Poems

Airport Poems – Elizabeth Hemp

at the bottom of the escalator in terminal 3

I’m sorry
He says
And I hear
Don’t go.

I carefully study the dust
The shadows
The darkness
The hope in the future
Anything except
His eyes.

He takes my hands
Warms my fingers
Kisses me with the gift of release
Brushes my soul with a last
Moment of sunshine
And lets me go.

I’m sorry
I say
But I mean
Goodbye.

Traveler’s Deja Vu

My shoes have walked these carpets before,
On a different continent but
It was the same.
It is always the same.

Quiet sunset, orange glare reflecting
Off the windows but the
Chaos never ends and
It is an odd contrast, calm and frantic
Side by side here.

We are sprawled out, headphone cords
Held in cool palms, hands that know this routine.
The man next to us is tired, army green and brown.
The woman across the walkway is saying goodbye,
Teary eyes and too many hugs…
Maybe it is her first time – she is young.
I can’t remember my first time.

The little ants in neon vests outside are scurrying
And inside every type of shoe imaginable walks past
But it all feels familiar, deja vu from a thousand
Past experiences – my passport might not agree
But I am an International; airports will always
Feel like home.

Read more TCK poems – this one includes a response from Elizabeth Hemp

By CulTuremiKs, ago

Do Not Pity – TCK Poem

Do Not Pity
by Katrina P. Zemke

Do not pity me
And moan over how far away I am.
I already know.
I’m already aware.
And your sympathy sounds like nothing
But words.

Do not claim to understand
That you know what I’m going through
Because you left your child
At a camp five hundred miles away
For a whole summer.

Do not tell me how you cried
The day you left your child
At college in another state.
My parents left me
And flew away
A thousand
Five thousand
Ten thousand
Miles.

I thank you for your prayers.
I thank you for your concern.
But understand:
You cannot know;
You do not know;
Until you have truly lived
This life.

I don’t cry tears.
I don’t mourn all day.
I came to terms
With the reality of my life
Many years ago;
And I am not heartless
Because of that.

Don’t ask me when I will see
My parents again.
If I asked you that question,
Would you really be able to answer?
Maybe I can answer,
But even if I can’t,
Do not respond,
“Oh, that must be so hard.”

This is my life.
This is all I know.
So next time you see me
And ask about my family:
Do not think I am heartless.
Do not claim to understand.
Do not pity.

By CulTuremiKs, ago

But I Did Anyway – Mock Funeral

Mock Funeral

There was no funeral.
No flowers.
No ceremony.
No one had died.
No weeping or wailing.
Just in my heart.
I can’t…
But I did anyway,
and nobody knew I couldn’t.
I don’t want to…
But nobody else said they didn’t.

So I put down my panic
and picked up my luggage
and got on the plane.

There was no funeral.

By Alex Graham James

A Response

“I can’t. But I did anyway, and nobody knew I couldn’t.”
Isn’t that the summary of every goodbye I have lived through? How many times have I done the impossible, entered into the unimaginable simply because I must? The human spirit is resilient, determined to live, capable of withstanding much. All the same, every time I do something I can’t, I lose myself. Piece by piece I’m losing myself, trails of bloody footprints in my wake.

No words or imagery could ever be enough to capture it, and I’ve spent my whole life searching for how to explain something that is inexplicable. The sacrifice of innocence, the absolute helplessness of a child, the depth of the ache bound up inside my knowledge. Too much knowledge, too much logic, and I cut myself off from the relief of grief, thinking I hadn’t earned it. Wasn’t good enough for it. Isn’t everyone good enough for grief?

By Elizabeth Hemp

By CulTuremiKs, ago

What Keeps You Here?

a strawberry

What keeps you here
I ask my heart
Stranger in a strange land, so white, so clean

These fields in June, she laughs
Your red-stained fingers
A taste of heaven beneath each leaf
And this sky expansive and clear

I wonder why, my heart, you hold
Steady on small delights after
Months of sifting memories
Under grey skies
Testing each day as we
Walk out into this not-all-bad
But still foreign place

I am young, says she –
A child who races, explores,
Finds beauty even here
And welcomes the new, trusting
Inviting sweet existence even
Within this space of not belonging

I hold out for
Simple Wonders;
Encounters with the Presence

Crouched amongst the rows I ponder this
Sifting through the too-soon and the already-past
I find it.
The ripest, the reddest berry
Welcomes me into the perfect balance
Proves to me that
Yes, child, even here, even you,
Have abundant peace.
The taste and texture of now.

By Bree Becker, a third culture kid from Rwanda and Kenya who now lives in Oregon, USA.

By CulTuremiKs, ago

You’re Invited, You Know

You’re Invited, You Know

Look, look at the rain pounding
into the dust outside, doesn’t it
sound like home? Like tin roofs
and shouting and laughter?

You would remember these
things, if you were here, and so
I say them to the empty space all around
me, to the memory of your presence.

We were made of different stuff, you and I.
I am stardust, never content with small and you
are the oak trees strong and steady, so
you know, I’ll visit you again someday
but I won’t stay. Will you forgive me for that?

Life is supposed to be built of love
but you and I have made it out of
minutes in the middle of years, out
of snapshot memories faded at the edges.

Look, look at this place and
how empty it is without you.
The world is big but our hearts are small
and you’re invited, you know. To come.

By Ghanaperu

Other poems by Ghanaperu
To My New Friends
Eve of Bittersweet

By CulTuremiKs, ago

Somewhere Closer To Near – Home

Somewhere closer to near but far,

I come from new names of old lands,
Oceans, islands, continents,
Snow and sand.

Between the blood spilled
for selfish reasons,
the crucifixion of sheep
as camouflage for our fears;
Home…

The place I come from …

Sometimes its people disappear
with the wind,
Its shape shifts from blinks to tears
And whenever it does so
it turns me into a foreign,
again.

That’s how I get lost;
how I get home;
simply to leave
again.

I come from seashells,
different smells,
Tastes, colors,
Fetishes in the spotlight,
the holy of brothels!


Where I come from…
I sleep naked,
covered by 3 blankets,
waking up sweaty.
I wear boots at the beach,
Slippers at parties
and I’m barefoot in the streets.
Never ugly, nor pretty,
the eccentric, the exotic
Neither usual, nor repugnant,
yet intriguing, deceiving.


The place I come from
is a loop, a pattern in space,
not very different from here,
quite similar actually!
It feels good to be back
for the first time;
Again.

By Caio Leão 

By CulTuremiKs, ago

Water Towers, Too – Adrian Patenaude

i knew i’d miss mangos
pale yellow, smooth, size
of two fists combined
peeled, sliced
and juicy sweet

i was right
but surprised
by warm peaches
firm and sun-yellow
picked fresh,
washed clean
in summer camp sinks
juicy sweet
and running down my chin

i knew i’d miss lilawadee
fragrant, perfect white
even when scattered
below branches
of waxy leaves

i was right
but i met magnolia
fragrant, perfect white
big blossoms
to get lost in
and breathe myself dizzy

i don’t remember, but mom does
a little girl crying
water tower!
water tower!
each time we passed one

that girl is a stranger, lost
in time to some parallel stream
the magic of water towers
is now lost on me
but West Texas sunsets
enchant, even that silhouette

i was right to miss Thailand –
rhinoceros beetles, rambutan,
raindrops clamoring on tin roofs –
and i still do
but i have been touched
by Texas, too

By Adrian Patenaude

Poet’s website

By CulTuremiKs, ago