Poetry: Drifting Thoughts

Photo Credit: Scubaexplorer.net

Photo Credit: Scubaexplorer.net

Drifting Thoughts  by Andrea Barreto

I keep my heart where blue kisses gold,
near sand that sparkles like the facets of a diamond.
Sunlight beats down, reflecting off the constant waves.
These waves gleam golden for the day, then fade to an incandescent glow in the silver light of night.
With every splash against the shore, another doubt slips away.

The night brings darkness, a comforting shadow over droning worries made harsh by the day.
Bright moon and faint light soothe lingering thoughts of uncertainty and self-doubt.
In the dark my senses are heightened,
each grain of sand delightfully coarse against my skin,
and each wave lapping gently against my feet as they wash away the troubles of my soul and mend the wounds in my heart.
The sun will return as night gives way to day, but in this moment I am alone in the dark,
and, with the moon, my uneasiness wanes away.

Poetry: The Beautiful Truth

Polet Espinoza

Polet Espinoza, author

Turn the page, perfect symmetrical body

Wearing the clothes you wish you have

With their glowing colored eyes and skin.

Turn the page, expensive make-up ads,

Make your eye lashes look longer than your hair,

Make your flawed skin look flawless

And your lips look bigger than your face.

Turn the page, tips on boys,

They tell you how to act around them

And try to convince you to be something you’re not.

Turn the page, you start feeling neglected

You feel the urge to look like them,

You feel the need to buy their products to look better

And you feel imperfect because they’re in magazines and you’re not.

But no one said there was only one type of girl,

With only one type of perfect

And only one type of beautiful.

And then you notice;

Those girls aren’t real,

They were altered and created with technology;

They’re an image from someone else’s imagination.

But you are real,

Don’t let anyone alter or create your true self;

You’re not an image from someone else’s imagination.

Turn the page, you’re perfect.

Poem: Broken

by Fallon Sousa, 18

rainAs I glance out past my window
and I see these broken skies;
Oh, how they closely mirror
the teardrops in my eyes.

I have listened to such thunder
as I walked beyond the trees,
like a chained, forgotten lover
who hopes only to be freed.

As I fade into the darkness;
each soft whisper in the night,
I pray to gods of silence–
so that none shall hear my cry.

I have left you in a hurry;
you will scarcely hear me breathe
even though I have sought wonder
far beyond my own true need.

Once I’ve realized that I’m lonely,
and you take away my pain–
we can hold hands and walk slowly
through the heavens, in the rain.

Poem: The Island Of The Free

By Ashley Paramo

The first time I went to America

I had high hopes for what I would see.

And even though I enjoyed myself

I did not enjoy how Americans treated me.

“It’s because you look Puerto Rican”

My aunt said to me.

But Puerto Rico is a part of America!

How can Americans discriminate against me?

I like it more in my little island.

My cozy house by the sea.

In Puerto Rico you are not judged or hated against.

Puerto Rico is the place to be.

In America there is only you, him, her and I.

There is no such thing as “we”.

If you fall then you better get up.

For the Americans will step all over thee.

My little island isn’t perfect.

But then again, show me a place that can be.

With shootings, murders and gangs.

Not everything in my island is a warm cup of tea.

But I love my island so, and my island loves me.

So keep your America and its discrimination.

While I enjoy my humble island.

The island of the free.

Poem: Mi Barrio

Poem: Mi Barrio

by Keila Gomez, age 16

Mi barrio, a place that defines the person that I am. Mi barrio where I am from. The place that defines the way I talk, the way I walk and the way I think. My neighborhood that made me tough, the neighborhood that taught me to not let sticks or stones break my bones. Mi barrio that taught me of love and family. My place that was in my comfort zone and I was in my comfort zone with those around me. Mi barrio where I ran up and down throughout my childhood. My neighborhood that taught me of self value and humbleness. Mi barrio who knows where I come from and what I am about. Mi barrio where I learned how to be myself. My neighborhood where I grew up in. Mi barrio where I learned to be respectful and kind. Mi barrio, a place that defines the person that I am.

Poetry: My Name

My Name – Ellazahe
Ellazhe is originally spelled Alize. Ellazahe is an alcohol.
I got my name cause my dad just came home and said her name will be Ellazahe.
I have many nicknames:
Lizard, Zahezahe, Zaheweezze.
I got them randomly
but my favorite nickname is Zahezahe because my great grandma would only call me that.
I love the way she would say that after she died no one is allowed to call me Zahezahe.
If I changed my name, it will be something easy
and a name people can actually say every time I start a new school.
It will be Elizabeth, Eliza, Ellazhe.
I get embarrassed all the time, “all eyes on me.”
But if I did change it right now I think it will be Ash because that’s what my grandpa wanted to name me.
I was supposed to be born on Ash day, so he wanted my mom to name me Ash.
- By Ellazahe Richards

Poetry: Blue eyes

Funny the way we met

Funny the way I looked

Your eyes became



Your lips became



Each  moment with you

My heart will current

Since the day I found


Open in the air

I found my self smiling

thinking of you

I fell in love with your eyes

your eyes the once that

remind me of the sky

and the heart of the


Thinking of you as



But I had you in front  of me

You were as real

as the love you made


Feel for


By: Rosalba Perez



Poetry: My Dearly Departed

By Alexis Garcia, age 16


You are my dear, my dearly departed…

I’m in fear of being brokenhearted

What has gotten into you?

It has left me blue

Now I stay heavily guarded

My dearly departed…

The grief over your absence has started

These feelings of resentment put into motion,

Because of your lack of devotion

I taught my heart to reject your touch…

But my brain still remembers too much

I can’t recall what was more amazing…

The times you made me blush,

Or when you disregarded my sweet nothing as mush

It was.

Poetry: I Believe in Happiness

Check out the poems that our Chicas wrote after being inspired by National Poetry Month.

I believe in happiness;
I believe the only people who can understand happiness are those who are willing to create it.
I believe happiness has many definitions.
Love being a carrier.
I believe in inspirations and a never ending hope.
I believe love conquers all;
I question life.
I question, are we made to live?
Or do we live to somehow be made by definition.
Yet definition in the eyes of an artist is the death of art.
- Danielle Guzman


When you have a pot full of your ingredients, it depends if you can make something good or spoil it.
My ingredients are music/arts, family and the most important spice: life.
I have mixed my ingredients with other spices but so far my cooking is bitter.
With music I couldn’t stand the directors of how I was pushed away.
Art let me take experience and express who I am and thoughts and feelings.
Music is something I can listen to and compare it to my arts and writing.
I need art to listen to music.
I need music to inspire me in art.
Family. the darkest and most revealing of all ingredients. This ingredient is dangerous. When someone hurts you or you hurt a family member, it feels like you are going through hell. Try to put a bandage on yourself and pull it off fast, it may be painless. Pull it off slow, you can see and feel the pain of how much your heart will ache.
It’s delicate, it can be harmless or harmful to your body.
it’s sweet but bitter or just plain sour. Life includes everything.
- Marlett Mojica


Khalil Anthony Ray
Mi amor, mi vida
The sunshine that holds me strong meaning
Good friend having such divine beauty in life
Like a precious gem that needs to be held with love and care.
- Jessie Barron

Poetry: Truth & Being Mexican


by Katarina Grayson, age 18

When I was a little girl,
Home after a school day filled with talk of
famous family members in trees
like monkeys,
I asked my father something.

I said Daddy, was anyone in our family ever a Princess?

He didn’t laugh,
Didn’t chuckle,
Didn’t pick me up with his long arms and put me on his tall shoulders
Looked me square in the eye and said

Nobody was a princess, so I wasn’t one, either.

Our Family have never been Famous, Rich, or Royal.
They have always been simple, down-to-Earth People,
Never anyone Important, but always Generous and
Never Conceited,
He said.

I pondered my non-Regal status with a heavy second-grade heart.
Now there was no need to ask if we were related to someone like
for instance.
I knew the answer and I liked it as much as
some people liked Green Eggs and Ham:
Not One Bit.

And the more I pondered it, the bigger my dislike became,
because the more I pondered,
The more I realized
He spoke the truth.

I was not a Beauty.
I didn’t possess a golden halo of angel hair,
like Molly Smythe
and my future did not include
Beauty Pageants Modeling Or Makeup Artists.

I was not the Star of the Show.
I was always the narrator,
or some other equally fitting role for your average mousy bookworm.
I never got to play the dream role of Catholic girls everywhere
Blessed Virgin Mary
for an audience.

I wasn’t a Princess,
despite what the nice man at the meat counter of HEB called me
while handing me a free sample.
Ryan Green’s great-great-great grandfather was a king.
Mine was a nobody.

I was a Lucy, not a Susan.

Little did I know how soon
things would stay the same,
but I’d grow to understand
All of what my father had said.

I was not a beauty,
I was a smart girl who had never in her life been able to rely on looks,
who had to be clever instead. And this made me
in some way or another.

I was not the star of the show,
but I could enunciate like nobody’s business.
I knew I wasn’t the star,
so I was not conceited.
And somehow,
that made me feel like a star.

I’m not a princess,
I’m the writer of my own life story
and I don’t need no stinkin’ Prince Charming
to write it for me.

So all of you Lucys out there
wishing you had been born a Susan,
Stop it.

The world loves you for who you are
and for what you do,
Not for who you wish you were.



by Katarina Grayson, age 18

Theresa Marie Patino
age five
walked to school
and was placed in the dumb classes
with all the other brown kids
On the first day.

Theresa Marie
managed to get to other classes
even without the “right” friends.
She secretly dreams of someday going to college at
The University of Texas
even though her parents don’t understand.

Theresa Marie’s mother
didn’t give her money
to take the PSAT.
It wasn’t that she didn’t care about her education.
Her mother simply didn’t know why it was important..

made it to junior college
and on to her beloved UT.
It didn’t occur to her to apply to other schools.
UT is her first love, and she their biggest fan.

Theresa Patino Grayson
has graduated and is married to Mark Grayson.
He knows that on weekends,
she has a date with the TV to watch her favorite football team.
He learns how to watch football
and to cope with the fact that she sleeps while clutching an autographed UT football.

Terri Grayson
has become an admissions counselor at (you guessed it) UT.
She can help other people like her,
who don’t know much about college,
who have to prove time and time again that they are ready for college.
One day, the announcement is made that everyone in the department gets a raise.
But a few days later:
“Sorry, there’s been a mistake.”
the only people of color, Terri and her friend Lovelys, who is black
have their raises
Taken Away.
Mark tells her to get a lawyer and challenge it,
but she only says, “UT has the best lawyers, and they always win.”

still loves UT.
She cheers them on every weekend,
and I know to leave her well enough alone
when the Longhorns are playing.
She never told me
about that day.

can’t return things at the store.
For some reason, there always seems to be a problem.
But for her white husband, there’s no problem.
She knows that people treat her differently,
she sees it everywhere.
She sees that she is the only one who’s kind to the Mexican janitor,
who doesn’t treat the waiter as merely a servant.
All the while, she tries to forget about it, put it behind her,
just like her own mother, who said she picked cotton in the hot sun for meager wages
“because it was something to do” to keep her and her siblings out of trouble.
Al mal tiempo, buena cara.

Katarina Raquel Grayson
is my name.
My grandparents came across the border
as children.
People whispered about them,
said all those Mexicans smoked Marijuana.
They were poor,
They spoke Spanish,
They lived on the Brown side of town.

am more than half Mexican
but thanks to my skin color,
I don’t look it.
I’ve seen the way people treat me differently than my mother.
I’ve been to summer school and heard whisperings of
“What’s a white girl doing here?”
Following my mother’s example, I befriended them.
And you know what?
All we needed was for someone to believe in us.

El que calla, ayuda el problema.

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