Soledad’s Children
Worn out second hand shirts
rough shoes past mending
Stoic faces, gazes turned aside
Lest the ones they sit next to may die
Around the fire they sit breathing prayers
they’ll make it across the border
where the Man won’t come
Not there
Night enters by the back door
not wishing to surprise
curtains cinched against
the darkness wrap the room
in quiet resignation. Light flickers
face to face, wrapped tortillas
pulled from pouches provide
some hope the Man won’t come
not here.
They scarcely know anything except “Go north”
Fleeing lands long scoured by death, flying north
to resurrection, carrying bags of hope, hard work
Dreams of safety, jobs to earn money
to send to those they left back home
Still living with the daily fear of a loud voice
Shouting to come out, of gunfire in the night,
where people just disappear.
Where the Man lives still, but
not here.
They don’t know where they’ll work but work they will
Roofing, harvesting, random jobs at Hope Depot
Sharing a studio with twenty men, to save
their earnings to send to loved ones left behind
in lands that bleed the people dry
To pay coyotes to bring them here
Because here the Man won’t come
Not here
Give us your tired, your poor, your huddled
masses. The ones who came by boat,
not on foot. Need drove them, they helped
build our nation, the land of the melting pot.
These were legal immigrants, also fleeing hardship,
persecution
Now need and fear drive people other fleeing
north to seek a better life, people different
from before, but now we fear they’ll overwhelm
us and so we build a wall. Some say we have
That right to guard our borders, and we do.
But we have become the Man
He’s here.
Two versions of one poem.Which do you like better?
Version 1
Parasol August 17, 2022
New to the dance,
You find your feet
tilting sideways,
fighting for balance,
surprised to be
a tight rope walker
above the sawdust,
not looking down,
heart in hand,
pivoting with parasol
held high.
Not quite graceless,
More daring,
It’s back to the world
of leaps and rough landings,
still balancing,
gripping the wire.
Pirouette,
launch and spin,
stick the dismount,
and bow, your parasol
held high.
Your life sweeps by
marked by leaps
and landings—
marriage, children,
middle age, old.
Yet netless you dance,
movements marked out
by dazzling ends
and beginnings,
soaring arcs over sawdust,
balancing, with a parasol
held high.
Version 2
Parasol June 16, 2022
Your first time,
Heart thundering,
You struggle to breathe.
So many yearnings.
A tight rope walker
high above the sawdust,
don’t look down,
find the beat,
pivot with parasol
held high.
Close your eyes,
say a prayer for the world
of leaps and rough landings,
Step out, breathe,
grip the wire.
Reach out, breathe,
feel the beat,
eyes open wide,
bowing with parasol
held high.
Time rushes past
marked by leaps
and landings—
marriage, children,
middle age, old.
Yet netless, you dance,
movements marked out
by breaths. Pirouette
with swift movements,
dare to leap, even fly--
laugh with parasol
held high.
