspired by watching a performance of Weapons of Mass Distraction, the fire spinning group (all students!) at Reed College in Portland, OR where my daughter is now a freshman. After one of the women's performances, a woman sitting next to me shouted, "Look at that, you bimbo cheerleaders! These women are WARRIOR PRINCESSES!"

submitted for Imaginary Garden With Real Toads, Open Link Monday

Heaven's Ghetto

Keith Haring

Love can be dangerous

Cross the wrong street-

love can be deadly

Doesn't matter how we die

Disease, murder, brainwashing, hopelessness

We all end up in the same pile of bodies

Buried by gloved hands and masked faces

Heads shaking 

Thinking "not me"

until it is

Hatred is a virus

as much as HIV

It spreads by fear

Grows stronger through ignorance

And the cure still seems miles

Away

Meanwhile

We die for love

Destined for Heaven's ghetto.

submitted for Magpie Tales, Mag 232

and Imaginary Garden With Real Toads, Open Link Monday

Dog, you, me, dog

dog

you

me

dog

Lined up 

on the bed

Pressed together

A living panini

on a sheeted plate

Our essences mingle

wrapped in heat

wrapped in sheets

Warm, gooey, cozy treat

Sandwich perfection

dog

you 

me

dog.

submitted for Imaginary Garden With Real Toads, Open Link Monday

On the Brink Of

We were ten or eleven

Still just kids but

almost not

Young enough to play on the playground

Old enough to notice

(not quite hidden in the woods)

girls stealing smokes

and making out with boys

We were at that awkward stage

One minute playing with Barbies

the next, examining our silhouettes,

waiting for them to look like Barbie's

It was a time of imagined possibilities

and dreams smashed in linoleum school hallways

On the brink of we didn't know what

Our lips kissed only by Bonne Belle strawberry

we practiced by kissing ourselves in the mirror

I suggested (jokingly)

(Why was my heart beating so madly?)

that maybe we should practice on each other

"Gross!" you said, and I

didn't miss a beat, "Yeah, I know, right?"

and that was that.

The next year you had a boyfriend

and we lost touch

But I still remember those on the brink days

and your freckled nose.

 submitted for Imaginary Garden With Real Toads, Open Link Monday

Stairs

Behold the stairs which felt our tread

Carpet frayed and thinning

Threadbare stairs which we walked down each day

and up each night, the very way

Stairs on which our footfalls fell

Our secrets they would never tell

These stairs have seen us through our pasts

The only evidence that lasts

When voices still, when bodies' lust

of flesh and bone has turned to dust

Though wood is worn  and cloth unspun

These stairs are here and we are gone.

submitted for Magpie Tales, Number 228
and Imaginary Garden With Real Toads, Open Link Monday

A Woman Must Always Look Twice

A woman must always look twice
She must look first at what she sees
Then she must look deeper
She must read between the lines
on each face
She must look for subtext,
for subtleties
She must be alert
to the riptide
below the water's surface
or risk being carried out to sea,
drowned.

Yes, a woman must always look twice
She must look first at the smile
Then study the teeth
She must suss out
the impulse to rip her apart
She must know when she meets a wolf.

A woman must always look twice
She must first look ahead,
know where she is going
not get diverted by mazes or tricks
And she must look behind
She must be aware
of those trying to overtake her,
to run her over
or leave her naked and bleeding in the street.

A woman must always look twice
Even at another woman
She must protect what is hers
from her sisters,
her friends
who are themselves looking twice.

A woman must always look twice
when she looks in the mirror
Does she look pretty?
Does she look too pretty?
She must look at herself
Then she must look as another would look at her
She must assess the message in her clothes
in her hair, her make-up
Do her hips sway?
Do they sway like a woman's should
or like a whore's?
A woman must always look twice
at her body.

A woman must always look twice
A woman must always look twice.


submitted for Imaginary Garden With Real Toads, Open Link Monday

Lucky

They say that Marisol was born with
la suerte
Ever since she was a penqueña
luck followed her
like a hermanito

They say that when Marisol dreamt of numbers
her tío played them and won
She carried a rabbit’s foot on her key ring
wore 3 azabaches around her neck
and had a statue of the Virgen María in her yard
because, even with la suerte,
you can never be too careful
No sense in leaving a puerta abierta
for the mala suerte 

The day that Marisol met Marco
he was cursing at a flat tire in the rain
Marco didn’t believe in luck
or dreams
or God
He believed in logic,
rationality,
proof

When Marco left his hat on the bed
he laughed at Marisol’s scolding
and he never hung the medal of San Cristóbal
from his car mirror either

But they say that when Marco first kissed Marisol
he was heard to whisper, “Dios mío”
After that, he believed.

submitted for Imaginary Garden With Real Toads, Open Link Monday and (very late) for The Mag, Mag 206

Storm Damage

image by Kelly DeLay

I saw the sky go scarlet in your eyes

but didn't expect the storm

You were the first one to make me

feel beautiful

Now, you won't speak

except for rumblings of thunder

You throw lightning bolts in my face

The passion of your anger

blinds and burns

Where is the calm, emerald ocean

that used to live in your eyes?

The warm waters where my soul

bathed with yours?

If I said I'm sorry,

would the storm cease?

If I begged forgiveness,

would you look at me again

like you once did

or

Will there always be storm damage?

submitted for Imaginary Garden With Real Toads, Open Link Monday

I Wanted To Say: For Andrea

I wanted to say
that you inspire me
to speak the truth
I wanted to say
that you are so strong
and brave
that you make me feel
strong and brave too
I wanted to say
that I admire
your forthrightness
and your total lack of bullshit
I wanted to say
that your words
are beautiful
and sad
and uncomfortable
and challenging
and meaningful
I wanted to say
that you have opened my mind
and my heart
I wanted to say
that I'm a 50 year-old straight woman
wife and mother
who has a wicked crush on you
I wanted to say
that you look a little thin, sweetie
and I'd love to invite you to my place
for pasta and homemade sauce
(bring your adorable dog too!)
I wanted to say
thank you
for reminding me
that words matter
and that poetry is powerful
I wanted to say all that
and more
but when I saw you in person
all I could say was
"Can I give you a hug?"
Thank you
for saying "yes."

submitted for Imaginary Garden With Real Toads, Open Link Monday

November Swan Song

 

 One of my boys, Puck <3

Mist over the moon

Early morning cricket song

Just me and the dogs

Leaves crunch beneath our ten feet

November sighs quietly

submitted for Imaginary Garden With Real Toads, Open Link Monday

Peace By Peace

Peace by peace we make things right

When we can talk instead of fight

When understanding counters hate

Our differences are not so great

An open heart lets in the light

Not everything is black or white

The shades of grey enrich our sight

Let’s join together, share the weight

Peace by peace

There is no day without the night

Two sides to stories we may write

When we listen, we create

A bridge to connect and relate

Those once opposed some day unite

Peace by peace.

submitted for Imaginary Garden With Real Toads, Open Link Monday, BlogBlast4Peace -Dona Nobis Pacem

Dear Mother

 “ cruel mothers are still mothers.
they make us wars.
they make us revolution.
they teach us the truth, early.
mothers are humans. who
sometimes give birth to their pain. instead of children. ”
— birth lessons, nayyirah waheed (via nayyirahwaheed)


She tells you she loves you
Then she slaps your face
Her sharp words can cut you
No time can erase
Once you make her angry,
she's silent for days
And even when she's wrong,
it's still you who pays.

When others are happy,
she mutters a curse
then retreats to her room
where she silently nurses
her bitter resentment,
her hard hearted hate
If you contradict her,
she'll get more irate.

A loving glance quickly
transforms to a glare
When you disappoint her,
you better beware
With one hand she strokes you
Stabs you with the other
You never can win
with that kind of mother.

submitted for Imaginary Garden With Real Toads, Open Link Monday

Hey Deanna

Hey Deanna
I thought about you today
Don't know why
It's been so long
but that song started to play
and I started crying
You know, it just doesn't seem fair
You'd just started flying
When they shot you out of the air
Hey Deanna
Have you found someone to love?
You never could down here
Maybe she's up above

I remember
when you dressed up
for Halloween
In wings and a halo
An angel groovin'
to Dancing Queen
You flirted with the girls
and the boys
The world was just
one of your toys
I can't understand
why you had to go away

Hey Deanna
I remember how you used to dance
You made everyone happy
But you never got the chance
Hey Deanna
Could you maybe send
a message my way?
'Cause I still miss you
and I just wanted to say
Hey Deanna.

In memory of Deanna Lynn "Odie" Garcia, 9/13/68 - 1/13/2001



submitted for Imaginary Garden With Real Toads, Open Link Monday

Thinking About Hydrangeas

photo by mindlovemisery

“He was more of a father to me

than my own lousy father,” said she

I wondered how bad it really must be

for an eight year-old to say those words

 so casually

Then she said, “Light blue

is my favorite color.”

Just another fact

And I pause to react,

“You really miss your grandfather.”

This is, after all, about grief

Speaking it to give some relief

So she speaks

Her words explode,

bullets searching for a target

Granddad let her spend the night

when Mom and Dad would scream and fight

Now she has nowhere to go

to escape the horror show that plays

itself out when Dad starts to drink

And she thinks he learned it

from his own dad

The cursing, that is,

The alcohol, too

And one time, he choked Mom

til she was almost blue

The dog is scared of him

‘cuz he get a little intense

She tries to make it all make sense when

anyone can see it’s just insane

“Are we going swimming if it starts to rain?” she asks me

And we’re off on something else now

and I remember reading about a flower 

whose color depends on the soil pH

What color will she bloom, growing in hate?

Who will nourish her now or

Is it too late

for this flower to flourish?

for this girl of eight? 

submitted for Prompt 13, Photo Inspiration, at mindlovemisery 

and dVerse Poets Pub, Open Link Night 106

and Imaginary Garden With Real Toads, Open Link Monday