starving unity

January 26, 2011

starved for solutions
we panhandle

trying to make sense
less the acts committed against us
are constant reminders
of the poverty-stricken-hatred-increasing
mentalities they hand out on welfare lines.

the races are racing.
black v. brown
latino immigrant v. puerto rican
the cultures are clashing.
gays v. queers
muslims v. christians

divide to conquer
their spirits.
divide to deplete
their strength.

a minority remains a minority
if they believe so.

starve them.

their children watching. listening.
eyes wide open. ears pressed.
history on loop
will replay itself.

…and they will never come together.

~Sarahí Yajaira, 2011 ©


January 24, 2011

my past is a fragmented sentence.

i search for the missing pieces
in the corners of my memories,
in old pictures whose light is fainting,
in old letters whose ink is fading.

i try to find the adjectives to describe the nouns that hurt us.
i try to figure out if there are any periods left to put them at the end of things left unresolved.
instead, i stumble on a box filled with questions…

…a collection of words that make no sense.
transitive words with no direction towards clarity.
verbless lines that are silent.

my past is a fragmented sentence.

i must find
the verbs that agree.

~Sarahí Yajaira, 2011 ©


January 24, 2011

the journey to Self
is daunting.

no maps. no compass.
no directions.


so that i may then go onward.

~Sarahí Yajaira, 2011 ©


January 3, 2011

a little girl
painted colorful smiles
on tenement walls
that cracked…
right down the middle.

her laughter
ran up and down
the stairs
knocking on sad doors,
turning door knobs
into smiles.

the little girl’s
always bright eyes
filled with amber hope
lit up apartment rooms
when the power was cut.

her energy -the brightest blue
against the grayest sky.
she was hope in pigtails
and told tales,
“oh the things that [she] saw on [122nd] street.”

her imagination
had no limits–
as make belief friends
built linen fort castles
that never received eviction notices.

her smile
wrapped in grape now & laters
would sweeten her mom’s despair.

she. was. her. own.

wanted to be everything.
played doctor
and healed wounded souls.
played teacher
and taught teddy bears
how to write love in cursive.
by mid-day she was a vet
fixing clipped wings
on birds that were never meant to fly.
spent her afternoons
in an astronaut suit
because even aliens had to meet her.

and at night time…
she was a superhero.
in her police athletic league
t-shirt and a beach towel
big enough to fly her around the world.

she lived. she sang. she laughed.
played. she was curious. smiled often.

she painted
dreams and wishes
on  generic canvasses.
wrote poetry
on makeshift journals.

her imagination
climbed monkey bars,
made concerts
out of church services,
and cooked the best
homemade dirt pies
on that side of the hudson.

she. was. her. own.

~Sarahí Yajaira, 2011 ©