The Migrations Of No Ones

The Ships of States that lay out there

heaved a mighty sigh,

sending the No Ones scrambling—

some went here, some there, back and forth.

¡América!  De ti cantamos.

Are these the poor, huddled masses,

the tired, the wretched refuse, the riff-raff,

the dirty, yearning destitutes

scurrying toward our dim northern light?

Perhaps the Gadsden Purchase crossed them.

Someone called this a Promised Land—

Come get a new Anthem and a Waiver,

Officially written on Official Paper—

The irony of the so-called storied pomp?

Out here there is no Ellis Island;

no welcoming Madre de los Exiliados.

The kitchens are tidied by the riff-raff,

the wretched refuse mow the lawns,

the huddled masses harvest the fields.

Those Clever Foxies, wrapped in the flag,

call it The Invasion, with a clack of their heels

and a smirk on their lips and lies on their tongues.

The No Ones ask:

Where is your celebrated lamp?

Where is the golden door?

¿Por qué sea tan difícil?

E pluribus unum?

Not so much.

At that, the No Ones cry,

and no one says 

Amen.

Visions Beyond The Ordinary

Southeastern Arizona Borderland

Red kisses from the secret garden

opened to me flavors of time. 

I ripened in tiny ways in my quiet years.

Now I profess to live in my later wisdom.

In my rainbow eyes, birds flew into

sunrises infinitely, as exciting yellow rays, 

growing into vines, into blossoms rosy crazy, 

becoming flashes of blinding beauties.

I loved horses and symphonies;

one and the same nobility,

galloping through fields and colors of sound,

and apples fat brought stars home to play.

The high desert, a strange home 

during an opaque time, made of nothing 

and everything; willful, colorful Grace 

drenched the seasoned land of memories.