We stand in the park,
as the clouds overhead grow dark.
The breeze blows the Bosphorus
inside my mouth, my breath, my soul.
You walk to me, your gaze,
Azure, unsheathes a sipahi’s sword—
It shrieks, its tip
piercing my heart.
Our eyes glance earthward—
then they spring again. Your eyes inspirit into oases,
springs of panic, passion, pining.
Your sun-blessed hair says you’re Lucifer or Raphael,
which I cannot tell.
A luscious tulip you hold to your heart
against a shirt of night… or might?
I cannot tell.
The shahada streams across the sky,
and words embark from your lips.
Your hand offers me that flame of luminosity—
The emissary of a fine effendi.
My yearning listens
to this moment. We shroud it secretly.
Elements of this entry's formatting could not be reproduced on UW Tacoma's content platform. To see this poem in its intended format, view the PDF on the digital commons, or pick up a print copy for free.
Here I stand on this copper cliff,
cursèd by Cupid.
My friend the ocean waves at me,
but not for much longer.
My love touches the seabed,
it is the essence of my existence.
You stand blind as Tiresias.
The channel
divides us, the current
compliments your blue marble eyes.
I look down and smile. The billowing of
the waves belies a peace—
one of silence, one of eyes closing.
The brazen bull roasting my heart shall soon cool.
I’ve given you all you asked—
A compass, a castle, a confidante.
You’d rather deny than discover.
You observe
like a scout searching for a ship.
You’re the Colossus of hushed breath, of eyes expanding.
Step by step, the dust rolls away under my feet.
The clouds above cover the sun,
sunshine still seeping through.
The breeze holds my face. I’d rather it be you.
This odyssey led us here,
our song never to be heard.
It must end.
Your hands open,
Rainfall gathers inside your eyes.
Your gift awakens. You see the shadows shrouding my soul.
My gaze pierces your soul one last time.
I raise my arms. Aeolus launches me forward,
the mist kisses me like you once did.
My feet slip, forgetting earth forever.
Your hands clench,
silence dissolves your shouts;
the breeze tussles your hair. Tears stream down your cheek.
My shade returns to the precipice.
This dancer dies into the dance.
I take a bow, and fade into the atmosphere.
I am free. My love has stopped beating.
i say i don’t need you
i say you mean nothing
i say everything
but i say nothing
you hear what i say
but you don’t understand what i mean
i love you
i need you
you mean everything
my words laced with venom
but you don’t understand
you’re my antidote
i say all the words on my mind
but i never speak with my heart
because if i say the truth
will you stay
or will you slither away
it’s easier to bite
than to be bitten.
oh baby,
the love poem goes on,
and on
and on,
but it’s always so cliche
it’s always that roses are red
and that violets are blue.
but why can’t it be
that with your existence,
the world spins on its axis,
and stars shine to your eyes,
and the sun heats up to you?
why can’t it be that the seas wave to you,
and the volcanoes skip a beat hearing you,
and the clouds burst feeling you?
i thought love poems,
were supposed to capture
the feeling of loving you,
but i don’t know if any poem
could say the right words.
loving you,
ignites the deep fires within,
it makes the angels sing,
and the birds chirp,
loving you…
it’s unexplainable
you call it paradise
where the sun stays shining,
the birds stay humming,
and the waves keep coming
you feel the hot sand,
the cool waves,
and the rays of the sun
it all seems right,
just until the sunsets
and then you remember
the darkness comes,
the sharks prey,
and the waves crash
you feel the coldness eventually,
surrounded by the harsh waves
and the quiet howls of the wind
it looks like paradise,
until you stay too long,
and then you’re reminded,
that even the sun has to set
but in
the darkness,
the coldness,
the quietness,
it all remains
that’s the beauty of nature,
the darkness comes,
but the light shines.
in the anxiety,
somewhere lies hope.
i talk
my words come out my throat,
stinging me as each one comes out,
laced with pure venom
i say i hate you
Sun kissed mocha girl who’s more of a wild moon child,
who prefers to dance staring into the evergreen eyes of the PNW.
Lost in a sea of Caucasians, who say she’s lost.
“An invasive desert flower growing in a garden far from home”
they say softly with warm smiles as if I’m a child.
Am I lost?
Or are you just so caught up in your crossed quest of holiness?
Do I evoke your ghostliness because I am back to what used to be ours?
Do I haunt you?
Afraid history will repeat itself?
Or is it because you're just a racist prick who lives in privilege’s coziness?
Doesn’t matter to me, y’all can eat shit-
and choke on it like I have on your bullshit since the moment I was born here.
And don’t tell me to cool it!
I’ve been done with it; I won’t permit this anymore!
“You’re Mexican so you must be an immigrant!”;
just because I’m Mexican doesn’t mean I crusaded through the desert,
like your ancestors should understand, no?
Like the flower in the concrete that the system tried to prevent,
I was planted here years before like many before me and after me.
And bloomed like Gregorio Cortez and Selena-
como la flor that grew from the concrete.
Mirror mirror on the wall,
if one doll doesn’t look the same as the others in the package,
does it mean it came from somewhere else to attend the ball?
No, they were sold in the same mall and made in the same place as the others.
Mirror mirror on the wall,
Then why does the devil’s nightfall drown my mind?
Because stereotypes strike your blood like lightning-
boiling it with rage because you’re trapped in a prism of racism.
Sun model girl, who is hija de luna,
who had la Fortuna’s dawn fall upon this world’s chess board.
Sword of justice that cuts down a path to the truth through my mouth.
This was the land that choose to plant and water the seed so it could bloom,
like the roses in the massive garden in the East, this rose was also planted there.
Just because the rose looks different doesn’t mean it comes from somewhere else,
it grew in the same place as the others.
Brothers and sisters by law of the land.
Like it or not you share the same birth place and nationality as me.
We must learn how to demolish stereotypes in order to abolish this divide.
I am from dirt roads and large loads of wood.
Idlewild beach in my free time, drinking tea with pinches of lemon and lime.
Growing fruits and vegetables in the family garden, before it’s too late,
And we disregard them.
I am from,
Fried chicken and collard greens,
A feast like never before.
Homemade mac & cheese and green beans,
As they sprint right through the door.
Thanksgiving, a time when we gathered around.
Eating, and speaking new accomplishments,
Oh so proud.
I am from family gatherings like those on Black Friday,
Chilling, swimming, and talking by the bay.
The struggle is real and that’s no joke,
Going through things, before I awoke.
Found out I had a sister on the way,
But 5 months later, I prayed everything would be okay.
But she was gone, so far along.
She was a bundle of joy,
Played with my emotions, like a toy.
I am from traveling place to place,
Learning how hard it is to be my race.
Dealing with life’s difficult pace,
Memories I have, that won’t dissipate.
When I first started out, I was strong and tall.
Stood straight with wax all around.
But then one day someone lit me,
And they let me burn all day.
Giving off that scent that makes them think of home, gives them comfort.
As I burn, I am no longer strong and tall,
I have gotten shorter and weaker.
I begin to cry because my strength is gone.
I am burnt out now.
They have let me burn out.
The flickering of my light is gone,
Because there is nothing left of me.
But will they notice?
Will they know they have burnt me out?
They won't know until their happy scent goes away.
Then they will come back and realize I am no longer strong and tall.
They used me up.
And now I am gone.
I start off small like a penny peanut.
And as I grow, people have amazement,
Looking at my green beauty.
I am home to chattering birds,
Soaring squirrels, and detective insects.
The birds bring bickering chants.
The soaring squirrels bring excitement.
The detective insects bring new adventures.
This brings me much joy to know I am needed.
But then one day it happens,
I watch it all disappear.
Into autumn gold that float down,
To the cold grown below.
Once those fall I have nothing at all.
The birds chant in warmer places.
The squirrels hide from sharp cold winds.
The insects find warmer crevices for adventure.
I feel empty, useless, the joy I had is gone.
The people with amazed stares stay away from me now,
In fear of my silent destruction I don't mean to cause.
This is my first memory of this happening,
And I don't enjoy this emptiness.
So I just think back to the better days,
And wait for my green beauty
To return back to me.
My grandma’s hands
My grandma’s hands
My grandma’s hands were strong and bumpy
Smooth and rigid
I could pull her skin up and watch it slowly shift and melt back into place
Mesmerized by them
I sat on her lap and played with her hands
Held her hands
Watched her hands
Silently observed her hands
I studied the cracks, the cuts, bruises
Soft faded prints with warrior bones beneath
She smiled and laughed and sighed
She said I always wanted to play the piano
But now my hands are too big, too bumpy, too slow
But you, you
Look at your hands!
Your hands are long and lean and beautiful
You could play the piano with your hands
My grandma’s hands
My grandma’s hands
My grandma’s hands rocked 11, almost 12 babies to sleep
Worked at the ferry dock and much more
My grandma’s hands picked countless amounts of fruit in the orchards
Worked on perfecting her fry bread recipe
My grandma’s hands comforted her little sisters’ tears, fears, and terror
Wiped their faces, hugged them, calmed them
Helped them survive when they were ripped away from their parents, their home
My grandma’s hands
Her hands held purple rivers running through them
I could push them and roll them and see them return to their natural path
Shadows of faded brown, the sun stained her
Scars of work, scars of love, scars
A ring of forgiveness in her love story
My grandma’s hands baked, raked, dug roots, worked in the soil of her garden
My grandma’s hands wrote me letters and cards with eloquent and impeccable cursive
My grandma’s hands were so strong, one of them, one, could split an apple in half
Grandma, I like your hands
Your hands are beautiful
Your hands are strong
And Grandma,
I have your hands
My hands are your hands
My grandma’s hands
