The first constraint poems

SEAN NEWELL

Sit with me now if you happen to have the patience

And we can talk about some issues as touchy as illegal immigration

They put up walls, monitor our call, and give orders to police station

In order to confine and isolate the foreigners that enjoy our domestic occupations

But please don’t get it twisted, for these actions are in your best interest

Because now everyone from Stan and Ted to Nancy and May

Will resume the jobs of Guillermo, Eva, Gloria and Jose

It is indeed in this nation in which we will start to invest

I mean, we all know that American’s are superior in every fashion

Which is why all the greatest soccer players reside in Manhattan

Unfortunately this is far from true, and we need others to rake cash in

So why must the government reprimand and bash them?

Our morals and hearts must be in the same place if we are to tackle is obstacle

Or simply combine with Canada and Mexico and become unstoppable

This burdensome task is left to us, and to us alone

And maybe one day we will learn to let others call this place home

RYAN MENDOZA

Poverty

A house with everything one needs: toilet, bed, television, refrigerator,

Stove, water, clothes, food, ceiling, yard, and a happy family that

lives inside.

An image that resounds through the mind with a ring of perfection, of

fulfillment worldwide.

But the toilet is a hole in the ground, without lights, and

cockroaches crawling out through the night.

The bed is a lumpy mattress with sharp springs sticking out, thrown on

the ground.

The refrigerator is as small as college dorm’s, but expected to hold a

whole family’s worth of nutrition.

The stove has not been cleaned in weeks, covered in dust and clearly

in horrible condition.

The water comes from the hose outside, and us Americans are warned

drinking it could be fatal.

The clothes are from a lesser Salvation Army, ripped and dirtied, hand

washed twice a week.

The food is cheap beans and 10 cent tortillas: we thank them for their

delicious hospitality.

The ceiling is covered in spiders and hornet nests, fear causes sleep

deprivation for days.

The yard is overrun with livestock, garbage, free growing grass like a

jungle, poison ivy everywhere.

Yet the family had smiles on their faces and gave us everything they

could while we were there.

Their son never stopped smiling, emitting the eternal joy I strive for everyday.

The bright surface of the sun sending down only parts of its mysterious ways

To a lowly earth, never able to touch, smell, taste, hear, or even

stare at its beauty.

The key to Pandora’s box found at the end of the deepest trails, in

the most unlikely destination

But the most obvious when discovered, right under our noses the entire journey.

As clearly as possible it screams its message and for a moment I am

filled with a warm liquid,

But then I leave, board the plane and once again find myself in the

shithole despair called the greatest country in the world.

NNEKA UMEH

Stone Tears

The dream of a dying soul, confined, a trembling heart

She feels no fear, the answer inevitably appears, no one understands, no one cares

Embedded in her flowers, pain she can no longer bear

A means of escape that shuts the door, she longs to be free

Can’t you see the hurt, don’t you care? An unimaginable feeling amid

Lost, confused, and drained. She chooses death over endless pain

nights where constant criticism and anger remain, she is surrounded with

just silence, painful silence, and the cold discomfort

Of her masochistic fear, emotion too much to bare,

as mortal life mirages now appear, intangible as they are

No sign of hope, a dream of hidden death never seems too far

Insecurity takes over, the great surges of her feelings delay

Her emotions pick up power and seed, more and more by the day

Colors blur and outlines fade, eyes blinded by depression.

A blank expression, cold mist air , surrounded isolation

the mind seems to wander in its own world, a world where

time stops and nothing seems to change. Tears as hard as stone,

the blade embraces her arm. A slow cut, red covers her arm,

soon her leg, the white tile floor. Blood runs consistently,

she takes one more breath, did she say good-bye? Freedom, yes freedom.

Nikki Whitman

Fate

Life itself is a precious gift, granting us the opportunity to experience the world
However, how can we determine when a life actually begins?

Love runs rampant and new lives are conceived everyday our world spins
However, while some seek and cherish the product of a child,
Others fear with the creation of a new life, their own will come to an end.
But who do we deem credible to verify whose life is worth more?

Unexpected lives in today’s society are something many abhor
But not because they despise new life, or are jealous of a fresh beginning
But out of insecurities and fear that they are unprepared to support a new life
Hell many people have trouble juggling their own lives, let alone governing someone else’s
Therefore it is only a natural reaction to feel compelled to end the life before it begins
However, who gives people the right to sacrifice an innocent life to save their own?

This supposed right has provided great controversy in our society, as the polls and rallies have shown.
The crucial determinant is whether or not it would be better for the child to end their life
To be raised in some harsh environments, or by foolish adolescents, may indeed be harmful
However, many argue while adoption is an option cruel environments are no excuse
That is all they need to justify their position, as long as there are alternatives, abortion is not an option
The creation of a life, no matter how small, deserves the chance to grow into something more
Both sides hold promising arguments for their sides of the story
Ultimately, the destiny of every unborn child lies at the digression of fate.

Catherine Stobie

Illegal Immigration:

Across the border of the great red white and blue lines do those come

With their hopes, aspirations, and dreams of the warm American sun.

Some come by air, by boat, and across the pond they run

To enjoy the infinite possibilities that will lie within

To these folk, anything upon this God-given world will do

A house of shingles, even cards, and nothing of which needs to be new.

Working long arduous days for little more than a thank you,

But that is fine, common, normal, even expected

Thought to come from pollution, corruption, anger, and unimaginable violence

So this new place of hope is better…or so we would like to think

But it is time to stop and think about who is this ‘they’

And who is this ‘we’ that is spoken of in what ‘we’ do and say

So times were harder over across the bush, pond, and bay

No excuses for lack of books, education, and most all respect

We are red, white, and blue in unity, contrasting colors on the spectrum

Red for those places scorched dry from the light particles of the sun

White for those places dusted by the frozen incandescent snow

And blue for where the sea surrounds the moist warm air, where the palm trees grow

All brought to this one place, united into a lightened lavender

Among the garden, the desert, the plains that we call America

MATTTHEW VALERIOTE

There's a no-ganja zone across all these United States.

Public enemy number one lies not in the street but in the grass.

If I may be blunt, some serious change has to come to pass.

So listen close, bud, 'cos it's important you hear this if you value your rights.

If you don't speak up now, they're gonna bowl right over your pins.

And have fun explaining that one to your girlfriend - Mary Jane.

One moment you're listening to Doobie Brothers -- the next you're lying in pain

In cuffs 'cos today's the day they start to weed out the "real criminals."

That's right - you, dope - not the burglars and arsonists running rampant.

They know you're not good stuff, and it's definitely you who's corrupting our youth.

They saw you barreling down the street - caution to the wind - with that bazooka.

All the while, passing by in the bay on his boat, the reefer shakes his head at you.

While the farmer next to his hay looks on in disappointment.

Now MJ's bailed you out of the joint, and you're both out of cash.

You'll be lucky this week if you can afford to eat more than just hash.

While the moral guardians have dinners covered in gold leaf after cleaning up the trash.

Now you're at the mercy of old fatty, if I may be so brash.

Because those who decide right and wrong have found you, Black Bart;

They know you've got a cold, hard jive stick instead of a heart.

They got all the way to the root - because you let them start.

SAM HATAMIAN

POLLUTION

The churning monster spews ghastly vapors into the air
Weaving in and out of molecules placing them in chokeholds

Ash and soot cover the young factory worker like decaying mold
Life as we know it is tarnished by the taint of toxic waste, so dark, so cold
The spew of death, the evils of hell, compacted into such material
That we take in, necessary for respiratory goodness, for sanity

But what sanity do we experience when we live in an asylum of vanity?
Of filth and monsters, cluttering our minds, our way of being
So that those who live above the clouds of soot can drive a Benz
while the factory worker takes the bus with dying friends
The empty pipe emits green ooze into the pristine lake
Like that of an alcoholic vomiting its muck, curing itself

Glowing material lighting the ocean with slow and steady stealth
Until my child swims freely, innocent with no care in the world
Finally cancer strikes at young age, depriving him of birth
The world is so vast, we cannot see the end of oceans
We assume that removing our pollutants to distant lands enables disappearance
As if God's invisible hand made them vanish from the face of the earth
But in essence we are vanishing, as Gods hand punishes us for all we are worth