Lost my poetry book

I have misplaced my poetry book which I have been working on for several months. It is making me very depressed and making it hard for me to write new material.

It will be hard to start on a new notebook, but I will need to.
am also exploring some short stories, but it might be awhile before I share anything on public.

My 6 week creative writing course concluded last Saturday. I couldn't have been more pleased with the course, the best 75 dollars I spent in along time.

cheer
selam

Hey Guys,

good news

I found my notebook!!! I actually found it a couple of months ago and am so glad.
If you are a writer you know how it feels to lose your precious work.

Cheers
Selam

Impatient,inpatient

long brown fingers
hugging each other
between my neck.
letting enough air
in and out through my throat
to allow seconds of
LIFE..
just enough time
to worry about
the perfection of
the next seconds.

am impatient.

Writer-Selam Misgano

Dissapointment

knee breaks
heart weight tons
chest getting heavier
by the second
eyes blink unstoppably
still can't see simple objects
hands restless 
touching
my forehead, nose and lips
crunching my teeth
I feel my feet
planted on the ground
unwilling and unable to make.

salty tears bubble under
my eyelashes
and fall one by one
right on my red cheeks

I really wanted that job
guess it wasn't meant to be.

Writer-Selam Misgano

A poem about blood

Emotions fly like swords
slicing me open
your words like bandage
won't do me any good.
the cut way too deep
needing operation
I will heal on my own
leave me here bleeding

Writer-Selam Misgano

A moment in here

My city is cut in half
the cloudy gray roof
pressing down on buildings and cars
The skyscrapers are
second floor high looking up at the  box shaped lights
floating above them.
Downtown flaunts it's lights
begging for my attention
pricey watches, twinkling shoes and designer dresses
hang behind glass windows.
they pass my eye sight but my sleepy eyes
zoom only at my feet, that plays
catch up-
as I involuntarily run down 8th ave.
I am not alone
red eyes attached to heavy coated bodies
peak in and out of Madison and Spring Street.
Nurses leaving night shifts from Virginia Masion
office workers arriving for
their desk jobs-with lunch bags
and then therre is me-Brown jacket with furry hat-rushing
red gloves with tip cut enough to peak out one of my fingers
rushing
I make it on time before the shuttle takes off-rushing

Writer-Selam Misgano

Lion Strong

When I get older
I will be stronger
They Will call me freedom
Just like a waving flag
And then it goes back (3)

Sounds bites are loud in boom boxes
When the Westerner sits in his car
cruising African streets
peaks his head out only to snap shots
Glances at my people and Judges
No condoms, No schools
Just mud houses and face paints

Africa is too complicated/too rich/too poor
for love at first sights
these quick observations lead
the west to dehumanize us
Africans are the posters boys/girls
for Poverty and AIDS.

Honestly, that really hurts

When I was a tiny baby
just learning how to walk
mom called me Tesfa
It means Hope
All African moms call their children Hope.
They Hope.
This generation will lift the continent

All Ethiopia needs hope
All East Africa needs hope
All Africa needs hope.

Far away places are hard to remember
I know, we can pretend they don't exist.
But like mom says
Ethiopia=Home
though it been 7 years since I left
I never forgotten
Africa=home

I don't see Africa poor
I see Africa Rich
people are in bad times,
but I know destinies change
but tell me,
Why does the West focus so much
on our war zones and corruptions.
We are also Artists, Olympians and Scholars
I see Africa the beautiful, unlike what always on CNN.

I don't see Africa poor
I see Africa rich
my house was near a mosque
my neighbors were all Muslims
my family is Christians but we all understood
under the face of God, we were all just humans

I don't see Africa poor
I see Africa rich
we might need charity
but we prefer fair partners
African are not helpless, in fact
We're freedom fighters
Brave like Panthers

African Youth , Stand up
Home or Abroad.
We must have a Voice.
What ever it may take.
We gonna make
our mother Africa proud.

Back home when things get hard
we celebrate our blessings
we move our shoulder like this
move your shoulder like this
Dance to keep from tearing up
Dance to mark new beginnings
WE Dance!!

Writer-Selam Misgano

Detroit, here goes your love letter

how does one fall in love with
a place, breaking and fixing itself.
head over hills
over segregated parks and extreme heat.
eastern market-
the red, green, yellow bell peppers
spread blooming like spring flowers
the hot Saturday heat
beating my brown skin like a drum.
I got my shopping bags in two hands,
got my shades on
there is no date like
a date with Detroit.

I walk proudly with the air
carrying me over from one Motown love song to another
listening to Detroit
as any good date would
I heard the city, laugh and cry all in one day
love and misfortune and desire for better things
I listened and I didn't try to relate
but I did share
my love for Addis Ababa.
the love for my city mirroring
how Detroiters felt for their home.
they wore shirts and hats and colored their hearts
with love for this city, that refuses to give up on itself

Detroit accepts all those that stayed and left
those who came across oceans or freeways
It's easy to be swept up by the downtown
fountain painting pictures with water,
Campus Martius sitting in the heart of Detroit.
you might hear Deep River sing soul and spiritual
as you skip Broadway and make your way through Gratiot
On Field st, the kids think Chloe is my mother
and the trees spread up and down
so flawless.
Well Detroit, this is your love letter.


EastSider at heart
Writer-Selam Misgano

TuPac Shakur

your dark skin delights my heart
your lips are what dreamy kissers are made of
you have eyes that see the truth
the beauty in the places and people forgotten
you loved your mother, like the earth loved the sun
you are a man, that most men aren't
you wrote on your notebook
the stories that aced your heart
you painted yourself to the world and smiled
knowing
there will be critics and judges
but you cared only about the bones in the story
you are the politician and solider we miss
your notebook comforts me like warm milk at night
and gives me chills
like cold water down my back
you speak to me in
such a firm manner
trusting your story in my mouth
glad to see a man
treat a black sister as a partner.

Dedicated to a hero


Writer-Selam Misgano

Morning Sun

Blue/red

Butterfly print shirt

Black leggings and Dora sneaker

She smiles with open invitation

Laughs at her own clumsiness

giggles

At the stiffness of grown ups

A ballerina

Dancing to the music

Of dishes and cups

Clicking in the kitchen

Her sentences brea  K

And glue syllabus

Back together

Building tower of

bilingual expression

Her sun kissed burly hair

Makes for teary Sundays

Hair Day

The light curtains are drawn

Doors are locked

As mother runs the

Brush through handful of

Hair

Father tries singing

To distract from this

Curly hair.

Twinkle twinkle

Little stars

Oh how I wonder

What you are.

She declared herself

A princess, as a 2 year old

She has little patient

For annoying big brothers

Who don’t respect her

Living room palace.

Forget to applause her dance

recitals in her purple dresses

refuse to sit in small chair

sipping imaginary tea with her.

My four year old sister

is a morning sun

gently nourishing her family roots

Touch our faces

With her tiny, warm hands

Showing us how to dance

to our confusion.

Writer-Selam Misgano

Corner of MLK and The ethio american dream

--> Our faces are plenty these days,
Plenty these days.
On a wall of a Starbucks
a dark skinned woman
picks sidamo coffee
displaying her milk color teeth.

on the mural at the ethiopian community center
young boys wearing shorts
play football on wet, green grass
somewhere in the northwest

on red square at the UW
the cornrow-braided woman
laughs looking into
the blue eyes of her boyfriend.

on the corner of milk and melting pot
warm brown skin women
sit around each other raising the room temperature
slowly sipping in the smell of
coffee boiling on the stove.

personally, you find me and my friends
in soul music
tasting the sound of guitar strings &
RED wine.

he finds peace in crowds 
so he rides the 48th bus
to 23rd and Jefferson
with the dreamers and mothers and hustlers

as taxi drivers,
east african father soldiers
swirl maximum speed in 
yellow cars,
on Seattle streets and allies

I slip on rain boots, black leggings
and my favorite red sweater
walk down pike towards 10th ave
to find the coziest seat
in the coziest little coffee shop
there I sit and write, rewrite my poetry to pass time.

my young brothers find 
Amariya ticklish
giggling with every syllabus
that slips their mouth
I don't walk in their shoes
I was in high school reading/writing
history/science in Amharic
when we left
they were barely learning to
walk and count their U Us.

the devoted orthodox Christians
and their endlessly annoyed children
wake up 5:30 am on sundays
the women dress in habesha kimice
all crisp white outfit
with rhythmic color designs on the edges 
Tilfe
the men throw nitella
on their shoulder

at the popular Starbucks
on 23rd and Jackson
the habesha men play
cards with politics of greed
and ethnic conflicts on their mouth
as passersby admire.

our faces are plenty theses days
our admirers are plenty these days
plenty these days,
plenty.

Writer-Selam Misgano