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A Bit of Poetry for your Sunday...

With the launch of our blog, we here at Lux wanted to share some beautiful poetry from our editors for your weekend. We would love for you to share your poetry with us as well. You can submit your work for Volume 17 up to December 4th.

 

because dreaming costs money, my dear — Carolina Quintero


being monolingual is pitiful when it is not english

but her spanish is solid like honey

sounds candied with authenticity


a futile tongue tastes of metal

she swallows copper for ten years now


mouth rooftops extinguish the American dream

when her kids make her tongue the greatest comedian


mijo sticks his tongue to the roof of his mouth

trapping the sour feeling of spanish—

he watches his dented words become hail

not escaping to contaminate her sweetness


mijo and her scavenge for the American dream

dirt drinks their bloody fingernails

mijo cannot fake surprise

he lets his tears clean

the dirt under their nails they cut my tongue into thirds not from here

not from there

not from anywhere


she understands

politicians who wear discount tags on their hearts

spit aliens out with naked heels

raw with contempt


but not why her mijo

shrinks in public to be a victim of discrimination to be a disappointment of deculturation

 

A Dream in California

Amelie


I saw us--bandaged together

with an assortment of tie-dye and denim bought at the thrift store

riding in our beaten up faded teal volkswagen van

held together by the seams

carrying us towards where the ocean breaks with the sand

The ocean

dotted with surf boards carving through barrels

and the sand

sprinkled with vibrant rainbows of umbrellas

The famous billboard letters nestled in the side of a hill

Palm trees lining symmetrical parallel streets

We are lured there, like others, chasing rapid wealth or fame.


Bags packed

Light enough to sling onto one shoulder

Not much;

but we don’t need much

Instead we bring our dreams and hopes of a new tomorrow.


Stopping on the side, where a shack that leans

has a hand painted sign above, advertising shrimp tacos

I expect California Dreamin to be playing on the jukebox,

but instead, it is a melody

sang by the souls of those bearing broken dreams.


Further into the city’s heart

I catch glimpses of those who call the streets their home:

not simply begging for change lying at the bottom of stock-brokers pockets

but begging to walk the asphodel meadows.


Nearing the beach--

the air and water not only polluted with the waste of factories, but also

with the corrupt lies of those who we entrusted to lead us.


The grey clouds roll in

Engulfing the sun

The sea no longer shimmers and glitters in clear turquoise,

but instead crashes with glooming furiosity.

 

Silent City by Grace Bronder


Stoic pine trees stare into the silent city.

They are the guardians,

watching as young souls pass through its leafy walls.

What at first felt like a warm embrace

became a suffocating strangle.

The guardians had laid their trap.

This fresh start broke the heart

inside of every soul in that city.

New faces were merely blank spaces as the guardians feasted in the city.

The silent city turned souls into energy conduits.

I was sick of it.

The pines could no longer bury down

the secrets that hide within this town.


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