#heritage poems on Hello Poetry

Poetic T Mar 2018

Colonial buildings litter the sidewalk,
derelict and rundown. A past that
is fading into the bustle of the street.
Casts mingle, but prejudice lingers.

Tuk-tuks weave through out streets,
collecting tired feet that need a rest.
collecting lunch off street venders,
who greet with smiles, as aromas linger.

Street children, parentless masses sit
on the steps, hands wondering for rupee's.
The taxi doesn't stop, so they shower the path
with change, and they think of their baby at home.

As the old world fades, heritage still lingers.
but contradictions of what was and is contest.
Old ways grasp at the change, but our streets
will soon be a metropolis of fading faces.

"Is this a good thing? or are we moving to fast.

#india #street #heritage #change

alexa Mar 2018

voices.

i get that voicing your opinions and making sure that they're heard is huge thing that has to happen. but it's mostly for today's generation because whenever we try to speak we get talked over. we get backlash. we get " no they're older, wiser. they're right, just let it be. "

but it doesn't matter if you're older. it matters if you're respectful. it matters if you have enough patience to listen to what others have to say before voicing your own thoughts, because they can bring up some good points that make you wrong.

it doesn't matter if you've been on this earth longer or not. it matters if you have enough knowledge to let yourself be wrong.

we are all equal and all have a voice. no matter the age, skin color, heritage, or sexuality.

let us be able to use them.

this is just something that went to being about idiots to this. how, i don't know but it did. have a nice day today, loves :)

#voices #generations #age #skincolor #respect #heritage #sexuality #wise #equality

Donald Charles Mark Keys Feb 2018

Black Enough

In my youth I said I was more than black.
That my melanin was skin deep,
just a glance doesn’t reveal anything.
Time has taught me that I’m black enough.

I’m black enough that I got a college degree
to go with the Oreos kids called me

Black enough to pause when a cop rolls
by, even though I’ve committed no crime.
Black enough that I got family doing time.

Still black enough to be excited
about Black Lightning, Black Panther and Luke Cage.
Black enough to know people will see we are more than rage.

Black enough to never
let anyone call me outside my name,
and to rock twists until they became my mane.

See I’m black enough to know
I’m blessed enough to be made in his image.
That every breath in this body is a privilege.

I’m blessed enough to have two parents at home.
Blessed enough that God’s with me when I roam

I’m blessed enough to use these words as weapons,
cutting down all societal expectations.

Blessed enough to know that yes,
I am more than black,
but I’m still black enough.

My response to a poem i wrote when i was still in high school

#black #blackexcellence #blessed #heritage #faith

A T Bockholdt Dec 2017

Never Had They Seen a Ferris Wheel

On the weathered pier of Huntington
laid upon the salt licked beach,
the old, hull of a forgotten
ship. Split, for its wooden fruit. The juice
of our sweat becoming mist
while we walked the plank,
in suspense, between clouds and sea.
The knotted surface sore
from sun. Burnt backs float
on the waters of their green veins,
like Guamamela1 on the ***** river
banks. “NO ACCESS,” signs in red
and white lights, harshly beating
against the dark skin of the wood,
the memory of another life.
I remember, my Lolo and Lola
bending to the waves of people
pressed still in one space.
The one time, they could hold onto
my hands, I felt them shaking.
In tongues they resurrected
the island, said there none
of this exists.
Why did I laugh?

1. Filipino hibiscus

This is part of collection for a senior portfolio project at CU Denver
Project is intended to represent the stylistic distinctions of great American poets through the imitation of their poetics and/or their subject matter

James Wright wrote on the "outcasts," of society in an attempt to capture the sentimental loneliness that the disenfranchised members of society felt. This poem works to capture the feelings that my Lolo and Lola have felt their entire lives as Filipino Immigrants into America. Using free verse, I have created a narrative story that marries the surreal aspects of memory and reality. Wright also used very purposeful punctuation to enhance the simple rhetoric he uses in his poems which I also attempt to exemplify in this poem.

#wright #culture #heritage #filipino #beach #disparity #hibiscus #flower #piers #california

Colm Nov 2017

Heritage

The mountains and the valleys, the rivers and streams of my childhood call out to me and tell me to return to them and swim again, down below the underneath.

My father loved the meadows. Loves the wildness and the wilderness and the winters growth which is yet to be seen, in both the deer and the withering trees.

And part of me remembers still. Because part of him will always be me.

Yup.

#heritage #trees #woods #wilds #winter #growth #short #blurb #sean #scribblese

Neelesh Chandola Oct 2017

WAXY STAINS FROM DIWALI

A child wakes up , to mosquito bites,
and Christ-on-a-bike-it’s-diwali , the fiesta of lights.
the welcome vibes of halcyon tarried
as hugs and gifts and smiles are carried,
and waving her wrinkles mid-air ,daadi
says today! god , to his land was ferried.

Afar, the bronze herald of worship time,
the temple bell goes off in a celestial chime.
and cometh the priest , for the fire-ritual,
line my pockets now , come on , be spiritual.
but duh! your dhoti hast no pockets , saintly dummy;
tsk.. fret ye not , for it goes straight into my tummy.

mid-morning now , and mummy’s high-strung;
‘dust it well and dust it thorough and dust it till you burst a lung’.
‘garam pakode’ !! cries papa in his croaking tenor ,
‘but one by one’ and now he begins with the manners.
mummy is the last one , picking over the bones,
she always has been , for what a family she owns.

A muezzin somewhere cries the holy decree
heads bow down and a pigeon flies free,
from the onion dome , below the staccato claps
‘Ooparwala ! … ‘ the muezzin gasps ,
and ‘Ooparwala!.. ‘ a crowd chants in tow ,
and ‘Oops ! … ‘ the bird sheds it’s something and *****
soars high , and takes a bow .

hey presto! the night has come.
the moonless night of the homecoming lord.
sweetmeats and sugars and syrups and us ,
laddu-barfi , well , that strikes a chord .

Lakshmi , her owl , the glutton god with his mouse ,
revered an’ pleased an’ fed an’ flattered ,
and coaxed never to leave the house
while out there , bombs and crackers burst and batter.

The witch’s hour already , and the man ain’t home yet
the lord is home , to get things straight,
while the men all out on a greedy conquest;
pennies on the dollar , unwavering faith still,
for the beckoning bait .

A child wakes up , to mosquito bites
gone now is the carnival of lights.
a goddess fled , a father bled
a child scrapes off the waxy remains ,
the leftovers of candles ,pains, and no gains.

#diwali #festivals #india #indian #culture #heritage #poetry #social #evils

sadgirl Sep 2017

name the dogs

after robin coste lewis*

the dogs do not have names
so you just call them
with a whistle
they bark still and still and still

they are not animals
they are just humans
that have lived out their lives
and found a new body

the dogs do not speak english
so you bark back
and they look at you,
ears raised

and mouths dry
and dumb, tongues,
rough like sandpaper
and teeth that shine like enamel pins

the dogs do not run
they move like water
muscles like leaves in
autumn

all you need is
an ocean calling
your name, the dogs
can't give you that

the dogs are all you need,
as they run and whisper to
each other
they do not speak english
so you curse each one in tsimshian

Inspired by Huk-Huk by Robin Coste Lewis and my Alaskan roots. Also, my dogs, Charlie and Sally.

#dogs #bark #animal #dog #pets #animals #alaska #alaskan #heritage #roots

Juniper-Mae Gittens Apr 2017

Reflections on Womanhood

When my grandmother dies,
I hope they fill her casket with flowers.
So that the last time we see her,
she is nestled in amongst
the delicate feathered petals of mountain bluet
haloed by the bright yellow of birdsfoot
the length
of her soft
decaying body
is caressed by the long stalks of bottle brush
and bog candle
so that we can imagine her,
splayed out in a warm field
on the outskirts of St Johns
laughing in the sunlight
the weight
of such a long life,
of mothering so many children,
melting away
into the warm red soil.

I hope the service
is held in a small white church
with all the windows thrown open;
the clear air and the sunlight
tumbling down onto our heads,
onto her lightly clasped hands,
onto her soft lips...

I hope they read poems for her
play light happy songs for her
I hope
everyone remembers to tell her
they love her.
I will ask,
that they bury her somewhere
with a good view of the stars,
lay her to rest where the wind
blows the smell of the ocean over her,
and she can admire the sunrise
under the arms of a gentle Alder.

I hope we remember
that she has loved
so deeply
that she has laughed
and lost
and been so unbearably human
all of her life
even when she has been quiet
even as she has cared for us.

I hope we remember
what a resilient woman she is
but also how tender.
How new she once was,
to love
and to it’s touch.

And when I
am someone’s grandmother
I hope they remember
that even I,
was once somebody’s lover.

#love #death #mother #family #motherhood #heritage #lineage #matriarchy #grandmother #matriarch

Edgar MoneyPenny Mar 2017

My ancestors

The came on the boat, not too long ago.
We are not the natives to this land.
They came in starvation, hearing the call of the huddled masses...
all because one man couldn't plant more than one variety of potato.
They could drink water on the boat but that doesn't stop the thirst,
an irishmen is taken to the bottle at birth, but never weaned.
An unwelcome visitor, no doubt the target of slander, they took up the courage not many would have.
Go West Young Man.

heritage,

#irish #heritage #hashtag