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Ylva L Dec 2020
One day you left your home
Among with all you hated most;
You left old lullabies unsung
And swore you'd lose your mother tongue
As shivering, small hands still clung
To one life free of ghosts.

After your ghosts had been released
You filled up all the holes.
You lived a life of mostly ease
And never knew you paid your fees
For ghosts are mostly memories
And languages are souls.
Anais Vionet Nov 2020
Sometimes I stick out from my friends a bit - I think. It’s the French in me. Americans have this excité-ment about things - that’s, well, exhausting.

Sometimes, when friends are jumping about, they practically plead for my engagement. I think I have a genetic, French reticence, an observer gene.

True, I have my moments of bitter COVID lock-down angst but I'm doing better than some friends. Maybe because the French live slowly - life is just moments - once a moment has passed, it’s gone.

I wait, in my secret gardens, like a cat on a settee, sipping small pleasures. The poet in me refuses to zone out - there are poems in the stillness.
Funny how our heritages, and our parents shape our outlook
Noemi Amorphous Nov 2020
A borrowed history
A second-hand life
A true heritage denied.

This stranger sapling grafted to your family tree.
And the story told, to them and me;
" You were chosen, you are special, we were lucky..."

So you won.
Here's your prize;
A commodity baby, a charity child
Love conditionality and gratitude implied.
Woken from connection and amniotic peace
To a secret story of threefold grief.
I was taken from my First Mother when I was 10 days old by closed adoption. This was common in the UK until the early 1970s, a process whereby the baby was given to the adoptive family and the original birth records sealeduntil the child was 18.  This poem is about the strangeness of being a strangling, and in no way negates the love of my adoptive parents.  I am now, finally,  glad I am alive and able to share this part of my story, dedicated to all my parents, and all those who have shared this experience
Poetic T Oct 2020
They think that cos they wearing badges that
its power, feeling it be like they wild west.
          thinking they catching outlaws.

When they the ones letting the shots hit unarmed
                                           hands on his head.
but they not moving as he shouted gun.

It wasn't even a mobile, they just trigger happy
                       in blue as the family was in black.

Tears aren't bringing his last word back,
                       Mum, Daddy,
last cherished thought his baby girl.
Tears fell silent as they had knees on his neck,
                         what the **** he dead
yet you thinking he needs cuffs,
                                   morality took a side step.

No one is on their knee no more,
         hands held at height trying
to reach the fallen to show that they
still being reached for.

I promise we ain't forgetting any fallen,
       we'll reach high walking the streets.
   They ain't holding pistols to this many.

Hands-on heads showing peaceful metaphors,
          we shouldn't have to be scared
of a badge that's meant to protect
                               not a knee on a neck.

Or a gunshot on an unarmed person,
                   due to his demographical heritage.
                     another fell like a tree in a forest.

But every flower has a camera and nothing
falls silently anymore.
Aneesh H Aug 2020
Memories of a railroad era, bygone,
Nearly seven score years ago
Stories carried on the wheels,
With the coal and grain to go

A saga of the rail,
Now and again told
The charm of this tale,
Never growing old

Of modernity and mystery,
A kaleidoscopic visage:
An ensemble of hope and history,
A treasured, eclectic heritage

The railfan’s fervor: in full galore
In silent splendor, the glories of yore
In this humble house, come awake
A radiant reminiscence evokes!
Recently, a Railway Heritage Museum was opened at Hubballi, Karnataka: the HeadQuarters of South Western Railway. Hubballi or Hubli is a twincity of Dharwad, the erstwhile HeadQuarters Office of Southern Mahratta Railway, which was a private Railway Company founded in 1880s during British Colonial Rule.
I wrote a poem for the Museum, which is framed as a permanent exhibit on the Museum Wall!
Sarah Caitlyn Jun 2020
The illusion of elegance,
copied from her mother.
Childhoods left undealt with,
but she wears her traumas
around her neck in that
beautiful southern style
passed down from her mother.
Enforces her new rules,
ignoring the past that got her there
for a new sense of priority.
Her pearls are lost,
sold long ago by someone else,
and she has forgotten
what they stood for.
Paper Heart Poet May 2020
invisible umbilical chord
ties me to you
feeds me love
even in your death

i inherited your fight    
to make sense of the nonsense
you live in my rebellion
against the world

i’m bleeding out screams through
words on the paper
if I don’t make sense that’s because
death doesn’t either.
gia sanchez Dec 2019
Heritage is a big part of everyone's lives,
My heritage i used to hide like a disguise.
I was always ashamed of being Hispanic,
having good hair and good skin,
I never looked at myself and loved what was within.
I was ashamed of my last name that belonged to my father who left,
see, that's the Hispanic way causing me so much stress.
I look up to my mother who has always been there,
She didn't need no man to succeed.
I wanted to be like my mom so bad, a true Hispanic queen.
this poem was made about my mother. It reminded me how much my mom means to me and how she always did it on her own not needing anyone to help her.
TIZZOP Nov 2019
will you protect our

will you tell mom the
truth about us?

would you die for
me when they shoot at
us again?

last time nine
bullets hit me as i hustled
to save
youtube: "ghost ship soundtrack 02 santos dies" (gotz to stay alive tizzop)
We board on the lazy sea crawler,
us cowards, in tea and cream and glory.
Martha, hands in her hair, in her sweet age;
We lurch, cold, remaining in sweeter earth,
And I into Sam's cloud of august.
We are hearts only bent on fame,
While the ashes of our cousins —
A new lineage in lieu of dirt —
Begs us in their choral aching for a keening.
Title means "Wonderland."
I chose a paragraph at random from an Irish translation of Alice's Adventure's in Wonderland by Lewis Carroll. I then "translated" the paragraph into a poem based solely on the sound of the words, word by word, rather than their meaning. This was the original paragraph:
"Bhí bord arna leagan faoi chrann os comhair an tí agus bhí an Giorria Márta agus an Haitéir ina suí aige: bhí Luch Chodlamáin ina suí eatarthu agus í ina sámhchodladh, agus bhí an bheirt eile ag baint feidhm aisti mar chúisín, a n-uilleanacha ina luí uirthi, agus iad ag comhrá le chéile os a cionn." (tr. Nicholas Williams)
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