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Chris Saitta May 27
A vintner of aged leaves in the wine-press of the sun,
Thin-skinned like the lucent grapes from the vine-runs
Of the island trellises and teal-cordoned waves, lowest slung
Fruit-laden bough of sky, Sicily, whose ateliers of rolled cigarettes
And uprolled sleeves like tides tease smoke into studio paints,
The black apple wine of storm made into mouthfuls of pulp rain,
Before the sunrise is gathered again in fishing nets and crab pots,
The coastal towns with their salted roofs of pied clay and pigeons
Along the lava stone streets, and night from the chanteuse of Egypt,
Singing her coral to heron, as when her bird-like barefooted slaves
Left tracks across Old Kingdom wastes, so this dreaming old man
Leaves his wrinkles to these grapes and across the sand-island pillow,
Asleep with his fathers, hay-hauling peasants of wandering darkness.
Atelier is simply an artist’s studio.
Mrs Timetable Feb 22
Our family tree
Woah is me
Has termites

No pictures to prove
Who is who
Boo hoo hoo

Should it matter
Would it make us sadder
If we searched the history of us

Would we find
We are royalty
Or just of the toilet seat

We might find the dad
Who went away
Or was just led astray

Find the town
We are from
Exact locations say some

A can
Of worms
Or just deserts

Do we have to know
Will it make us
Grow

Maybe all we need
Is these little seeds
Of us now to plant

The small tree
Start fresh
Of just you and me
Searching your past can be an amazing adventure or a nightmare depending on the results. It’s a serious decision to make.
a sire
of Oliver
is spring
in Baganda
with carafe
here might
muse the
daughter in
craft and
slaughter now
leader for
features incumbent
in the
sprawl of
louche theatrics
to vanish
in mire
rain in LA
Mark Toney Dec 2019
genealogy
family tree treasure hunt—
come to your census
12/9/2019 - Poetry form: Senryu - Copyright © Mark Toney | Year Posted 2019
Ju Temo Oct 2019
Can I find you past Mount Hua,
After crossing Cao’e River,
Through the fields of Longkou,
Will I be walking for long?

Sat, waiting for the train to go
To take me where I am supposed to be
Head pressed against the cold window
I want that seat.

Lost among the frames
And paths between stones
You should be somewhere among
The busy laying down of flowers
I want to know

A fickle not fitting anywhere
A missing piece,
Just wandering.


Who do I owe my existence to.
Who brought me here.
I would kneel down to you
And offer my deepest gratitude

Tired of floating up in the air
Just whisked around by the wind.
The tree with roots is stronger
The clouds so lonely.

Breezing by, the single leaf
Stuck in this one state
I’ll walk alone with my two legs
Don’t worry, I’ll continue to go
But where are you?

The people who came before me
Blocks of my past
You’re going too far
I’m lost.

This voice,
The voice formed
Trying to reach out
It’s calling out
It can’t let go,
Where it came from.

Every sunshine,
Every storm,
It surrounds us
Brings us to life.
I’ll always look up
And see it like you.

Going past Mount Hua
Alone among the clouds
Who put me here
I want to know.

I’ll travel long
And so far,
I’ve been walking for long.

I’ll put my respects
Will you see me
I won’t be disappointed
I’ll lay down everything
Just to have my place.

Left away
Those a part of me
I’m walking through the path
But where are you?
Ju Temo' is a freelance poet that is inspired by songwriting.      
All other poems can be seen at:  www.feelapoem.com
CarolineSD Aug 2019
The vague shadow of an ancient oak pulsing
Like an image through static
Through drifting fog
So thick that only the wind
Can lift it and let slip
The outlines of
Where I began.

My ancestry is incompletely buried.
The sharp rocks of drunken nights
Slice upon the roots
Disfiguring, pummeling, smashing,
Rendering mute the stories their craggy hollows could tell
Dissolving in that same fear
My grandmother must have known so well.

I don’t know how to find her,
To reconstruct a broken form
From all of these pieces,
These fallen leaves that
Drift like secrets,
Like the ones my mother
Whispered to me in the dark
When I was nine and old enough
To hold them, to hold her,
When she fell apart.

Because they took them, you know.
My mother, her sisters, her brothers,
The county clipping the roots like
Plucking flowers,
Like it was nothing at all to scatter
Children in the wind,
Like fallen leaves upon the shallows
Of some lonely pond,
Like broken branches
Overpowered by a system that
Only wanted them
Gone.

So, you see,
It wasn't just the wind that ***** the tree,
But a system that decided
Whose voice to wipe away and
What to keep.

My ancestry is incompletely buried.
Sometimes, I'm sure I can hear her sobbing,
A broken, fragile song, emerging from the earth
Just where the roots, interlocking, stop
the dirt from completely blocking
The story of a battered woman
Buried for too long.

The vague shadow of an ancient oak pulsing
Like an image through static
Through drifting fog
So thick that only the wind
Can lift it and let slip
The outlines of
Where I began.

What if I run my hands along the bark,
The broken pieces, the empty spaces,
Where her voice might be?

Grandma, speak to me.
Breon Jun 2019
Parade of bones, ride high
Filling up the whole sky,
Past where my hands can't reach.

Bleached by sun and twisting,
Hanging like chimes singing.
Dance on, something like free.

You'll be gone tomorrow,
Split and cracked for marrow,
Pouring out your lifeblood.

Down below, the living
Never got forgiving,
And it sure ain't easy.
I cannot remember people I never met. I can't tell the tales I was never told. How will they know me if I can't know them?
JT Nelson Jun 2019
My Dakota plains
Broken by clusters of trees
That surround farms
Connected by black thin lines
Draped between poles
That follow roads

Or a shortcut across fields
On giant steel mannequins
Standing watch over
Corn, beans, sunflower
Or cows or horses
Or sheep

On My Dakota prairie
With rich black dirt
That feed crops
And sustain our towns
Our clusters of life
Our family and self.
While South Dakota is so much more than agriculture, our ancestry that came here generations ago dug their roots in deep and nurtured this place in our hearts. It is a beautiful place... sometimes harsh, but a glorious place to take in.
DG Feb 2019
It smells just like her
It smells just like the woman who taught my mother to raise me
The woman who comforted me when it stormed
The woman who taught me to appreciate my German heritage
I miss her . . .
Gucci bloom smells just like my great-grandmother guys it’s freaky
Toxic yeti Jan 2019
I go the land
Of my ancestors
The Himalayas
To bet with my brethren
And hope to find love
And enlightenment
As the prayer flags fly
I smile.
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