"bloodlines" poems
*So young and trite is the day
Born from this new light
Creatures of the dark and mist curl and wither
Only to return by midlight
The rose afar rises and stretches
Bloodshed velvet bleeds its regal glow
Smooth tips and enticing fragrance
Dark greens, stiff and sharp as spines
Beads of water glisten and shimmer
A blood’s true jewel
Thy shadows came in thy’s slithery way
Enveloping Devil’s Beauty
Charcoal webs and silver-black imprints
Spiral and intertwine, death and blood a dangerous omen
Thy Beauty’s velvet lips decay
A cancer slow moving and fast changing
Taking over thy body in one gulp
Last, final tips of red appear before swallow
Accenting and tracing its last magnificent life
Midlight turns to midnight
Bloodlines disappear
As the wind wails through the dead
A song, chilling, unnerving to us all*
Nov 10, 2012
Nov 10, 2012 at 11:42 AM UTC
i hail from heat, heat
in the heart and in the home, in the head and in the heel of the
sword that swings for both justice and action.
i inherit this love, this life and these virtues like heirlooms.
i inherit this boldness from you
i inherit the air of a highborn lady, while not without the humility of a low born daughter from you
i inherit gentle hands of craft into fists of rage and fire that melt away sorrows from you
i rise and fall, for from you
i breathe.
unspoken it was passed down, and yet it stirs and whispers to me in my bones of
ancient thought and force,
passed down from kin to kin, from one blood to another of
temperance and will
that flow like tradition—
a book written on age-old sandstone pressed eons below the earth,
text mapped in bloodlines over a body, not alone. never fading.
you bid me to rise from dust and ashes into the woman of your forging,
and so with a kiss between my brow for
farewell and fortune
i may live with your light tucked into my heart,
because my inheritance lives within me.
Jul 19, 2018
Jul 19, 2018 at 11:51 AM UTC
We rushed on glorious wings
that fed bombs into Baghdad soil
with feverous lust for a hollow dream.
Now nine long years later,
seventeen bodies lie on earth where oil
engenders a lust that’s even greater.
Seventeen skeletons innocent;
Seventeen bloodlines’ descent.
Karzai’s blank solace and Kandahar’s dead
seventeen lay heavier on the heart than lead.
Three tours were far too many,
the fourth far more than he could take.
A sergeant who’d have given any-
thing for his wife and kids’ sake.
Seeing a good friend’s severe injury –
the last blow Sanity could handle.
Morality goes out – light from a candle
swaddled in smoke’s endless perjury.
Seventeen seconds of forethought
may perhaps have faltered his shot;
Seventeen centuries of ponder
and still the heart may have not grown fonder.
Seventeen lovers left alone,
or loves that’ll never come to pass,
seventeen graves of heavy bones
mark where a madman’s mind broke at last.
Seventeen skeletons innocent;
Seventeen bloodlines’ descent.
Karzai’s blank solace and Kandahar’s dead
seventeen lay heavier on the heart than lead.
Sep 2, 2012
Sep 2, 2012 at 7:49 PM UTC
~~~^¡^~~~
she comes for water
from the wild
dove of desert
nature's child
she of sweetness
plumage neat
buff and ecru
to my feet
she is pure
sleek of line
her's perfection
in design
she's so close
I see her eyes
she's not afraid
of my great size
curious
she looks at me
a wild thing
completely free
what have her
ancients
done and seen?
Manchu Pichu
Inca kings?
missionaries
born in Spain
conquistadors
who've
come for gain
****** men
so brutal, bold
slaughter natives
for their gold
****** in "marriage"
Aztec queens
so now their
bloodlines
are rarely seen
i think on this
Oh! Poorest love!
so much like them
my
Inca dove
soulsurvivor
(C) 6/14/2015
Jun 14, 2015
Jun 14, 2015 at 5:14 PM UTC
I am the first born millennial grown in the digital garden from transplantation.
The data stream flows along with my bloodlines,
Divided, interspersed, like a lava lamp of my own identification.
A bloodline that once worked the fields, and now works the fields of existence,
A bloodline that made its pilgrimage to new land in order to satiate the body,
has now grown to satiate inquiries within the self.
I reflect upon those occasions where I have been told:
“why do you care about the state of affairs for them, you are not of them, you do not act like them
so
you can’t be one of them”
and I clench my tongue, forgive them father, they know not of what they speak”
“Perdonalos padre, no saben nada de que dicen”
The climate of academia is both inviting and yet marking, I feel connected to both intertwined
bloodlines, and markedly separate in a way neither will ever know
“mijo, él esta ****** no dice nada que él no entiende”
But I understand, my name, my appearance, my lineage, they all mark a separation of that cultural
heritage, a combination, a divider,
that lava lamp burns hot from the up down theatrics of where identity will lie
I am the new millennial
Expect us.
Sep 19, 2012
Sep 19, 2012 at 3:01 AM UTC
The color of passion, the color of pain
The color of delusion, the color of flames
I slip my swollen soles into your hallow hysteria
Cracked, fragile feet from the frost bite
of a West Virginia snow
Size six, ruby red stilettos
and I push
and I pull
and I scream
and I sigh
and I try and I try and I try
In my six, ruby red stilettos
Freezing poetic lullabies
Until I can find a place to call my own
Sparks of scarlet bloodlines
Dripping down my spine
Wrestling through rivers
between the spaces in my mind
My heart is much too loud for a place like this
My lips are much too quiet for a place like this
I dance with him in
The color of courage
The color of fame
The color of charisma
The color of strength
The color of my lipstick when its fading through my lies
Much too broken
Much too bold
Bursting into a violet plum
until I am in pieces—
until I decide to throw myself back together again
In my size six, ruby red stilettos
and it wasn't my intention to force them to fit
and I push
and I pull
and I scream
and I sigh
and I sell dignity of my poverty
to get them to come off of me
but once I started dancing
I fell in love with the sound
of my heels clicking
the surface of the floor
and I made myself a home
in my size six, ruby red stilettos.
Dec 17, 2020
Dec 17, 2020 at 1:47 PM UTC
Lips like bloodlines,
Carmilla kisses her mirror
and calls herself dangerous
Naming myself for dead things,
for ruinous things;
fire,
the ash that drank Pompei,
the ivy that made your walls cave,
Was Lady Macbeth sweeping her hair in braids
to nest her crown?
Or Nefertiti painted gold to reclaim God?
I’m asking for the lavender girls
See, we do these things to be holy
to be myths in our skin
Tying feathers to our shoulders
and glitter to our tongues,
thinking
I can be gold if I want to
I can be thorn-tipped ugly
In pink fur, black lace, we kiss the toes
of Courtney Love and Venus in one breath
Cut back
to my blood-laced lips on the mirror
as though saying Narcissus is my idol
my skin placed above heaven
and I wish to love myself so much
I’d choke for it
Nov 28, 2015
Nov 28, 2015 at 4:59 PM UTC
*What is a family?
A group of people that uncannily
look, sound and act as one?
A shared DNA strand?
A whole of many parts?
A scientist may have the answer.
A psychiatrist, a therapist, an evolutionist.
But, my theory is this:
a family, hurts, cries, argues and defies
those who want to tear them apart.
Bloodlines, evolution it's in the mix
but, family hurts, loves, hates and
forgives in equal measure.
Hurt one of us, hurt us all.
Hurt us and I as elder sister will pay you a call*
Oct 14, 2014
Oct 14, 2014 at 7:34 PM UTC
Like dried leaves fluttering
With trembling stems
From an earthly passage, She took
The high road when Winter called
Her back to the elements,
Back to the spiritual vent that yawns with souls.
In her gentleness remained memory – legacy;
A smirk – that fun, secretive thought
Whispering across bloodlines.
I could never know her as well as you --
That tight, heavy knot at the back of your throat.
That dull thud of a monotone ache perched in your gut.
That knowledge that she was two in the same:
Throwing the bread and serving it, too –
Spreading around discipline with comfort to follow.
She was The Maker; The One –
Now faded to brooches, to photographs, to stories.
I felt the muscles in your arm tense (As mine
did, too)
I felt the surge of tears beckon the realities of grief
Like the smoke curling ‘round the swinging censor
I know why you ignored the Holy Man; sermonizing
Her Life as if she were familiar.
His discourse as bitter, acrid tastes upon breathing morning.
His fabricated familiarity – the pinching, twitching nerve between your neck and shoulder.
Holy Man -- Bone Man –
We could proclaim the mysteries of Faith
But She taught us the permanence of Love.
She knew more; what she taught was
Tangible
Alive
Her Lesson more forgiving than any Act of Contrition.
Her Body more sustaining than any wafer of Christ.
Two side of the same blade –
The Love she taught us taught us Grief as well.
When she followed the Holy Man out – the Bone Man -
You, Her Son –
You knew.
You flew out like a sin to forgiveness
And staked your devotion, character, and eternal Love
Upon her dwelling.
One more tangible reckoning of her attendance here;
One more connection that grounded her presence on this plane.
We followed Her – We followed You
Blind to your seeded bond that will never grace any words on a page
Yet drawn to the Lesson she taught
And the Lesson you maintain.
We followed you
Like trails in water : molecules bound and devoting the leader we call Mother.
Sep 23, 2011
Sep 23, 2011 at 11:51 PM UTC
*
*Wedding bells in Thebes
Jewelled treasure about slim throats
Strife passed down bloodlines*
*
Jun 30, 2020
Jun 30, 2020 at 5:41 PM UTC
****** **** such a tragedy.
Between kin bloodlines abominations of unrighteous unity.
Speak loud and spare not, victims stop keeping it hidden.
A sin so scandalous so forbidden.
This secret is the reason for some insane things.
Punishment on our Nation it brings.
Stop the transgress it’s time to progress
to detest the ugliness of ******
The sin of ****** put out from us such wickedness
Crimes within the family.
Outcry why oh God why.
Emotions cry spirits die.
Survival with scars somehow.
Child kept secrets at least for now.
Innocent sweet nectar just taken.
Abused shattered then forsaken.
Inwardly hating the humiliation.
Lingering curse. Bound to be rehearsed.
A bloodline search, unthought-of curse our generation.
How can we cleanse this crime from our nation.
Child **** such outrage of wickedness.
Such a corruptible trespass.
Men lusting after little boys. Using them as ****** toys.
Outcry iniquity. Loss of innocent purity.
Killers of purity, thieves,
bandits doings malicious things in secrecy.
Abused children in mind body and spirit.
Hear their voices silently cry who’s close enough to hear it.
Legal laws. Often with flaws
Putting children in harms way.
Hard to prove it allowing perpetrators often to stay.
Courts judicial systems poor outcome.
Criminals getting counseling with their worst still to be done
It’s a unhealed spiritual condition.
Warriors do our best to rid ourselves of this affliction.
Wrongful unthinkable vexation.
Impure affections of ****** connection.
Between the bloodlines.
Children with Children sexually learned crimes.
Scares of a lifetime.
People wake up let us not be blind.
I beg you I pray.
Let’s do more to protect our children in any way.
Feb 12, 2018
Feb 12, 2018 at 2:15 PM UTC
This is melanin and love and you can't fake this.
Mixing shades of ancestry and bloodlines and pigments that stick to the core.
Somewhere someone peeked in a black woman's ear, straight through to her mind,
Saw a village dancing in her head!
Fires lit, drummers surrounding, same steps synchronized because they were born like this
Nothing but magic how
all the time these drums sounded off in her head
so of course her walk holds steady as a drum
Of course her hips swing with the beat as she steps with the villagers.
Her life becomes syncopated with rhythm
Dancing in all her movements
Never missing a beat
Jun 15, 2015
Jun 15, 2015 at 6:16 PM UTC
Time swirls above me
in the dead of coldest night,
when the witching hour brings you
in copper cloud's delight,
So I can feel you moving,
touch the quivers of my skin,
bursting through the cascades
of the naked storm within
Rushing you inside me
pushing deeper,
deeper in,
tasting salt in tongues
when the droplets cleave the wind
And the boundaries
cease between us:
dissolve where sweat begins.
Torrents sweep in waves
coursing through the joining Syn
Face to face we rise
from the pipes of Pan
within
breathing mist together
as the bird songs wreathe
a ring
of foliage and of flowers
around ancient stones
and altars,
Where all the others leave us
their carrion
in the garbage,
we take Raven with us
and soar
above the bloodlines,
the glisten of the kin
Raising new horizons,
we feel the morning spin,
hatching suns beneath us
in the shadow of our wings,
un-folding life together,
ten-folding on forever ...
and ever ...
Within.
Aug 15, 2012
Aug 15, 2012 at 6:17 PM UTC
I don't move,
I orbit.
I hopscotch the squares where love can be.
Where it has already been.
So,
I don't move [forward],
I orbit [to where I may belong]
I am homesick for everyone
I've ever met.
Most major decisions are based
on the statistic probability of a kiss,
because to be loved
is to be corporeal.
My heart doesn't guide me,
theirs do.
I follow my bloodlines
and shake the tree
for fruit.
This is how it goes:
With each breath I draw,
one for me
one for you.
Dec 10, 2012
Dec 10, 2012 at 2:29 PM UTC
Blackened bird upon my brow;
Corvus Christi on my crown:
Could there be, oh could there be
Balm, sweet Balm in Galilee
Wild Roses grown in Gilead
White Daffodils on Sharon's sea . . .
The shores, the shores of Sharon's sea:
wingtips lapping cedar beams
leave no trail of murrey'd deeds;
tapping shoulders with your blades
rustling in the hollow reeds,
among the Seals of Solomon
Two Lovers, lost in Lebanon,
rose, to where the Stars of David bloom --
She in gules and He in vert . . .
Sable Bird upon our brows;
Corvus Christi on our crowns.
Sep 6, 2013
Sep 6, 2013 at 1:47 AM UTC
my father carries his grandmother's wisdom with him
like a satchel upon his back,
like a palm print;
his own father’s teachings tug like strings
and read like a map worn but never wrong —
one that transcends.
my father knows how to live for himself
for the sake of others.
a hidden art form —
secretive to his son
who only knows how to live for others
for the sake of himself.
i could ask him how he does it,
but he tells me first that i will live and learn and hurt and grow,
and so i know, instead, that i will come to know.
my father carries me in his arms as though i am still one day old,
as though i am still taking my first few tiny gasps of air from this great big world
(the world he built for me),
as though my eyes have not yet become accustomed to the light.
my father’s arms never tire and i know why.
they are satchel and palm print,
strings and map.
i am one day old and sure that my father has lived a thousand lifetimes.
he speaks in bloodlines, holds heritage in his hands and then brings it to his head when it whispers.
like a child holding a shell to his ear, listening to the ocean.
my father knows where to find right answers.
i could ask him how he does it,
but he is already answering.
he has always been answering.
(a.m.)
Jun 23, 2016
Jun 23, 2016 at 10:21 AM UTC
Twenty-three and coming from my teens
I’ve developed along already categorized genes,
By those who think they know me,
When I’m only twenty-three with a molding mentality
I was once vicariously raised through parentally guided means
Socially slit by those that promised me prosperity if I was studious,
Taught the importance of individuality,
Yet forced to be obedient
Then indoctrinated with an educator’s prescription,
An addiction they picked up in a higher institution
I’m finding it hard to follow your lead, when you found nourishment in my youthful innocence,
Socially stitched through generationally fostered fixes
Notions that you could promise me providence,
I’ve been cradled in a crib riddled with termites
Time shows little sympathy for those who have yet to comprehend the promise of a six foot end,
Yet you trained me to believe you didn’t domesticate me
Despite being conceived in a place I was not well received,
You taught the importance of obedience
Yet I’m finding it hard to accept your ancestral credence,
When this place has been passed along bloodlines,
When my generationally guided grandparents' felt the final close of their eyes,
And left me a world pieced together by both atrocities and glimpses of humanity
I’m finding it hard to speak in a world with such narcissistic sympathies of the traditionally raised
Yet I’m socially sutured by the fact that I still breathe,
While being born in a place that once found stability through a slave trade,
A middle passage that led to a devious democracy
I’m so grateful we can mend what barbarians once began,
I’ve had time to age, enough to take the reins,
Though before we build our shrines of this age,
You can still pray for something beyond the grave,
Yet never forget how we've been stranded, left here to continue, or to fray,
To humanize a species that earth derived,
Or to let the braids of life untwine and give way,
During our generations' stay.
Apr 24, 2012
Apr 24, 2012 at 9:25 AM UTC
Little boy Cain finds daddy’s old straightedge
Cracked leather band, wipes the blade on his thigh
Little boy stalks ‘round, slingshot in the sedge
Soft stinging cheeks, striped where bloodlines dry
Little boy breaks ice, cold winter this year
Big brother chops ash with numb hands out back
Little cat hunts mice while the dogs chase deer
One last hammer lash, then leave duties slack
Little boys grow up too soon, mother knows
Brother lain face down by the cutting wedge
Little white-furred pup, matted crimson nose
On the icy ground left in need of sledge
Little too late now for the morning chores
Cries upon his knee, curled by reddened bed
Little boy, head bowed, listens from the floor
Brother, bury me where the raven treads
Brother, forgive me, curse the wanton gods
Now, I walk alone through this land of Nod
Feb 21, 2013
Feb 21, 2013 at 4:29 PM UTC
On your shoulders, slender waisted maiden,
you carried the burdens of this earth: like
Atlas of the old, you of Amazonian strength;
Yet today you sink, weighed down by
the vanishing vestige of shadows aflicker.
Shadows that consume all, engulfing nights,
harbingers dark of conflagrations rise.
Disbelief is our creed. But enough we believe
to vote them to power, our leaders we so love.
Yet in the hour of decision, we must believe
in their indisputable dishonesty.
Yes, aliens are around, Area 51 is for real,
late night appearances on Larry King live?
For the select few, sure, for a select price.
Osama did not die. In fact, exist, he never did.
Flags felled of the towers twin ? False, them false!
How belief, when Iraqs can happen?
Whither the weapons of mass delusion?
Conspiracy. In bloodlines is our interest
but not in the man who gave that blood for us.
Alas those to preach that love vested,
too are in gossip and scandal invested.
Fickle is our love, the mistletoe occupies now
the sacred space of the matronly banyan, and
the owl upside down, for the dove beloved old
Aug 30, 2013
Aug 30, 2013 at 4:50 PM UTC
Welkins so melancholy, welkin so gray,
How mine isolation dost mock me; for
Only the lonesome make sharu fotay.
Bedchamber so hushed, bedchamber of many tears; how I feel thy ivory paint,
How I feel thy pain here.
Hallway so narrow, hallway that breathes, O' hallway, O' hallway, listen when I sing.
Grab mine hand, O' hallway of mine abode,
Mine feet do walk quietly, on thy carpet; thy soul.
Spirit O' spirit, how heavied thou art, soon shalt thou depart; for the world is to much.
Mine skin yearns for kisses, mine fingers for touch, O' many hath wishes, guess I ask for to much.
Mine hair screams loudly, to be caressed, ruffled. How gray art the welkins; when a poet's love is muffled.
Mine hand tis weak, from not having ones grip, mine lips chapped; no wetness
Nor mist.
Mine dance is off, with none holding of hips, mine glance is off; eyes pained
By watching worldliness.
Mine old worn out ninety-sixties Beatles boots art worn, tired they mourn; they've
Walked many miles; on trails I've turned.
They've walked through streets, where dope addicts fiend, I've been that pusher, that user in scenes.
I've dreamt, I've dreamed, hath had many emotions; with mother and dad, I've smoked and mind opened.
Mine hope in God strong, unearthly, outspoken; I'm here on thy globe,
To bring hope to the hopeless.
Mine garb is bygone, outstandish, I'm Irish, Scottish, two types of native American Indian blood; Chickasaw-Choctaw,
From mother's generational flood.
A Greek man's inside me, one of biblical times, with french royalty, even Charlemagne, is connected to
Family of mine.
As well french power, and kings and queens, emperor's, empresses in mine relations; who ruled Rome with
Maximus, and around
Constantine.
With pilgrim cruor from England, that came here on ships; on the Mayflower they traveled, to this place of new bliss.
Even tis I am Swiss, these art mine bloodlines, O' how mine souls old,
A gold refined.
This is me O' Lord, thy lonesome son,
O' this is me God, thy writer
Of love.
Welkins so melancholy, welkin so gray,
How much longer O' loneliness; til
Thou shalt go away.
Tonight, O' tonight, shalt be silence once again;
Thus the dream of being held, is just
A thought with none end.
© Brandon nagley
© Lonesome poets poetry
Mar 26, 2017
Mar 26, 2017 at 8:41 PM UTC
up on Boot Hill
the sun sets early
the soaked anguish
of grieving mothers
swaddled in
twilight's vestments
mourn the death
of another murdered
child
we roll our eyes
and speak in tongues
tiny prayers
incant
RIP
these reflexive bits,
our shattered votives
litter city boulevards
on each solemn
street corner
new alters
of desecration
are erected
then despoiled with
the wasted wax of
misspent novenas
our extended families
are bloodlines of fear
spawning
prostrate men
tattooed with
multicolored pain
who refuse to cover
body marks
bespeaking epic tales
of sorrow,
divisions
countless separations
also marking
righteous reasons
of seething
resentments
eager to settle
accounts
sweet vendettas
clever ambushes
carefully deliberated
for generations
by discordant clans
believing in malice
exalting guns
shared loss
is our
common
affliction
uniting everyone
in envelopes of sadness
becoming live
Dear John letters
bearing news of dearly
departed loves
atop the coffins
of dead children
votives pile high
with scrawled eulogies
of fevered graffiti
solemnly pledging
“gonna make someone suffer
gonna even the score
never forget you
RIP”
and we all die
looking stupid as hell
lamenting
love don’t rest in peace
hearing
it scream from the grave
witnessing
the hallowed earth
churning with revulsion
accepting the bitter ashes
of another dead child
for the love of you
is your funeral march
love don’t RIP
it stalks the tomb
of indifference
it mourns
the ambivalence
of its devaluation
it haunts the
day dreams
of what could
have been
it restlessly
flits among
the playgrounds
of our minds
cluttering the rooms
of our homes
with grief
up on Boot Hill
we clasp the
small hands
protruding from
shallow graves
groping to find
a graceful sleep
for love don’t
rest in peace
Stevie Wonder:
Love Is In Need of Love Today
Written to honor
Love Appreciation Day
jbm
Oakland
1/19/13
Feb 18, 2013
Feb 18, 2013 at 5:45 PM UTC
i like that my bloodlines
run like your bloodlines
like the salty sea spray
you exhale when you
dream at night
Jun 26, 2015
Jun 26, 2015 at 2:22 AM UTC
I walked into that room and saw you’re body lying there,
I barely recognized you; lacking life, muscle and hair.
I looked into your open eyes like I never did before,
and spoke looking at your face instead of averting gaze to floor.
If they asked me to identify or claim, I can’t say that I could,
I never truly knew you or felt the connection that I should.
You were given the curse of cancer,
but gifted the knowledge and time,
but did you ever even think that the answer
could be to reach out your hand to mine?
I had so much I never said,
maybe you had the same.
I’ll remain running the sentences in my head,
but never question if I should feel blame.
For a child to not know a parent is easy as night and day,
as much as I should’ve known you, you should’ve known me the same way.
Now my sister and I are the only ones here,
the only ones with your name and blood,
and it shouldn’t even be a question or fear
if we were ever truly loved.
Nov 3, 2020
Nov 3, 2020 at 12:48 PM UTC
my bloodlines have turned to fault lines
because of lines drawn in the sand.
Nov 18, 2018
Nov 18, 2018 at 9:31 PM UTC