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At each and every checkpoint the refugee is asked: are you human?
The refugee is sure it’s still human but worries that overnight,
while it slept, there may have been a change in classification.
(Shire, Warsan. Bless the Daughter Raised by a Voice in Her Head)
Please take a few moments to look at "Tell Them We Are Human Beings..."
A page of photographs, statistics, and poetry by Warsan Shire, each, in its own way,
offering a snapshot of the global refugee crisis
And let me know what you think of my work!
(just click on the CONTACT page on the navigation sidebar)
About the Author
David Asia lives with his family on a 5 acre farm outside of Twisp in North Central Washington. He is a retired mental health/substance abuse counselor and administrator whose work has appeared in a variety of publications both on line and in print, including the New English Review, War Crimes Times, Methow Grist, Mirror Northwest, Methow Valley News, Poetica Magazine, the Wenatchee World, and in a digital book of poetry, "Conjugating The Verb To Be: The Poetry Of Time And Place"
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An Audio File:
The Practical and Theoretical Implications of Playing Poker with God
I can see you! I can see everything!
Spring Unsprung
Someone took the spring this spring
And sprung it somewheres else,
Cause I’m looking out
And it sure don’t feel
Like what’s there
Is ever going to melt.
March is marching on
And April’s on the rise
But it was twelve degrees
At 6am
With a breeze
That burned my eyes.
I still wrap myself in layers
When I do the morning chores
And our chickens hardly leave the roost
To venture much outdoors.
When it thawed a bit
The girls had hope
And started layin eggs
But now I’m sure
Their ovipositors r froze
Between their legs.
This winter just goes on and on –
Snow is falling as I write –
I can’t even tell the time of day
In this constant dull, gray light.
But there’s one thought
That makes me smile
While I’m athawin out my feet:
Come August,
When the hills turn brown,
I’ll be bitchin’ bout the heat…
Seeds Of Doubt
It’s hard for me to believe that God
Could come up with the cephalopod.
Each of eight arms
Containing a brain
And one more
So the head
Can stay in the game.
The creature can stretch
To the size of a car,
Or squeeze to fit
In a gallon jar.
And you wonder what thoughts
Lay behind that eye
(I expect it to wink
As it sails on by).
It can look like a rock
Or a weed
Or a cup –
There’s just no way God
Could have thought that up.
Old Man's Wish
It is this old man’s wish
That when I die,
I’m reborn among the corvidae.
Dogs worry so, about their place,
And cats?
Too self absorbed
For grace.
Beetles and
Boobies get a vote,
But they tend to live
Too much by rote.
All these years in human guise,
Pondering my own demise,
I’ve considered species,
Small and great
To join when I reincarnate.
I finally know, now,
When I go,
I should like to come back as a crow.