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Aaron McDaniel Dec 2013
Smoke is filling my bones
The carcinogenic ghosts of an irish ancestory
At war with my german temper
Fueling the fire
To a heart that beats for belonging
Keeping me in step with the frostbitten sidewalks
Of a December morning
Lips moist from french vanilla cappuccino
And your chapstick

Smoke is filling my bones
I'm rolling through my own fingertips
Losing touch with my own reality
Wondering if my knuckles are white from clenched fists
Or the grip around your palm

Smoke is filling my bones
You don't smoke
Yet you fill your lungs with my exhale
Breathe me in
I'll house myself in your capillary beds
Where I'll tuck myself in for the night
Listening to what makes your heart tick
SG Holter May 2014
My father.
Old sailor.
Old farmer.
Old carpenter.
Old interpreter.
Old archive of facts
And history. He knows
Our ancestory by heart down
To the 1600s. Born 1946, 68 years
Old today. Bought me my first pen,
My first book, taught me English
From the age of five. Told me I
Had the gift of language and
Expression. And that I was
A stronger boy than any
Anyone had ever seen
By the time I began  
To learn English.
I owe him credit
For every word
I have written.
Weak now
With age and
Bad lungs, I still
See him as a giant
Handling a chainsaw,
Smelling of forestry and
Gasoline and winter, smiling
At me with eyes deep blue from
Seeing more ocean and sky than I
Ever will know with my own.
His name to me is pappa.
After a few pints of his homemade
Wine, I sometimes let him beat me at Armwrestling. Then we laugh like
Old friends, remembering how
The roles were different back
Then. I am glad I stopped by
For a cuppa on this day. He
Would never ask me to.
Happy Birthday, pappa.

I'd cut a decade from my lifetime
To add a single year
To yours.
Yes. We drink his wine from pint glasses...
Satsih Verma Jul 2017
A diminutive moon
will ask about the infinity
of blackness, when I
was waiting in November night
of a toothed fall
in a missing success.

Ahead of time, you
punch the wailing trunk
of the fallen tree. I had the taste
of honey, but who am I,
a giver of anonymity?

Withering in a fire house
without door. I have come back
to know my ancestory. This
was my home once, in the
ancient history of man. This
was the gift, this was the dawn.
Your ***** failure came to visit
My schizophrenia recited it's coils
Thoughts of anxiety
And writhing in my own skin.
I wanted two different things.
For this to work, my love flow to you
And yours back to me
Uninhibited
That free flowing connection I seem to have with so many people.  
Because I am strong and loving and patient.
But your ***** failure came to visit
And it brought revelation
In such a narrow minded translation
And you both preached of death
And evil
And releasing all suffering
Once the body stops beating.

I tried to show my rhythmic patterns
I wound up all my music boxes.
I said I thought we should appreciate
Each moment we are breathing.  

You both seemed offended.

I waited for you by the window
Wanting hard for you to stay
But when you both walked in the door
It was clear we were not the same.

We never were.
My mother, and then the grand
The lineage of my ancestory.
But how am I so different
From anything you'll ever be.

Wrapped to tightly in bible paper
And the law of the land.
Fantasizing about the day you die
So you can be with God

And you tried to tell me bad news
And I told you i already knew
I was not effected by the chaos
But you had more speech to ensue
And you spewed
Oh you spewed
Of every terribly saddening thing.
And I laughed out loud at your struggle
At your death mind writhing.  
And you looked to me as if I were trouble
Laughing at tragedy.
But I responded to you gently
With every body dies
And you went back to your speech
Of how only the good rise.

Aren't we all just holding so tightly
to these bodies
that we pray for an after life
I'm learning to appreciate
the life that I was given
And to trust that I've already risen
From the compounds of pleasure
And the lust from your wombs
And In the end
We will all have our tombs.
My grandmother. A spiritual warrior who was gifted so intensely with psychedelic and energetic experience yet with in the confines of modern Christianity and jehova witness ship she found her self stifling the very thing which was trying to born itself with in her. Never have I met a person so close to the truth yet miles away... and my mother, a self proclaimed satanist, ex ****** /****** **** Christian
Who has played all the roles mythology has to offer.

Then Comes me.
What do I have to offer?
Satsih Verma Mar 2020
Tracing ancestory,
my poem will talk to you one day
under wolf moon.

The skin starts burning.
Singed hands will collect some
salt from god's kitchen.

No new meaning has
come out from book after
desacralization.
Jonas  Sep 2023
Pedigree
Jonas Sep 2023
Talk,
air it out
or it becomes obsessive truth.
Maybe my mom was right,
maybe all my problems are generational heritage,
ancestory leftovers for me to digest.
Genetic code unfolded into chaotic synergy.

Maybe things just happend
to me.
No fault no big wrong decisions made to be found
for everything to fall back to.
No point in looking,
stressing over it anymore

Maybe I just got unlucky,
a bit mistreated from time to time.

Wouldn't that be nice?

An inconvenient preset of character
butterflies set in motion.

How am I supposed to live with that tho?
With no one, nothing to blame.

You can't just always let it go
and accept.
Give me a logic explanation so I can move on.

— The End —