Poetry

From the moment I entered this world, my parents knew I was a delicate rose. I was the first flower they planted on their own, and although their parents didn’t teach them to garden, they did their best to gently tend to the growing thickets of the rose bush they so thoughtfully sowed. As I grew throughout the changing season, I did my best to weather the storms that constantly plundered through the garden.

Everything we do is an offering these days even my spits a gift to the ground to the plants and i bury the end of my blunt while i’m thanking the trees like i’m blessing the dirt like this the only ritual i’ll stick to And everything we do is an offering So i’m still trying to watch what words come out my mouth and Choose which thoughts i listen to more carefully

I don’t think death is as beautiful as the poets say. Yes, there’s something pretty about dead roses and rotten fruit, mice skulls and bones, but I’m reminded of how easily skulls can split, or how easily bones could break, and in my heart, there’s another funeral and it’s raining. My head is rushing to meet the frozen ground, but I should be prepared for it. It’s nearly taking me three separate times,

Where’s your karma? I fell victim to nauseating torment Have you even had dirt under your fingernails? You dragged me halfway across the world Why have you stayed still above me? We’ve both experienced red But in such different ways Choices, choices, choices But you made the wrong ones Choices, choices, choices You penalized us with guns Choices choices choices You left us with none Choices, choices… voices Why has yours become the most rotten one

Art by Misandry this is land of the free, and home of the brave, we love you as us, and give you a grave. we’re a welcoming country, you’ll live the dream! while we work behind the curtains and screens. make America great! keep America white! we’re killing your future who have tried to fight. we give money to the rich and bombs to the poor, and disease to families and kids to wars.

Art by unknown He has come down from his ivory tower Only to climb up another in the Windy City To blow smoke up your ass, but no longer mine Another school insulted by his name and time His reign of terror in Eugene, Oregone but not forgotten, Has reached an abrupt end Wicked, green, witch of the Northwest Good riddance! I’d wish you the best, if it was off with your head

Art by Monty i have looked into the future and hate who i’ve become. words spill off their tongue like honey while cotton catches in my throat and chokes me from the inside out. i want to warn them, tell them that people will only deceive you, don’t go into that car, you won’t come out the same, something in you died that day, all the advice i wish i had taken, i don’t remember being this selfish, maybe i was mistaken?

Part of a series on latin american poems Originally Written by Elicura Chihuailaf In this earth live the stars. In this sky sings the water of imagination. Beyond the clouds that rise from these waters and these soils, our ancestors dream us. Their spirit—they say—is the full moon; silence, their beating heart.

Part of a series on latin american poems Originally Written by Subcomandante Marcos I Build yourself a rather concave sky. Paint it green or brown, earthy and beautiful colors. Give it a splash of clouds to your liking. Carefully hang a full moon in the west, let’s say about three quarters up its respective horizon. In the east slowly start rising a bright, strong sun. Get men and women together, talk to them slowly and with love, and they’ll set off on their own.

Part of a series on latin american poems Originally Written by Jurge Luis Borges Chance found them in a strange age. The planet had been parceled up into different countries, each provisioned with loyalties, beloved memories, and an undoubtedly heroic past; with rights, grievances, and peculiar mythologies; with brazen forefathers, anniversaries, demagogues, and symbols. This division, the work of cartographers, made wars auspicious. López was born in the city that stands by that immobile river; Ward, on the outskirts of the city through which walked Father Brown.

Part of a series on latin american poems Originally Written by Tracy K. Lewis You from your steering wheel and me from my books, we dialogue, and in the Guaraní language we are strained by five hundred years of rain and fallen leaves and five thousand of dust, two nighttime continents, a whole Milky Way of mute space, until from the dregs of such divergence there arose something shining like the sun of Capricorn, caustic like red earth against blue sky, and sure like the slow ascent of the earth toward the Andes to the west: an honest companion.

Part of a series on latin american poems Originally Written by Ariruma Kowii The forests are losing their vitality Their dialogues are agonizing, losing their clarity beginning to fall silent Their dreams crumble to pieces and silence begins to reign. Its song the song of the birds is faint and discordant, their hymns where will they be heard? The air arrives tattered, exhausted and delayed The rivers watch us with bitterness and desperation The entrails of the earth, nourished by poison, begin to expire The plants no longer bloom with fervor with the same enthusiasm as yesterday Tomorrow, fearful its face pallid and its body malnourished runs the risk of miscarriage Tomorrow, tomorrow is in danger tomorrow tomorrow runs the risk of never arriving tomorrow depends on us and so it is fundamental to recover our reason for being it is indispensable to care for its pregnancy to ensure that its delivery goes as it should that its child is born healthy and vigorous and that we all can lull it to sleep in our arms and christen it with the name of: Humanity!

Part of a series on latin american poems Originally Written by Hugo Jamioy Juagibioy We are not people from an alien world longing to keep living; we are not people from a land from which tomorrow they will say we left. We are not a people brought from other places, our roots are here. We are men of the trees, we are a people, we are a community born of the depths of the earth,

Part of a series on latin american poems Originally Written by Hugo Jamioy Juagibioy If there is a paradise in these Indian lands, why isn’t there one in others’ lands? A solitary paradise suffocated by a space where violence, narcotrafficking surround it and little by little destroy it. A paradise where peace once reigned among its inhabitants, where respect and tolerance were the pillars of life. A paradise that today is only

if i got sent to war- is it a fun fantasy? inserting yourself into places you don’t belong i call it - seeing the privilege of the oppressed while it’s not there am i wrong? this belief, this idea, a sense of community found in the very place, you’re not supposed to be It’s like, white saviorism yet taken to this max When it’s not about you, you make it an act And as much as you claim otherwise Doing this detracts