.Digging for my roots,
Through fragrant soil,
Rocks scrape my wrists,
Entangled in the maze,
Rich with the past,
My ancestors are lost in the dirt,
Their names forgotten, but they are there in my DNA,
Marking me with their gifts, their trauma, their choices,
I am not one,
I am many.
11/2017 by Leah Oviedo @ ImpowerYou.org
The chill arrives like an old friend
I put on more layers, ready to go out
And welcome it with a smile
Of course, I have been expecting it
But somehow, it always makes an entrance
I walk through the streets
Of the waking city, it wakes
Like a little child, still longing for sleep
Yet also yearning for sunshine
So it wakes and climbs out of bed anyways
There are parents walking their excited children to school,
Cars rushing past trying to avoid highly likely traffic congestion,
Workers walking to and fro
And tourists going from one tourist spot to the next
I have come to feel like this city
I have come to feel like
A body overcome by impermanence
With a heart that drums and lulls
To the transcience that has crawled its way it
It is a city of transient souls
But this city is a home carved out of
Pine, and dirt, and spirit
And people find their place in it
If only for a little while
It is a cradle of warmth despite the often gloomy weather
It is a mother singing lullabyes to souls adrift and floating in the wind
It lends itself as a port in the middle of a storm,
An archive for the better and the worse,
And a friend, a companion,
For one trying journey
The chill lingers and the cold is biting
I pull my jacket tighter around myself and realize
The city has come alive
And me, I notice my heart is beating
Just a little bit faster, but it's stronger
Because this city holds me close
Despite all the vanishing acts
It stays here, grounding me and everyone in it
It has grown roots the size of centennial trees
And it is here, will stay
Ready to give refuge to every wandering soul
Their faces never frown,
Their spirits never drown,
The Jazzmen in suits
Play from town to town.
In halls, clubs and streets,
Odd-time signatures & beats;
Proud of their roots,
Humble in their feats.
Not afraid to improvise,
Sounds too cool to criticize;
Puts a rhythm in your boots
From sundown to sunrise.
Masters of their axe,
Piano, drums, bass, sax
The Jazzmen in suits
will help you relax.
I have been the thunder
tearing through life with a heavy heart
drenching my soul with sorrow
as if in a dark cloud
I was surrounded by my own grief
over not living the life I had always dreamed
afraid of the wind ripping my roots out of the ground like flowers in a thunderstorm
not realizing that like the sun,
I will always find my way back
We are desperately clinging to the past
We cannot let it go
We clutch on to it with sweaty palms
Out grasp is slipping
We cling hopelessly to the familiarity of the past
But it can't last
We have to sever the grasp
Against our will,
the hold slips
Lost in the abyss of the past.
We must take an axe to our Roots
Nature will run its course and plant our seeds where they need to be
in order to evolve into a stronger, greater species
After letting go, we let the wind carry our soles elsewhere
Soles sink into new healthy soil
We look behind us
Waiting to see the past chasing us, struggling to catch up
But our eyes behold a new unfamiliar landscape
that's ready to take us through a new adventure
We yearn for new self discovery
Passion sizzling in our stems
It may feel like a storm, but it is a mere shower that all flowers need in order to grow and blossom.
Chiefs of clans.
Children of chiefs.
Close knit communities.
Coins. Captures. Chains.
Chained to you.
Chained to the cruise.
Kill me. Kill he. Kill she.
Chastise. Cracked whips.
Kunta, no Toby.
Christ of captives,
No, kill him.
Knots, no more.
No, change chains.
Coerce without cognition of
Of civic correction.
Civilians conform society.
Combatants conquer and confer.
Did not conceive,
Concede. Not Conceit.
Kings cower before
Queens cope. Queens cry.
Queens coordinate, combat,
Condemn, don’t compromise,
And command cessation
To corrupt civilization.
Coils, kinks, curls.
Let me go back to the roots: deep, deep, deeeeeeeeeeep within the soils of the ground, weaving in and out of each other and then, finally, intertwining at the end of it all.
Just to reach as deep as roots, see all that the Nile has seen, feel all that the oceans have felt, how then would I feel about throwing a rock into deep water or stealing a seemingly small fish?
Reaching far like the snow covered peaks of Everest; but seemingly never ending like the brave leap off the cliff ...
They’re traced back to your hand.
Where the lakes meet the palatial forests,
Ensconced by a foreign land,
Ink stains, summer ice cream, soccer matches.
They spell what raised you from the ground.
They pull you to the motherland.
Whispering to you in unfamiliar characters,
On a train across the vast verdant terrain,
Reliving the arduous lives of your predecessors.
You are a product of cold animosity and two rivals.