Tag Archives: Sunday Stew

Sunday Stew: Who I Am

by Matt Sedillo


In a cave


At the Globe


On the Rhine

All roads

Lead to Rome


In his study




Freed the slaves

And history

Would not lie


On the Delaware

Take time

To learn

Your forebears


Are you



Are not

You are



Of nothing


Is written

To keep

Its victims


To think


Swarthy horde

Barbarian at the gate

Even in insult



From the soil


To be razed


Of burn codice


Without legacy


Without myth


Without legend

You bastard children


Seem to learn

Your lesson

The academy

Is no game

Of call

And response

It is the smoke rising

Of burning village


More construct

Than continent

Less land mass

Than concept

More west

Than civilization

More land grab

Than destination



I was taught

When I was young

I was not

A place

Where the census

Now tells me

To check

A box

Of Hispanic


Burned down the past

Now back for the rest


All that


From my chest

Born stateless

Heir to every injustice

Every pen

Every blade

Every cannon

Every burnt page

Born of 1846

Or was it 1538



Or of nothing

Of no one

The unsung ballad

Of history’s

Forgotten son

Tell me again

Who it is

That I am not

For some

Old world hardships


Against new shores


New Hampshire

New Jersey

New York

Plymouth Rock

For others

Pushed off

Turtle Island


Do not call this brown

Skin immigrant

Child of the sun

Son of the conquest

Mestizo blood

Born of the streets

Of South Seattle

Who draws his breath

From different winds

Learns the past

In a different skin

Do not tell him

In what native tongue

His song would best

Be sung

Do not tell me

Who I am

Sunday Stew: Democracy

by Matt Sedillo

If a tree falls in the forest

And no one is there to hear it

Does it make a sound

If a ballot falls in a box

And no one knows

What they are voting for

Does it really count

What happens to a dream deferred

To justice deterred

To life

When it becomes impossible to live it

I don’t want to know

Because I want more than a vote

I want to be a participant


I want to live in a free country

A democracy

Where hate speech

Doesn’t pass for freedom


No one has to turn to crime

To feed their children

If you were to put

A measure on a ballot

I would vote for democracy

I want the same things as anyone

And i want them for everyone

I want to live in a free country

A democracy

Not with over two million

Locked in cages

Or millions more

Pushed into the street

Where as Ferguson shows

You cant even surrender

To police

One nation

Under ghetto birds

And terror copters

Locking down children

At the border

Cutting off


From their water

While cutting lunch programs

To drop bombs on Iraq

I dont want to live like that

I want to live in a free country

A democracy

What happens to a dream deferred

To justice deterred

To life

When it becomes impossible

To live it

If you don’t know who you are

You can never know your power

You dont know who you are

But you will soon find out

Let your voice be heard

And may it finally count

Sunday Stew: The Voice That Rose The Dead

by Andrew James

I remember the first day I heard her voice… it was sweeter than honey laced licorice. I was on the corner of Rainier Avenue and Henderson waiting at the bus stop for the perpetually late number 42 bus. The August sun scorched my charcoal skin, and my eyes seemed so heavy my neck strained to keep my head from tearing away from it. My arms and legs were merely limp appendages under the command of whatever swoop of air the cars that passed by were generous enough to grant us pedestrians dependent on King County’s unwieldy chariots . The bones of my bones roared with pain. To lay down forever on the concrete beneath me littered in fast food wrappers stained with grease, and lacquered with stalled condiments and the urine of drunks seemed a fortunate fate. Such a feeling is the consequence of 15 non stop hours of moving the furniture of the well to do from McMansion to Mega Mansion.

My spirit broken, body bruised, and mind benumbed, I could no longer stand as gravity failed my slumping corpse, but then a voice erupted from a siren made me float… “Please wait!” she crooned to the number 106 as it left her in hot pursuit of its next destination. That voice that sighed with grief at the thought of waiting another 30 minutes to be on her journey home. That voice that spoke to me to ask the time, and then my name, and then where I lived, and… That day it belonged to a stranger, who I still suspect was Zeus’ daughter. That voice… it now belongs to my wife.

Sunday Stew: The Ecstasy of Now

by Sampson Moore

there’s a glint from a grim corpse you can see as it slithers from the dark grave

in dire search to reprise a role played so long ago that yesterday forgets

its head ascends in silence to glimpse a life it longed to live

if only it owned the courage it had to borrow

if only it possessed the passion it desired to lend

to view a vantage of life it housed in wishes and journeyed to in dreams

its bitter poison willfully swallowed now exchanged for the savory saccharine

and what was long exhaled is breathed in

the dead, the gone, mine ancient carrion so bewildered, can only peer at future yesterdays

to see me smile wide enough to stretch the boundaries of a lifetime, from what was, to what will be, all with the gleam from the exquisite today

Sunday Stew: The Raging Bull

by Drew Sutherland

What more do I have for you than this unworthy little thought in the wee small hours? I can’t hold you and hug away your pain, you’re too far away. I can’t run my fingers through your soft hair. Life forbids us even having the time to take solace in exchanging words on the telephone. But I will stare down the time and space, like a mighty bull. You will see me snort and toss my head, knowing my eye is on you and you alone. You will hear my hooves pounding futilely on the earth- my solitary dance of death, loneliness, and warning. And maybe, just maybe, while you sleep, you will feel my breath fall softly on the nape of your neck, my heart beating- strong and hard but NEVER rushed- through my chest and against your back, my whole self pressed against the thin, thin pane of glass that separates the miles. I may fog the glass, but I will never look away.

Sunday Stew: The Nap

by Drew Sutherland

I woke myself this morning, wound me good and tight,
I wound myself this morning lookin’ for a fight,
I had some things to clear up, some things I had to say,
I was going to stir the pot- make things right my way.

Slippers on, caffeine in hand, I went to the back door,
I do it every morning, to think of peace not war,
and as I opened up the door, saw the sparkling dew,
I felt your presence all around, and then I entered you.

I slept a half an hour and dreamt 100 years,
The changing of the seasons, happiness and tears.

And as I sat by naked trees, the early buds of Spring,
It hit me like a bolt of truth, “I do not know a thing.”
A wash of peace fell on me then unfurrowing my brow,
My plans, my wrath melted away, I remembered an old vow.

I’d spent a year in solace, meditation, and some grace
I spent that time in silence, thoughts slowing in their race.
I’d figured out that being wound was causing misery,
Enslaving all I thought I loved, I caged what should be free.

I slept a half an hour and dreamt 100 years,
The changing of the seasons, happiness and tears.

I went and taught a class at school, forgot about my fight,
I said, “Hello?”, “How are you?” and noticed the sunlight.
I trundled to my office and shed my teaching gear,
My tummy was on “Grumble” and a sandwich shop was near.

Friend in tow I ventured forth to forage for my food,
I needed me a gyro for I was “in the mood”.
As I ate I wondered at springtime on the fringe.
My little gyro sandwich felt like such a binge.

Then back to home at 5:00, my knitting in my lap,
My eyes were dry and my bed called for a little kitty nap.
Up narrow stairs to my large bed, cloaked in downy white,
Window open, snuggled up, a slice of daytime night.

I slept a half an hour and dreamt 100 years,
The changing of the seasons, happiness and tears.

In 30 minutes I had gone across a vast landscape,
Surveying all the beauty, confused by all the hate,
I woke from this extended trip sure I’d overslept,
A half an hour’s all that passed, my cheeks were damp- I’d wept.

Slippers on, caffeine in hand, I went to the back door,
This time it wasn’t morning, evening just off-shore,
And as I opened up the door, I thought of what was true,
Without my seated happiness, I can’t share me with you.



Sunday Stew: Pondering Sky

by Matt Aspin

The sky
Don’t look like it should

At night the light blocks out the scenes of the fight
Between the dark and light
The wrong and the right
Steals away the wonder and the might

Replaced with safe and secure
Hypnotized sparkling nothing allure of the quick and easy obscure.

So empty
Void of the pure

We need a new goal
The soul

A wonder serene
A new scene with questions that mean
We can still wonder at the sky with a few more secrets to share
Unaware with no care of the here and the there
And the why and the where
And the why out there
And the why do we care?

To wonder
To dare
To question unknown
The point of it all
Still not clear
Back to ponder
All night at the sky with just enough light to wonder

And dream
And to write

Matt Aspin is an amiable gent who has made a second home out of South Seattle ale houses.