I come from a musical place
Where they shoot me for my song
And my brother has been tortured
By my brother in my land.
I come from a beautiful place
Where they hate my shade of skin
They don't like the way I pray
And they ban free poetry.
They sent me a salwar kameez
&nb sp; peacock-blue,
& nbsp; and another
glistening like an orange split open,
embossed slippers, gold and black
&nbs p; points curling.
Candy-striped glass bangles
&n bsp; snapped, drew blood.
Like at school, fashions changed
&n bsp; in Pakistan -
MYSELF and mine gymnastic ever,
To stand the cold or heat--to take good aim with a gun--to sail a
boat--to manage horses--to beget superb children,
To speak readily and clearly--to feel at home among common people,
And to hold our own in terrible positions, on land and sea.
Not for an embroiderer;
(There will always be plenty of embroiderers--I welcome them also;)
But for the fibre of things, and for inherent men and women.
When all the women in the transport
had their heads shaved
four workmen with brooms made of birch twigs
and gathered up the hair
Behind clean glass
the stiff hair lies
of those suffocated in gas chambers
there are pins and side combs
I was hoping to be happy by seventeen.
School was a sharp check mark in the roll book,
An obnoxious tuba playing at noon because our team
Was going to win at night. The teachers were
Too close to dying to understand. The hallways
Stank of poor grades and unwashed hair. Thus,
A friend and I sat watching the water on Saturday,
Neither of us talking much, just warming ourselves
By hurling large rocks at the dusty ground
And feeling awful because San Francisco was a postcard
“A” is forda alligator...
Who lives in da lagoon...
“B” is forda beignets...
Dat ya eat wit yo fingers...
Not some silver spoon...
“C” is forda crawfish...
Dat ya eat wit ya fingers, yea...
“D” is forda doberge cake...
Take an extra piece home...
What are they doing to our babies
Looking on the news and see that they been dying lately,
What is going on this world its getting kinda crazy
Drop them off at school to tell them see you later, maybe
They go to school to learn and have fun
Shouldn’t have to worry about a killer with a gun
Preaching to them in the room like a nun
Praying to God that they never have to run
sitting on a chair
waiting for love to return
when the school bells ring
the birds are singing
but purple teddy is blue
the young days of spring
the clock keeps ticking
as saffron day grows older
The words gamboled away from the worksheet,
From the desk it evanesced, made retreat,
Lecture rambled on, the desk left the floor,
My cell now bereft, immurement no more,
Inhuman eyes; I ran tossed from demise,
The box was the path, they proselytized,
To stray from it fatal, lost in the try,
I won’t fit your labels, cross from the lies,
My teacher was not so good as yours seems to be,
His name was Goodwill and he taught us Chemistry.
He always wanted us to answer difficult questions,
And beat you strong if you cannot balance equations.
If you are late in class he'd twist and twist your ear
Until it falls to the ground and you'll pick it there.
He was so strong when he held you you'd wet your pants...
(He had gigantic hands I once gave him a compliment)
But a person can survive twenty four strokes I was the experiment,
Don't ever disturb Goodwill and give him a comment!