There are countless stories
living, breathing in my bones
begging to be freed,
piercing the unknown.
Each day conjures a tale
that plays out within my mind,
a world that seems so real to me,
who knows what I may find.
My subconscious divided
between this world and my own;
A thousand lives have settled
and made myself their home.

when you grow up
in a world where old is not useless
but means connected
to other times that made yours possible

then the weathered beams
     of an old mountain farmer’s house
          lived in for generations
give you a feeling of security and continuity

the solid doors of venerable city buildings
     signal achievement, comfort, safety
     knowledge and culture
     brought to you across the centuries

the crumbling arches of old castles
      remind you of your country’s history
      some of it glorious  some not
      for better or worse

even your faded family photographs
      can make you wonder
      suggesting all the generations
      that passed so you can have
      that special feeling

If you should come upon a painting by Mark Rothko in a museum -
I'll assume you are not one of those billionaires who has one hanging on the dining room wall, or hidden away in a secret room behind the bookcase -
but either way, do not just look at the painting or you will see nothing.
Well, except color. You will see color. Rothko loved color.

But wait a while and you will begin to hear it whisper its secrets:
How lives are layered upon lives;
how painful sacrifices
get buried beneath petty ambitions and lies
and joys and succes as well-
oh, and perhaps another layer or two of color.

Each generation scrapes the parchment clean
and blithely scribes new marks on its surface -
confident that they will not forget the lessons
that seem so absurdly obvious.

Empires disappear beneath overgrown vines
and dieties who, drunk on the blood of virgins
would feast on the hearts of conquered warrors
but now shuffle past each other
with oblivious nods, grousing about the food,
wait for the day someone remembers their names.

Listen and perhaps you will learn
how every layer of life is a forgotten secret
discernable only by its subtle influence
on the layers that are built up above it.

If not. There is always the color. Rothko loved color.

Where is your shame,
Great Mother of blame?

The sins of generations are coursing through your vein...
But when all the blood is spilled, there is nothing left to gain.

So where are you going...
Who is left to play your game?

How many more pawns must there be?
Before we can clearly see,
The mistakes that are destined for me.

Once upon a time


Be sit yourself upon this chair, I have a story to tell.
It is a tale I have told you before;
You have already heard it and you know it well.
But still I insist I shall tell it to you again,
So when I am gone and taken from this world,
You too shall sit someone down and begin to explain.


This story is truthfully a metaphor;
A tale to teach an image, upon which is born,
Inside a mind, not yours or mine;
But these are the words we were taught long before.


As age creeps up on us, the words may change,
But the fable and its meaning shall remain the same.
So even when we are each gone to our graves,
These images we portray shall be pictured again and again.


In winter nights when all around us is cold
And the candlelight our only protection.
We shall each of us be able to speak of this day
And the years that came before; we shall slumber with contemplation.


In dreams we shall picture the noises we have heard;
They were told to us many times, by him or by her
And as we curl up tightly in our beds at night,
We will find ourselves taken away to a new place with these words.


And when we arise in the morning light,
We will contemplate a new meaning we have gained through insight.
We shall realise the motivation to pass the torch to a new life
And the story will continue to evolve
And to grow with each passing hindsight.


With each time the story is told, it will be open to interpretation;
With each foretelling, with each piece of knowledge gained,
We are able to choose whether to tell it as fact or fiction.
The story is ours and we are all free,
To be the ones who decide if we will allow the stories ending to change.


(C)2016 Aa Harvey. All Rights Reserved.

Sorry to interrupt your schedule program but I need to talk with the Mr. and Mrs.
Lead the children out I don’t want to shock them with the truth I am speaking
The world is ending in a couple of minutes by a force of our creation
No point in fighting just try to crying for mercy
Correction no point for begging cause there’s no escaping.

Your parents are wailing but you are all laughing at hands outstretched across the horizon
Maybe you aren’t scared of my image because you have no basis to draw your perceptions
You are still individuals not products of your parents’ dreams and fears
You still have free will, no concept of living, of course, you won’t be afraid of dying
You aren’t affected by my presence since you have yet to be introduced to me
But eventually you’ll fear me, join me, and you’ll be the cause of your child’s undoing.



© Sofia Villagrana 2018

Snow will fall
Rocks will fall

Rain
and dust
and hail.

The sun will shine …
as will the moon.

Infinity never fails.

Milk from the cows.
Honey from the bees.

Love will always warm our hearts
and shade will bring us ease.

Swallows to Capistrano.
Lemmings to the sea.

Racers to a finish line.
Captives to be free.

We can never change these things
No matter how we try.

We will always walk upon the grass
and gaze up in the sky.

A girl will grow to be a woman …
A boy to be a man

And when they are gone …

More will come.

The destiny …

The plan.

my brother does this thing where he siphons the stories from someone. Usually old people because they have the best stories

I drive through the old homestead – the fog of my emotions

Have of my memories

My father does this thing where he holds his little hands at his waist, twisting them inside one another

We are three generations eating dominoes pizza

Defined by death and divorce – not there and not existing yet
My grandfather is 90. He is stories made flesh and my brother pulls at them like a rope from a,

Well,

Because he has discovered the census data for Ham Lake from 1940

My grandfather tells stories of the missing generation

His father – can’t work because he’s a welfare brat

His mother died young

Stepmother an angel – gave him socks when his father was crying because they cut him off

My father – tells underbreath mumbles of lost arguments and lost respect – he gives me socks for Christmas

Father drank a lot. You get to pick who I’m talking about. Maybe alcoholism skips a generation. If so I fear for my children.

Grandpa joined the navy. His father got a job – everyday worked it through sickness and in health – a marriage of money and mind because the paycheck meant freedom and freedom meant everything

He finds his dad at work – navy uniform coated in the expectations of his brothers.

“So you went and did it.”

The story kind of trails off there, the way old people stories do. Kind of like young person poems

I helped my dad set up the TV we got him for Christmas

Because he never used the guitar center gift card from last year.