Nadrea Pereira Tyndall, Poems (Revised)

Instructions on Not Giving Up by Ada Limon

It’s more than the rose shaft that breaks out from the apple tree, it’s more than what I see the neighbor doing when they showcase the cherry picking they do indulging in all of the cotton candy sprouted from the flay of the sky from the springs that flow, when the trees are getting so green, that is what attracts me. Although, the rush of the colorless and sweets, the universe’s ornament and novelty, it leaves the ground stained, the leaves now appear. Tolerant, slog, grassy integument fill out above whatever occurred when winter came, as go back to the unusual concept of constant living in spite of the confusion with us, the pain, the void. Outstanding then, I’m going take it, the trees says, a full leaf unrolling like a fist opening up to a palm, I’ll take all of it.

Instructions for the Hostage by Erin Belieu

You should accept that the door is never shut, You are welcome to leave when you want, nevertheless the captive will stay, by no means. 

The damage can be controlled, you think, it’s important to the evolution of the crime: You should accept that the door is never shut.

Shortly, you’ll have to make a choice whether to cut out parts of life, then you’ll have to resolve your backbone- nevertheless the captive will stay, by no means.

Down with a straw, it’s the weak that starts all in all their price. You’re no equal, you should accept that the door is never shut. 

and make a half-life there, alert, made of, fearful your captive has forgotten you, so down the line, therefore the captive will stay, by no means.

Blink once for yes, and twice for yes- the heart has a sign for the willing, its pure sumb-line, you should accept that the door is never shut though the captive will stay, by no mens.

Crisscross by Arthur Sze

Windy from across the field with unbroken asparagus, I write with my body the elements which make up grass, water, change, mourning to be whole with spring. Sinking my teeth into watermelon, hissing black seeds unto a plate, my eyes watch after the Armenian accordion player, and before drooping some erous into his dark cap, smelling like fear and sweat. I stay hooked on the red horse,  Relámpago, attached the gate behind me ; a horned Russian branch arcs across the path below my forehead, and approaching the river, as I look back on the indication, beware pickpockets, looking for the backhoe of tracks, water diverted into a hole. Converge of the stream, I grab a lighting flash, the white-capped Truchas peaks, behind, to the east, and in between the lighting and thunder, as snow piles up on black branches, the pit I do and that I see. 

“Buen Esqueleto” By Natalie Scenters-Zapico

Life is temporary, and I told this to my mis hijas

Life is temporary, and I show them how to communicate

to protect without having to open the door, how 

to have the social security blank 

on the assessment, I told this to my mis hijas

This world may tell you that I hate you everyday

and nothing gets kept from my mis hijas 

because of the bus driver who pushes the street for fare evasion. Because I love my mis hijas, I steer them away from men who would knock their heads together to hear the chime.

Life is temporary, and the world is tragic. I don’t know anyone who’s kind, not even a kind stranger, I don’t keep anything from my mis hijas. 

It’s not my job to put them out there but to keep them safe and protected in case I get deported.

Our first landlord said with a bucket of bleach the mold would come right off. 

He shook mis hijas and said their bones were good for hard work. 

Mi’jas, can we make this place colorful? I tried to make it pop.