Author: poetryfest

Euthanasia, pull her quickly
under your billowed hood,
let her flee from a present
where suffering was understood.
.
Necropsy, treat her gently,
fold her tendons away,
so we may discover her again
in the bones we stole today.

Earth, digest her softly,
let the dirt protect her grave,
so in this hungry planet
her carcass may careful lay.

Scalpel, slice her cautiously,
see her organs with kind gaze,
so we learn from the life she lived
and the death she gave.

My name is Angela,
I’m going to a new foster home,
I wonder if they’ll let me stay,
Dad is so nice he’s taking me for ice cream,
Except it looks like a motel I think he lost his way,
Be a good girl- maybe it’s a dream,
I never knew the price of ice cream,
Nobody had ever taken me before today,
Later we’ll go to church to pray,
I met a friend there and told her about ice cream,
A loud ring, the preacher is on the phone,
They’re taking me away,
They say I was lying that foster kids are prone to it,
My cycle never came they tell me I’m with child,
That I’ll be in this group home quite awhile,
Take your prenatal try not to scream,
I’m bleeding, it hurts to the bone,
Why won’t anyone help me,
A nice worker came to tell me it was a medicine to get rid of what grew
in my womb,
I hate ice cream and I’ve never even had it,
Nobody cares.

My name is Emory,
They finally found me foster parents,
I wonder if they’ll like me,
Foster brother sneaks in late at night,
Don’t put up a fight,
They’ll never believe you he whispers through a hollow glare,
Months go by until something within me grew,
I couldnt hide it forever and eventually they knew,
It’s so dark I can’t see any light,
Theyre arguing we can’t hide an abortion what do we do well say she
lied,
It hurts so bad no help in sight,
I named her Mary,
She arrived in that cold dark room,
Dad why are you turning my baby blue,
The tears begin to slide,
As my baby is swept away in the tide,
They’re taking me away,
They say I’m lying, all foster kids misconstrue,
Nobody cares.

My name is Ebony,
I’m getting out of this group home today; I can’t wait,
I shared a room with 2 girls, we took care of 3 babies,
I never saw so many babies in one place,
That seemingly vanished without a trace,
I hope my new parents like me,
Foster mom leaves town for work often,
My dad hurts me worse than the last,
He isn’t happy until I’m hurting at the core,
He leaves me broken like a toy from the past,
I like to lay on the cold floor,
It helps when I’m really sore,
My heart, it’s racing so fast,
I hope dad didn’t see the fruit that I bore,
He’s angry, yelling, abortion isn’t an option and I won’t go to jail they’ll
show me no grace,
I can’t breathe stop dad I can’t breathe anymore
He’ll tell them I ran away one more gasp,
I won’t even get a coffin,
I hold my belly close as the water fills my lungs,
I love you little one but this world is rotten,
And nobody cares.

My name is Anna,
I’m 10 years old,
I’m going to a new group home today,
My case worker is so mad,
You shouldn’t have seduced the worker Anna,
Where will those girls go if they get shut down,
She’s right it’s all my fault,
I should’ve done something to bring it to a hault,
Her solemn frown etches permanent scars on my heart,
There are many other pregnant girls who all look so sad,
I felt him kick today and realize I’m no longer alone,
Over the days girls disappear without a word,
The men came around for me it must be my turn,
One final push and his cry is the most beautiful sound,
I reach for him as he is quickly torn from the chord,
I fought and I fought,
I still pray for him everyday to the good lord,
It’s been 20 years and that invisible chord is still there though miles
apart,
Linking me to him wherever he is in the world,
Nobody cares.

My name is Daisy,
And Anna, and Emory, and Ebony and Angela,
Iam their voice because Iam the only one who survived,
I never met a single girl who wasn’t violated in my years in foster care,
You won’t see statistics because too many are covered and hidden,
They’ll tell you that it was always forbidden,
But if you look close enough the evil is there to uncover,
Nothing about it will ever be fair,
Innocence deprived completely from within,
Each of these stories are mine and theirs,
We shared these experiences though the most horrendous thing we
would ever discover,
Is that nobody cares.

======

During an audit by the US Dept of Health and human services investigating disappearances that occurred in foster care from July 1 2018 to December 31 2020 results showed that 51,115 of the 74,353 missing children in foster care were not reported in accordance with federal requirements. 34,869 were never reported at all. That is nearly half (46%) of all kids missing from foster care. In just a year and a half 74,353 kids went missing in the 46 states that
were included in the study.

The clouds low, still: a washed, frozen surf. This landlocked
grove. The trees now barely outlined as if viewed through dirty
glass. We’d drawn trees last night. At the table. Water boiling. Coniferous,
you’d said, tapping on my page.

This morning, you
asleep. I lean against the door watching mist move and grass, too,
below as fish. Wood knotty underfoot. Soon, birdsong, and

ours. Adjusting eyes. Fixing plates. Steaming eggs. Let’s hold
hands today, after planting flowers. You nod. And then,
at a grass patch.
Sycamore, you say, pointing past

the plot. Near the school. We stop. Slow rising sun, softly fill afternoon’s warm
green mist. Lean on my shoulder
as we leave Daughter’s headstone.

does the kingdom of heaven only speak english?
& do the angels know why they were made?

aquí en esta vida, lo único que tengo es fe.
amor, lo único que tengo es la esperanza—
the faith that our arms can become bridges
cutting across torrents of an angered water.
the water that would rather drown us. choke
us until the lungs forget their purpose. beads
para rezar y sabanas para combatir la noche:
don’t even dream of stars if you were not born
beneath one. the body of your brother washed
ashore. his final handprint can never be erased.
and if he is only remembered as a body, if we
are only remembered as bodies, it is far better
to not even speak of us in front of the angels.

what do they fear that we have not yet seen?
do they fear murdered journalists? civilians?
or do they fear another heritage just as proud?
do they fear crops forgetting to grow? hunger?
do they fear a relative leaving? never to return?
the sound of rifles? bone cracked through flesh?
skin splintered in the memory of crucifixions?
shipwrecks? hangings? tears within the pews?
do they fear philosophies forced into revision?
8,000 new entries into the Book of Humanity?
do they fear sickle-scarred smiles? skin? eyes?
reflections they stripped away from the mirrors?
tienen miedo a la presencia de las otras idiomas?

this is the ancestral practice of the mass exodus.
measured footsteps towards the north— el norte
es donde vamos. north of a starving child’s cry.
north of the churches no longer worth robbing.
north of the slit throats. north of my own sanity.
success is sacrilegious anywhere beyond el norte.
take all that you have never known. escúchame:
nunca tengas miedo a lo que no puedes entender.
tienes el San Romero. tienes la memoria nuestra.
tenemos una profecía carved into the wall of fate
that I want you to speak about beyond the border.
remember that the dust beneath us was once alive.
whether with or without me: speak to the angels.

is it true that they write nightmares from boredom?
I can no longer distinguish nightmares from life.
how much money do they need to give us salvation?
the cost of a conscience turning upon its instincts.
will they interrogate us if we don’t have any visas?
it was of my belief that all souls are worth saving.
but are there souls that are worth more than others?
that is an answer to be answered in another lifetime.
and how is the significance of a lifetime measured?
through the number of nights unafraid of tomorrow.
but isn’t to fear tomorrow also to fear a blessing?
a blessing is heaven and hell both casting their dice.
and what are the odds that the angels speak english?

and what are the odds of the proudest of patriarchs
fearing their slumbers tonight? what will they see?
the ashened tree of life coiled around their throats?
thorns surging, fibonacci spirals across the wrists?
broken wails of the body: is this caravan worth it?
estoy preguntando en serio. quiero que me mires—
is this caravan worth it? do you believe in promises?
if it didn’t rain this year, do you believe in the next?
solemn incantations once the wind stills. God’s breath
blanketing an unpromised horizon. men waking up:
denouncing all trees, spitting thorns from their jaws,
and begging for forgiveness. this is no one’s burden.
the hourglass affects the souls of all pilgrims equally.

the clothes on your back will be your Sunday clothes.
the clothes on your back will serve as your country.
the clothes on your back will bond with your skin.
the clothes on your back will tally your tribulations.
the clothes on your back will recite your convictions.
the clothes on your back will become our only home.
the clothes on your back will genuflect at the border.
the clothes on your back will be stained with prophecy.
the clothes on your back will be worn on every Sunday.
the clothes on your back will be able to speak english.
the clothes on your back will knot into a ceiba’s roots.
the clothes on your back will know of kingdom come.
the clothes on your back will.

& when we get there: believe that there will be a feast.
a celebration of impossibilities. estoy hablando de todo:
pupusas, sopas de olla, de caracol, curtidos, quesadillas,
arroz con frijoles, maíz, aguacate, y mango. ¿entiendes?
vamos a conocer la música natural. y que vamos a bailar.
with a rhythm indecipherable throughout all generations.
to possess such skin is to possess the memory of survival.
I want you to imagine the day where we can eat together.
this hunger is only a part of the process. all is temporary:
starvation, barbed wire, soldiers, & cages, the dichotomy
of hurt and healing. the practice of nomadic cartography.
realignment of the longitudes in order to decipher North.
el norte. the uncertain Eden. teeth gnash to taste the fruit.

while the bones of the body erode in the fields of crops
that no other souls wish to toil in. hold a daguerreotype
to the sun and find yourself behind the filtered light—
hours of work that have built up & divided your family:
tables with greater food and lesser gratitude. the accent
which marked you as damned: erased from the children.
and you have to live life making religions from betrayal
because it is the only way for a promise to become true.
the mechanics & maids & fieldworkers & custodians &
bussers & operators & family names long-forgotten &
the servants of the public who are wished dead in private,
the backbones of economies— all within the memory of
parents trying to understand the internalization of borders.

where was the concerned world when we crossed Veracruz?
siblings turning upon one another, abducted, turned ransom.
where was the concerned world when we crossed Veracruz?
the 8,000 entries now altered by the removal of 100 tongues.
where was the concerned world when we crossed Veracruz?
upon the very trail of faith haunted by the galleon’s shadow.
where was the concerned world when we crossed ourselves?
grasping inherited rosaries, corroded pendants and amulets,
widowed from all solace, marching through the battlefields
with only calloused palms bent on forgetting their stigmata?
where were you? & where were the journalists? & the poets?
& the demonstrators? & the outcries of the northern angels?
the pages of 100 manuscripts torn as we march upon the ink.

I had another dream. it entered my spirit with rabid tendrils:
children burning effigies beneath autumnal crescent moons.
they professed the deconstruction of time as the fires raged,
impaling the carcasses of eagles with their shards of mirror.
esto es la vida tuya, canta con nosotros they kept repeating
in their chorus of calamity. they danced upon wild obsidian,
and the blood, becoming a basin beneath us, began to speak:
no tengas miedo. las temporadas saben cuando vas a llegar.
after its proclamation, the blood boils into vapors, a cloud—
silhouettes of the Yucatán Peninsula imprinted upon the sky.
esto es la vida tuya, canta con nosotros the effigies whisper.
esto es la vida tuya, canta con nosotros as I weep in silence,
esto es la vida tuya, canta con nosotros the children begged.

yet we can only show fear once the eyelids become closed.
twisted & burdened spines becoming rigid upon daybreak.
we’re almost there. practice your salutations to the angels.
look them in the eyes: tell them that you once knew home.
así no— trátalo otra vez. your skull is to only face el norte.
relax your shoulder blades. y ahora, steady your breathing.
por favor— trátalo otra vez! you cannot risk any mistakes!
que carajo no puedes entender! para llorando! look ahead!
you will say your name with pride, but not too much of it,
because no one shall be prouder than the angels of heaven.
they dictate the placement of souls, influencing Saint Peter
to cast the final verdict on the worth of a migrant’s journey.
slit your own tongue if you have to. ahora: trátalo otra vez.

the sonogram of a child I will never meet is in my pocket.
to where will I write my letters if the addresses vanished?
are my ancestors proud of me? am I worth remembering?
is my accent clear enough? have I hid most of the scars?
will the months be forgiving to us if we become failures?
I’m scared of meeting the angels. will they ask for papers?
do you believe that heaven & hell are both equally frigid?
I’m sorry for crying. I’m really trying to understand this.
I’m trying to understand how salvation is a selective act.
my lips are hidden beneath my collar. I have a message.
when the angels speak to me, and they ask for my name,
I will tell them that my name is far more than only one.
me llamo Managua, Tegucigalpa, voy por San Salvador,

soy las Ciudades de Panamá, Guatemala, y de México.
I am the cathedral and consciousness of the caravan
navegando la muerte para encontrar una vida mejor
where our crops will yield and our fratricides cease
y quiero que me entiendas pero tengo miedo a usted,
of the words I cannot say, of being deemed as sinful.
asesinos. cuerpos sin causas. nombres sin presencia.
this is the first of many tides to shift heaven’s shores.
esto es el camino de amarrando alas a mis promesas.
my words are the archives of my people’s sacrifices.
soy el espejo del pueblo. y si hoy es el último día—
baptize my final verses in mercury and rosewater.
hay una sonrisa entre las sombras. Pregunto a Dios:

does the kingdom of heaven only speak english?
& were your angels repurposed to laugh like coyotes?

For my grandfather

I miss you
You taught me everything
You were so wise

Sometimes I wonder
What you were like before I knew you
Were you as kind?

I know you learned
Learned from those hardships in your life
Grew your mind

Still, what you were like
When I last saw you
So filled with life

You were a legend
More than a hero in my eyes
Your heart still shines

Some suppose
Swans sing sweet songs
Before they die

give me your tired
the children are dying-
blood stains on linoleum, light-up velcro shoes,
small hands covered by soot, buried under rubble-
given a promise of refuge only God kept

your poor
twice forsaken land of freedom-
betrayed by complacency, corruption, cowardice,
democracy was packaged for profit-
sold by the few at the expense of the many

your huddled masses
tinfoil blankets redolent of yellow stars-
fences and camps to contain and erase,
remembrance vowed, abandoned in less than a century-
renewed meaning of alienation

yearning to breathe free
the exequies of life, liberty, pursuit of happiness-
repressors of independence raise their glasses
for the oppressed to fill on bruised heels-
the wicked are not the only ones who refuse to rest
imprisoned lightning

The clock ticks, a soft and steady sigh,
As fleeting moments slip and fly,
The days blur by in whispers faint,
And I feel the ache, the quiet complaint.
Each second lost, a piece of me,
Caught in the flow, where none are free,
A year has passed, so swift, so fast,
Yet still I reach for what will last.
But in the wings of time’s cruel flight,
A new dawn waits, glowing bright,
A year ahead, untold, unknown,
A canvas fresh, all mine to own.
The ache of moments fades away,
For in the promise of the day,
2025 stands bold and true,
A chance for dreams to start anew.
So, though the past may pull and plead,
And time, relentless, takes its heed,
I hold my breath for what may come,
A new year’s song, a beat, a drum.
With joy and hope, I face the sky,
Embracing change as years pass by,
For though time moves with fleeting grace,
The future waits in love’s embrace.

High of fourteen degrees today
under blue skies
and snow everywhere.
I shovel my sidewalk and imagine
the fires in California,
homes and memories crushed into ashes,
lives and dreams going up
in smoke.

Maybe the displaced can start anew
in Greenland or Nova Scotia,
or settle along the Panama Canal
in all those new condos
being planned by Trump enterprises.

It’s nothing to laugh about
but we do or else we’d cry,
and it’s not fair but it never has been
and never will be.

So I plow my driveway and worry.
I visit my mother who’s in assisted living
after breaking her femur at ninety and worry.
I email my chili recipe to my granddaughter,
transfer money to pay for a cruise,
call the pharmacy to stop a prescription
and feel this sense of doubt
and worry behind everything I say and do.

What will happen because of the new tariffs?
Should I cash in my stock options and buy gold?
How will AI affect the future?
Why is the risk for developing dementia after 55
at 42 percent for Americans?

And how the hell am I going to live
through the next four years?

All I see for miles
are torn down stores and houses rotting
the pavement is full of cracks
rocks consumed to help others
deny distract and disconnect
from our current reality

Oh how deceitful and nefarious
some humans can be from denying
their own species the ability
to breathe in fresh air
and see sights other than gray
to roam freely with our god given limbs
and to sleep without worrying
If its fireworks we hear today

My views have been constant
my views are mundane
its like all year long all I see
are empty branches and decay
winter thats never ending cold and deadly
wishing and wanting for it to just fade

I’m no better than others
in fact were the same
cause I too disconnect
from death around by letting
the flashes of my own devices
consume me

When your used to rainy days
you forget how warm the sun is
and when you only see clouds of despair
your mind becomes plagued by them

The heart only knows what the eyes see
I thought this was my destiny
yet when my eyes grow weary
my dreams show me the contrary
the insides and outs
of my surroundings and within
the hope that was declining starts to grow again

I yearn for better views, i’m sick of gray
want white red orange and all those yellow rays
from the sun onto my skin rolling like waves
want a house full of inspiration
no space for whines over wasted time
Want to open my kitchen window and see
gardens of green blue and violet glaze
marvelously coated on the clay pots
I’ve made that’ve became home to the animal kingdom strays

I want my own Soulmate
the possibility looks dim
crevices in my cranium spew
it’ll only happen if Im sickly thin
as much as I want new views
I yearn for repose
within the dreams of my dreams
he always lingers
never see his face but I need not wonder
I know it’s him I’m destined towards

Observers try to convince me while awake
that good things are reserved for those born lucky and great
but those same people haven’t seen
how his ravishing limbs wrap around me
you can excuse it as merely a dream
but by the one in whose hand is my soul
those are the only dreams that I’ve espied
and awoken from feeling so warmly

Take this as is
or take this as a future look
of different views that will, not if
await you in places other than books or nooks of your imagination

If your views are also
constantly constant
and mundanely mundane
never lose hope for the future you crave
let that hunger continue to scream
hold onto to that ambition
use it as feed to fuel that genial ignition

Hope is a need
it’ll never lead you astray
forever grateful to the almighty who softened my heart enough
to be able to feel this way