Tell the Immigrants We’re Sorry, a poem

 

They travelled

Hundreds of miles

To get here

Their world’s belongings

Strung across their backs

Sometimes they’d carry

A child

Or someone too weak –

The dust would barely

Settle beneath their feat

And they would carry on.

They carried hope

With every step

No matter how hard

The path may have seemed

They cried

They struggled

But they kept moving.

It is a tale

As old as time itself,

People seeking

A better way

A path lain with promise

Sanctuary

Freedom

And a chance to earn

What their hands sow.

No one

Truly understands their struggle

For many have never

Stepped in their shoes

Many, fear not

The soldiers on their beat

Nor an intolerant eye

the pangs of hunger

or an uninhabitable home.

While they lose their identity

Slink in the shadows

And are reduced to dusk

Their dreams,

A forgotten folly

But truth of the matter

Stings

Way beyond their wounds.

They are displaced

They are the unacknowledged whisper

Good enough to hire

for a penny

But not good enough

To hire for a dime

And we question

Their sacrifice,

Their loyalty,

And we question

Their worth

While we sit on

Tufted couches

Built on the blood and tears

Of those we have conquered

Those we have yet to acknowledge

And send them tearfully home

For they are

The unwanted stench

Of need and longing

Our ancestors once knew

But we have forgotten.

 

© Sumyanna 2017

 

Photo courtesy of Pixabay.com

Waking Up Sober, a poem

 

Mom was the only one

who believed in me.

She’d stand by the sidelines

cheering me on at baseball games

hands waving wildly in the air

yelling “go, go, go” when I hit the ball.

In school, when I struggled

she was the one who held my hand

even if she struggled to understand,

she would make certain

I always walked away doing my best.

In high school, I was the one who changed.

I pushed her away, started following the wrong crowd.

Each night as I partied with friends

she panicked, staying up late

to make sure I was still alive,

but it was not enough for me.

I pushed her away

I followed the wrong influences

I did not understand

but always… she was there for me

no matter how far I fell

no matter how huge my mistakes,

but I was younger then

I could not hear anything

over my own yearnings

whether it be – alcohol or drugs

depending on who

I was spending my time with.

She tried – she always tried to do her best

and I could not bring myself to sober up

until it was much too late.

Back at the college dorm, I got the call

mom had been in an accident.

someone drove on the wrong side of the road

and it was much too late for her to escape it.

They say she felt no pain, it was over quick –

but nothing could cure the massive guilt I carried.

At her funeral, I was afraid to come close

I stood way in the back – I panicked.

There was so much I wanted to say

but I knew it was too late to say it.

Eventually, I made my way to her casket

and through thick tears, I promised

I would become the man

she had strived so hard to raise,

and I’ve been sober ever since.

 

© Sumyanna 2017

 

Written for The Daily Post Prompt: panicked

Image courtesy of Pixabay.com

 

 

I Remember Big Wheel Mornings

I remember
big wheel mornings
I’d wear a turtleneck with overalls
unlaced shoes
and I’d race down the street
chasing the shadows
gently cast by the sun.
I can still smell
the scent of trees
their leaves looming over
the concrete pathways.
I would hold my head back
and sing with joy
perhaps even, squeal with glee.
Not long after,
other voices would share the same tune.
Perhaps we’d all play
follow the leader
pretend someone is a crossing guard
or direct our own schoolyard parade.
There was never enough time
to exhaust our imagination
all of us racing –
bicycles
tricycles
and big wheels galore
until all the streetlights signaled
it was time to go home.
One last quick race
back to my driveway,
I’d always return home
wind playing tag
with my head full of curls
wearing overalls,
now with grass-stained knees
and a fabulous grin.

© Sumyanna 2017

 

Written for the prompt: write about your favorite vehicle

Beautiful image courtesy of Pexels.com

What Do We Write Upon the Soul of Others? a poem

Do you bother
to ask yourself
what you write upon
the soul of others,
or is it just another day
at the office
another moment quickly spent
never counted
never meant
and we walk our days,
precariously bent.
How many wasted moments
can we capture?
Do we even bother
to lament
the silent traces
we leave behind
or have we lost their scent?
Will we ever understand
the aching of our soul
the upswept desire to sing
or will we continue
to silence those voices
and refuse the purpose
in our heart’s beating.

(c) Sumyanna 2017

Until There’s Nothing Left to Breathe, a poem

 

I find it confusing

that the world does not

sigh with the passing

of light to darkness

That one rarely whispers

at the beauty of her sunsets

the luminescent dance

across the horizon at daybreak.

I want to drink in

the colors

rippling on the passing waves,

where the ocean reaches

toward its own mirage

a silent, wandering, watery desert

take me home…

I want to drink in

the rising ocean

of cloudless sky

to dip my toes

in the passing shades

of color

tripping in the wind

as night begins her silent call

in gentle song.

I want to drink in

the moonlit shadows

dancing on forgotten fields

to silently string a ray of hope

across the starry sky

I want to inhale

the essence of her beauty

every atom

every molecule

every whispered breath

held beneath my tongue

savored

sung out

arising in her glory,

but many will not notice

many will not notice

until there is nothing

left to breathe.

 

Both words & Image: © Sumyanna 2017