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I dig with bloody fingernails, Tearing at the earth’s fleshy core. I begin to unravel the wooden umbilical cord, Every celtic knot, every split end, every love affair.
Auburn tressed, ( though I'm no Shannon or Colleen) circumstances have made my home the desert... arid, though never barren I have learned of its bounty... Still,
Sometimes I can still hear the sounds of yesteryears- my family's voices, their conversations reverberate. And I recall my father's and uncle's ardent discussions of the revolution
Childless, the lineage ends with me- poet, my only legacy- mere words. And the older I've become the more my ancestry- the tracing of my roots holds a fascination
I see her in the mirror a chubby- cheeked ruddy imp she looks back at me through dark, almond- shaped eyes a gaze of intensity - a woodland nymph, a sprite, mischievous elf.
I am of those people, who love the violin whether the strings weep in a dolorous lamentation or dance with a leap of ecstasy. I am of those people, who know the taste
An anonymous Katya or Magda with a simple peasant face, yet with eyes of intensity- you look at the camera with candor... There's nothing pretentious here, no flashiness
Once upon a time (not as far as you’d believe), they would have called me a monster--- a “griffe” half-eagle, half-lion. A quarter of me here,
Dear Edward Said, What have you done? What have you done to me You have torn open my old wounds Those festering razor slashes Dozens, Accumulated over years, Every time I realized
My grandmother saw America not as a land of opportunity, but as a last resort. Taking off only when there was nothing left Leaving because a twenty-six-year-old with four children cannot provide on a dime.
I. They tell me that I am so lucky to be Korean. My friends pour their hearts out over celebrities that I cannot relate to My parents tell me of traditions that I never took part in
I am from hair bands, From hairspray and bobby pinned strands. I am from lights hanging above the stage. (Bright, blinding,
I think it's been almost four years I've gone through and counted the days, months, years in poetry I think it started with this urge of expression from the quiet girl who listened to the calling
I am from my blue blanket Climbing out of my crib To always eating without a bib From playing mermaid in the bayhtub From always saying "BaBa Bub" I am from Blue's Clues and Bernstein Bears
Es un trabajo de pura dedication, del cuerpo, para la tierra que ya no te pertenece. Y para estar mas seguro,
I am from white baking flower, From Tide and crayons I am from the cool green grass in the backyard Soaking in the morning dew. I am from the lilac bushes lining the yard,
Undress Me! My lips are thick and full; although smaller than the alluring marshmallows that sit on Asabea’s and Ama’s faces.
an icy fine powderthat made you lamentthe days spent twistedwarpedunder the false ideologythat manliness is to beconfided in yourdead father.
I have never understood history
"So what are you?" A question too familiar Years ago my mind would halt, frozen My heart would pound. "I do not know" I did not want to know. "Are you Asian?" Your ignorance now shows
Because I have imperfect Spanish, I am never Mexican enough to those who speak better than me Because I have imperfect English, I am always too Mexican for those who speak better than me
I am Ombré
"Why aren't you making straight A's?"
Worn in my face, blood, Though her soil as yet unseen, Is Italy mine?
When you look into my eyess what do you see- a strong black woman looking back at me When you look into my eyes what do you see- a warrior, a fighter, that's protecting me When you look into my eyes what do you see the- heritage of my people that
I look in the mirror And see the reflection of my papa’s heritage My Scandinavian father’s father’s father Towers over me smiling His eyes, swimming in brilliant colors, Show me his-story
Darkened in the sun Like dried up raisins Sun dried our roots Plucking our knowledge of heritage
I have no culture, No background, No heirlooms; I have no memories Of the deceased, Of the forgotten. I have some pictures, Some drawings, Some presents, That doesn't mean
What is your Ethnic makeup? Is it the redness of your lips that speak the words of roots and origin? Or is it the way your eyelashes curl, accenting your eyes to understand the accents of your homeland?
The flames above me burn, burn, And before the woman can turn, return, There’s a sharp knock at the door, the door. She puts the matches in the drawer, the drawer, And she crosses the floor.
Indiana candy cake is a recipe for diabetes one preferred by far too many participants of the Smith Family Shindig My mother and I shuck Uncle Herman’s green beans-
I was born here I came from there My body is here My soul is there My words are here My thoughts are there My feet walk here My mind runs there My bones lay here
Time has passed and I have grown Embracing what is not my own
Safe, secure Eyes that allure reserved and stays in health everyone keeps to themselves Exotic foods from all over Spanish, Italian, Indian, I’ve even eaten gopher
I am from beloved dolls, from bubble wands and crabapple trees. I am from bright colors and playful spirits,Bookshelves and stacked boxes. I am from dandelions and low-branched trees.
When I look in the mirror I see so much more than myself, I see Africa. I tug at my hair and watch it defy gravity, each strand standing tall and proud, refusing to fall like the great pyramids in Egypt.
Music is my life, it helps me sleep at night it gets me up and high unto sky, it gives me courage, when I sing in the choir at church, I burst into flames of happiness, and
I am from the shores beyond, whose travels for the Dream took so long I am from heavy New England accents and snow storms strong I am from busy streets to dirt roads From tall pines to naked sidewalks
I Am The Waves In The Ocean And The Roots Of The Trees. I am wind and thunder and rain. I am the image of my father, Kemet. I am soil and breath and soul. I am Africa personified. In the way I walk