The Invisible Child

Children born into farm work,
half a million strong.
A farm field for a playground.
A lifestyle born of necessity,
brown children who speak Spanish.

 Victims of an old law
authored by white politicians
to keep the black man down, and tied the field
like a mule to a plow with the white man,
still at the wheel.

 The law remains, but the face
has changed,
cheap, Mexican labor from the Rio Grand
‘cause American men were in a foreign land, in W-W-2.

 Their descendants
labor with their children at their side,
workmates who work on their knees ‘til spent,
so mom can pay the rent
‘cause dad got deported
and one check, just aint enough.

 Their childhood buried in a field.
Forgotten treasure
that will never yield, pleasure.

 A child should not hunger
or yearn for cloths
‘cause they’ve outgrown the old
in spite of chemicals
that pierce their pores and stunt their growth
and give them cancer when their 40
but out of sight is out of mind,
‘cause a migrant child, is a child,
no one sees.

 A child should not do without, or labor in a field
to pay the bills.
A living wage would seal the deal and cure the ills.

 Children are entitled to uninterrupted education.
Even a migrant child dreams of being a Dr one day,
to be free at last, free at last to be a child
whose work does not begin at dawn, and ends at dusk
who began their career in a hot onion field at 12.

 They should have hopes, big dreams, and video games.

 They should not have to sacrifice their childhood
to fields that swallow up dreams, like a whale swallows’ krill
so the produce section of our favorite store stays stocked.

 Migrant children should not be the suffering servant,
that was Jesus’s job.

 They should not suffer the sentence of their parents
tethered to the field, chained to poverty,
so our pocketbooks won’t suffer.  

 To hell with making America great,
let’s just make it better.

Should The Brown Man Care?

Should The Brown Man Care?

As children of the last century,
 Latinos were quick to    integrate and assimilate,
  to learn English and ditch the accent
   to laugh at racist jokes
    and answer to Pancho, even if your name wasn’t Francisco
     we learned we were lazy and stupid.
      The beaners and taco benders.
       The gringo said so, and white was right.
        That’s when we learned to hate our parents,
         the Mexicans in the next room,
          it was the thing to do
           when you’re white, gringos prietos.
                                           So I Ask
Should the brown man care what the white man thinks?
         My father did, so he said, “Don’t speak Spanish when they’re around.”
Should the brown man care how the white man feels?
         My father did, so he said, “Be careful what you say.”
Should the brown man care if the white man fears his world has become brown?
         My father did, so he said, “Keep your distance.”
Should the brown man care if the white man’s grandchildren might be born brown, one day?
         My father only wished, so he said,
“Pa que se les quite.”

Mother Passed Too Soon

I was 20 when she passed.
too young to have gained appreciation
for the truly valuable things.

Would she have been proud of me?
I can only guess.

Did she find me interesting
or was I just another annoying adolescent?

I think of her often,
especially when my children ask what I was like as a child.
I don’t really know.
The bastion of memories that is a mother
is no longer here.

There are no witty words from her
that I can remember.

I do carry images of her in my mind,
ones of her bent over a washtub
as she washed our cloths by hand,
and how the consequences of poverty,
would take her life.
I remember saying, “Mom, when I grow up, Ill give you all the things you need.”
Boyhood promises I meant to keep.

But etched in memory, is the night she died.

“I arrive at the hospital—
I stare at the woman who bore me, fought with me, and loved me.
She is unconscious;
the white pillow that supports her head serves as contrast
for the dark black hair that cries out—
I’m still young.
A plastic mask covers the beautiful brownness that reveals her heritage.

Plastic tubes and wires make themselves part of her being;
what surrounds her are expensive mechanical symbols of a wealthy society.
There for her death, but not for her life.”

I wish she’d lived longer,
I could have delivered on the promises made.

The inspiration for this poem, is that there aren’t always Kodak moments in life and the strongest memories are often the tragic ones. My mother passed away in her 40s, but it was a life of poverty and hardships along with ten kids to contend with in a time, in America, when not everyone had access to healthcare, and if the times had been gentler, she might still be here. Mothers are the keepers of all the treasured memories a family will ever have, and when she is gone, so are the many untold stories she treasured. Everyone born has a mother, therefore every child is blessed. A stanza in this poem is taken from the non-fiction story titled “The Passing” which can be found in the non-fictions section of this site.

Whispers of Tomorrow

Life,
a dream,
a journey filled with surprises
yet, we march on like fortified soldiers,
learning and not turning from what can seem unbelievable,
or as surreal as a silent dance beneath a starry sky
where twilight paints a canvas of the night
and dreams gather the remains of daylights end.
Where life’s whispers weave the secrets of the breeze
and the whispers of tomorrow
shine bright, letting us inhabit the spaces where pathways
softly blend into gardens where time flows with gentle ease
beneath a moonlit night, and dreams bloom like fresh petals on a rose.
We bravely take the journey to the unknown, even though our footprints
may fade on shifting sands.
Still, with every step,
with fears aside,
our story expands.
So listen closely to the gentle whispers that guide us through the night,
for in the whispers of tomorrow our fate awaits,
and in life’s masterpiece,
find delight.  

The Far Side of The Moon

In the ebb and flow of restless sleep, 
I glimpse the far side of the moon, 
a timeless space
where magic can be seen
as rockets navigate tight spaces, 
while performing a celestial dance,
along endless corridors of time. 

As the dream fades,  
I wake, and wonder, 
was I truly there? 

Did I feel the tight squeeze 
of cosmic passages,  
or simply dance 
with the echoes of the night