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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.

http://38.media.tumblr.com/954ebab1d44330f3b9360d40983b79d7/tumblr_nkvnfrFYOF1tlb56zo1_400.gif

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.