Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
Maura Oct 2020
They say, the dying are greeted, by their mothers
She comes for them at the end
Her love reaching further than bookends
Loving before, when you’re but an idea
A single cluster of cells,
Pregnantly waiting,
For birth

You came into the world quickly,
Precariously, the way you moved in life
Your pace blazing—light speed  
A glow that burned from the beginning

You were likely, the first person I ever held,
Me being too little to hold onto anything much bigger
But of course I adored you right away,
Right from when I first held you,
You made more than a daughter

You left the world quickly too,
during the month the sun burns the hottest,
August sweeping you into the air.
So I wonder, who came for you?

What I like to imagine,
and most desperately hope,
Is that you were greeted by a softness
A loving net cast by our grandmothers
Rocking you slowly
Pulling you back into our linage
Lyn-Purcell Jun 2020

Wedding bells in Thebes
Jewelled treasure about slim throats
Strife passed down bloodlines

900 poems! Oh my lord, I actually hit 900! Whoa! I've got something really special planned for later, haha! A nice concrete poem is in the works!
Before I hit the hay, I wanted to share another haiku dedicated to the goddess, Harmonia!
I too feel like she doesn't get enough.
And I can't help but feel bad for her.
Granted, she is the daughter of Aphrodite and Ares, but she is an innocent.
I know she relatively has a happy ending (in the variant myth I'm aware of), but she and her line didn't deserve such misfortune...
Here's the link for the growing collection:
Much love,
Lyn 💜
Ties that bind are not easily broken.
What did you inherit in your bloodline?
For the fruit is a product of the vine.
We are the consequences of words spoken.
Our Ancestors sin is not forgotten,
planting seeds that grew into bitter wine.
They may have passed but we still pay the fines.
Their silence left us nothing but tokens.

The curses may last four generations,
but the blessings endure for a thousand.
We want to leave a good inheritance.
Elders to fight we need your confessions.
To dig and allow the cycle to end,
in order to give the next ones a chance.
What are things ? that you got honest from your family tree? the bigger the tree the deeper the roots
Mystic Ink Plus Dec 2019
And when
You are asked
"How old are you?"

My soul is
Much older
Your blood line
Just reply

Just reply
If you don't want to
Still you have to
Genre: Abstract
Theme: Carbon dating
Luna Craft Jul 2019
Sometimes I remember the scorn of my family,
Effigies of bloodlines crossed into a tired face.
I remember my mother,
Her vice was appearance-
Not her own but that of others.
Every day was judgment
She’d pick us before we bloomed and left wilted children
Questioned the lack of fruit
Not with self-deprecation but with scorn
How dare we cross the farmer who sowed the seeds and watered the crops?
How dare we look towards the sky for comfort?
When that cold trowel could dig in our necks.

I remember one time my mother asked me if she was the problem
A lie, I’ve heard that question many times
How can you curse a broken human more than she does herself
And somewhere in my head, I justify it
Consider the kindness built on vanity to be kindness nonetheless
Flowers do not need to be alive to be beautiful
They can be so frailed and dried up they become immortal
A crumbling tombstone of decay
And we marvel at them
And I remember that I am a product of my mother
Amarys Dejai Aug 2018
My name is not one that is so easily forgotten. I’ve met faces
who shake my hand and admit that my name has a familiar ring. It
will wrap itself around your tongue,
take shelter in the grooves of your brain,
etch itself into your flesh,
and make a drumbeat of your pounding heart.

I am the red flowers that bloom in the Western Cape.
I am the violet quartz, the precious gemstone,
and I may be worn around your finger or wrapped around your
neck if the month of lovers breathed life into your lungs.

I am rooted in the grounds of Israel.
I was promised by God in the Hebrew tongue.
My blood is spread over the Middle East,
my complexion is of light-bathed soil,
and I am a unity of scattered heritage.

You cannot forget me, no matter how you may try.
I am cradled in the back of your mind.
I live in shades of red, from flowers to blood.
I live in shades of purple, from gemstones to sunsets.
I am the embodiment of love,
and I linger in every inch of this Earth.
A Simillacrum Jun 2018
And what's worse
with something of a conscience
that despite being disrespected
***** will not let me leave.

to the face of death with a smile
stretched ear to ear bowed
under the weight of fear.

Courageousness breaks
heavy pain. I use it against you.

Prostrate to the matrons
I begged for your courage for me.

Even when you hurt your loved ones
You focus on yourself
Even when you hurt someone you love
You protect yourself

You double down
in the name of pride.


Your children are smart enough
to purposefully see
that they never procreate
if only for the world
to both act Atropos
on this overgrown
to humanity
and slash the path
of another hillbilly bloodline
Form inspired by the song "Smile" by AFI.
Ivan Brooks Sr Mar 2018
I was born with a gifted cooking hand
and the fact that I'm also a Bassa man,
made my job easier when I worked the grill
as a student chef at Salvatore's on Snapper Hill.
This proves that I'm my father's son,
The late Rev.Peter Brooks's grandson.

I now know the source of my looks
I'm genetically one of the Brooks.
No wonder why people say I'm cute,
Well, this I can deny neither refute,
Meaning I'm truly my father's son,
The late Rev.Peter Brooks's grandson.

From the way I dribbled the soccer ball
and the fact that I never grew very tall,
proven by the old measurement on the wall,
and cumulated by the fact that I'm going bald,
all prove that I'm truly my father's son,
The late Rev Peter Brooks's grandson.

This is one of those rare poems that prove I'm truly Re.Brooks's grandson.
I'm a Bassa,one of the indigenous tribes of my native homeland,Liberia.
There's a stigma in my country that the Bassas are all 'cooks' ...I became a poet, ironically!
Next page