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"inherited" poems
1995 saw the start of Generation Z, the ‘iKids’ with a knack for this new-fangled technology, Millennial 2.0, caught in the limbo of the World Wide Web development and Rose Gold iPhones. They say we’re adaptable, but apparently we can’t make our own decisions about anything. They say that we don’t care about anything except for our tiny little screens, but they forget who put them in our hands, and they forget who they run to for help when they forget how to troubleshoot. They forget what kind of technology we need to keep sustaining life in the Information Age, Caught in a crossfire because Yeah, we’re 90s kids—but the 90s never really actually ended until 2006, the only difference between two decades being how much neon versus how much chrome, and just how expensive accidentally opening the internet app on your mom’s blackberry phone was. We’re nostalgic for all the things we can’t quite remember, and half these high schoolers weren’t actually born until 2000 or 2001. Most of us aren’t old enough to even remember 9/11, nothing outside of the news clips that our teachers show us in history class every single September. I was born in the same year as the Columbine shootings. The United States has not been at peace for a year of my life. We are always fighting— fighting for everything. Human equality, posing arguments about micro aggressions and refugees, seeing the inhumanity in the past that we’re living. None of us are older than 21, under such hard scrutiny while Baby Boomers Wave 2 still run our country. We inherited the Millenial’s exhaustion, the generation before us spending our childhood fighting for all the things that we have never really believed in. Fairytales. Generation Z. The ‘iKids’ who are going to one day be making leaps and bounds with technology, the generation to nurse this dying planet back to health, Millennials 2.0 who know how to learn from our forerunners’ mistakes, who know how to adapt from Sidekicks to iPhone 6S Plus in less than a decade. We’re the kids who have realized that fun is found in safe spaces rather than invading each other’s personal spaces. They say we’re too sensitive, but at the same time they claim that we’re desensitized. And I thought we were the generation that couldn't make decisions.
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Apr 11, 2016
Apr 11, 2016 at 9:21 PM UTC
generation Z
1995 saw the start of Generation Z, the ‘iKids’ with a knack for this new-fangled technology, Millennial 2.0, caught in the limbo of the World Wide Web development and Rose Gold iPhones. They say we’re adaptable, but apparently we can’t make our own decisions about anything. They say that we don’t care about anything except for our tiny little screens, but they forget who put them in our hands, and they forget who they run to for help when they forget how to troubleshoot. They forget what kind of technology we need to keep sustaining life in the Information Age, Caught in a crossfire because Yeah, we’re 90s kids—but the 90s never really actually ended until 2006, the only difference between two decades being how much neon versus how much chrome, and just how expensive accidentally opening the internet app on your mom’s blackberry phone was. We’re nostalgic for all the things we can’t quite remember, and half these high schoolers weren’t actually born until 2000 or 2001. Most of us aren’t old enough to even remember 9/11, nothing outside of the news clips that our teachers show us in history class every single September. I was born in the same year as the Columbine shootings. The United States has not been at peace for a year of my life. We are always fighting— fighting for everything. Human equality, posing arguments about micro aggressions and refugees, seeing the inhumanity in the past that we’re living. None of us are older than 21, under such hard scrutiny while Baby Boomers Wave 2 still run our country. We inherited the Millenial’s exhaustion, the generation before us spending our childhood fighting for all the things that we have never really believed in. Fairytales. Generation Z. The ‘iKids’ who are going to one day be making leaps and bounds with technology, the generation to nurse this dying planet back to health, Millennials 2.0 who know how to learn from our forerunners’ mistakes, who know how to adapt from Sidekicks to iPhone 6S Plus in less than a decade. We’re the kids who have realized that fun is found in safe spaces rather than invading each other’s personal spaces. They say we’re too sensitive, but at the same time they claim that we’re desensitized. And I thought we were the generation that couldn't make decisions.
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shades of Melanin. It was gifted to us from the supreme. It all started from that gift which is only inherited from us; That we gave the world an enchanting and seductive formula. From creamy vanilla to lustful ebony. A rainbow of, melanin. We are the light and the dark here on mother earth. We glisten in the sun and glow in the moonlight. We are the reign of earth and the creators of life. Thanking the heavens for the shades of melanin.
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Jul 20, 2016
Jul 20, 2016 at 9:13 PM UTC
Shades Of Melanin
somewhere between the fourth and fifth load of laundry, sometime after breakfast~lunch, now served in the USA at home, as an all day meal, per the edict of Mcdonalds, start fixing dinner, take a break, walk to the mailbox, retrieve the post and quick retreat back inside, ah that Texas sun, bilingual chili hot, toss the unopened on the prior weeks pile, cause everyone loves company the home-cold-brewed ice coffee needs a filling for the fridge has decided not to help by automatically refilling the pitcher even if it could I, busy folding, needing two hands and all my teeth for folding my master’s rocket ship sheets my master observes with one of his alternating demeanors, this one, super silent watching, announcing that  I need a nap: *“don't you always say, baby, take a nap when you can, baby, for when you need one, baby, you probably won’t be able, my baby”* with selected-hand-led fingers, he lays me down to sleep, bids me to slow slide to dreamland, dinner will keep, curling inside my frame, hands a-cupping my *******   telling me a drowsy tale, inherited from his mother’s womb and his granddaddy’s tongue, mindful of his family’s history there, is where, they find us, dinner fixings burnt, me and my five year old baby boy, still sleeping fast, around 5pm, bodies enwrapped, tied by blood and entwined in old nursery rhymes, Texas tall tales of Pecos Bill, me and my very own nap-ster master <•> p.s.  and they call me by my other name to wake me, momma
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Sep 17, 2018
Sep 17, 2018 at 1:14 PM UTC
Texas: My Very Own Nap-ster Master
somewhere between the fourth and fifth load of laundry, sometime after breakfast~lunch, now served in the USA at home, as an all day meal, per the edict of Mcdonalds, start fixing dinner, take a break, walk to the mailbox, retrieve the post and quick retreat back inside, ah that Texas sun, bilingual chili hot, toss the unopened on the prior weeks pile, cause everyone loves company the home-cold-brewed ice coffee needs a filling for the fridge has decided not to help by automatically refilling the pitcher even if it could I, busy folding, needing two hands and all my teeth for folding my master’s rocket ship sheets my master observes with one of his alternating demeanors, this one, super silent watching, announcing that  I need a nap: *“don't you always say, baby, take a nap when you can, baby, for when you need one, baby, you probably won’t be able, my baby”* with selected-hand-led fingers, he lays me down to sleep, bids me to slow slide to dreamland, dinner will keep, curling inside my frame, hands a-cupping my *******   telling me a drowsy tale, inherited from his mother’s womb and his granddaddy’s tongue, mindful of his family’s history there, is where, they find us, dinner fixings burnt, me and my five year old baby boy, still sleeping fast, around 5pm, bodies enwrapped, tied by blood and entwined in old nursery rhymes, Texas tall tales of Pecos Bill, me and my very own nap-ster master <•> p.s.  and they call me by my other name to wake me, momma
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I've inherited my mother's fear And my father's bitterness And he inherited his father's recklessness And his mother's pain And she inherited And he inherited And we've inherited hatred of our own kind Passed down from the terrorists who have colonized the lands and minds and bodies of my ancestors And I can feel the anguish & the effects of this hereditary agony from here; I am ready to heal.
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Dec 4, 2018
Dec 4, 2018 at 7:19 PM UTC
Generational trauma
*he is screaming but no one can hear him she is singing but no one listens he is lost but no one is looking for him she is searching and finds that she is alone* words go unanswered no matter what is said they fall upon deaf ears and reverberate into deep unknown places an orchestra in the ocean performed in a foreign frequency a song lost in translation heard by many but meaningful to none *he is asking but no one answers she is begging but no one gives he is following but no one leads she is leading but no one will follow* uniqueness is your downfall strength lies in being the same in possessing the inherited dialect of survival that cannot be achieved it is a birth right as natural as your name but instead of deserved solace you received the gift of 52 hertz of loneliness *he is calling but receives no answers she is crying but finds no comfort he is sinking but no one knows she is dying and no one cares* doomed to drift through bottomless, indigo twilight being carried on the waves of your own erie lament the sound of your sadness is the cause of your isolation your desperate song remains your only hope and it will never cease someone, someday will hear you and answer your heart wrenching pleas someone, someday singing love songs in the deep
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Jan 25, 2012
Jan 25, 2012 at 4:36 PM UTC
52 Hertz Whale
A widespread condition related to nutrition is lactose intolerance that is in essence the inability to digest and assimilate the milk sugar-lactose-the substrate that is acted upon by lactase- the specific enzyme over a period of time. This may happen suddenly and generally at any age most unexpectedly. Lactose intolerance is caused by the absence of the enzyme lactase that breaks down lactose to the simple sugars- glucose and galactose. The condition may be secondary,  congenital, or developmental. Secondary lactose intolerance invariably has its occurrence related to a gastrointestinal infection and its disappearance is linked to the causative factor’s correction. This type of intolerance- (certainly a nuisance) is reversible if we are a bit careful. Congenital lactose intolerance, an inherited form of intolerance, is a rare genetic  abnormality that one can unearth soon after an infant’s birth. This need not cause any fear as it lasts only half a year. Developmental lactose intolerance also known as primary  intolerance is one wherein the enzyme synthesis is progressively less during childhood and this persists into adulthood. Gita Ashok 24/10/2011, 2 pm
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Oct 24, 2011
Oct 24, 2011 at 4:58 AM UTC
Lactose Intolerance
I saw you staring blankly in your room You were lying down, like energy has nowhere to bloom Mama always deliver you food You don't eat with us anymore I heard you cried, Mama told us about it I understand why and my heart wrenched I wish I can do or say something, anything But I don't know what act or words will be soothing I know your body misses to puff that smoke from a cigarette It is hard to stop, friends who've been there told me about it But you had to, we've been telling you to And because your body is also disappointing you I wonder where your sweetness has gone to Maybe they literally seeped into your blood and runs through Maybe I had inherited it in my veins too Don't worry I am proud, because this is from you Worrying has been your hobby lately Because our youngest still has one more year 'til she finishes her college degree The house, electricity, water expenses, and the money Because you could work no more, as per your exhausted and old body I wanted to tell you that everything's gonna be alright But, Papa, I cannot lie I honestly don't know if it will I am also doubtful, I am also worried But Papa, as your eldest, I am ready To take on the responsibility you carried I know, I know, it'll be heavy But I can do it, don't worry about me You have worked hard enough See, we already came this far If it wasn't for you, I wouldn't have had The best family I can wish for, and the best of life So please, be energetic again Please eat with us again Please dry your tears Please get well Please tell us those sweet-nothings Or the corny jokes that had us laughing And we'll tell you, you're still the most handsome being Our eyes have ever seen So get a lot of rest This is just an obstacle, a test Sit back and relax Just watch your eldest, just watch
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May 22, 2015
May 22, 2015 at 5:28 AM UTC
To Papa
I saw you staring blankly in your room You were lying down, like energy has nowhere to bloom Mama always deliver you food You don't eat with us anymore I heard you cried, Mama told us about it I understand why and my heart wrenched I wish I can do or say something, anything But I don't know what act or words will be soothing I know your body misses to puff that smoke from a cigarette It is hard to stop, friends who've been there told me about it But you had to, we've been telling you to And because your body is also disappointing you I wonder where your sweetness has gone to Maybe they literally seeped into your blood and runs through Maybe I had inherited it in my veins too Don't worry I am proud, because this is from you Worrying has been your hobby lately Because our youngest still has one more year 'til she finishes her college degree The house, electricity, water expenses, and the money Because you could work no more, as per your exhausted and old body I wanted to tell you that everything's gonna be alright But, Papa, I cannot lie I honestly don't know if it will I am also doubtful, I am also worried But Papa, as your eldest, I am ready To take on the responsibility you carried I know, I know, it'll be heavy But I can do it, don't worry about me You have worked hard enough See, we already came this far If it wasn't for you, I wouldn't have had The best family I can wish for, and the best of life So please, be energetic again Please eat with us again Please dry your tears Please get well Please tell us those sweet-nothings Or the corny jokes that had us laughing And we'll tell you, you're still the most handsome being Our eyes have ever seen So get a lot of rest This is just an obstacle, a test Sit back and relax Just watch your eldest, just watch
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Its in these waters, when I was merely a Parr Or as you might refer to me as a fry, This wise but young Brook Trout cruised the slow water with my kinfolk fry. Moving to and fro hiding among the biome vegetation The sunlight supported my living space and warmed my growth rings. I dart in and out of the oxygenated seams which help me flourish. Some days, I had to use stealth to outwit the pine marten and warblers, I shadowed the cattail and watched them fill their bellies with those around me. But I felt fate had a purpose for me to be something special. And When the time was right, I'd propel myself above the water into the night air. The large circle of orange light filled my eyes and the night sky was filled with luminary. I imagined what it must be like to live outside this riffle domain. This morning, through my refractory vision I spot some floating objects, And through an inherited sensory recall I can see these are hatching green Drakes. I immediately shoot to the surface and fill my stomach, then swim back to the undercut for cover. As the years pass by and maturity abounds,  I find my self settling in behind a large boulder Right at the tail out of the back eddy, providing me with an ample food supply. And it's here I prefer to live my life in the slow current, content and peaceful. And one day as I swam into the current seam, I spotted what appeared to be, A different looking bug with yellow belly,  so I make my move. He's not moving much so I decide to raise my head above the water line and sip. As I grab the hopper I start to slide back behind the boulder, When I feel a pinch, as if someone try's to pull me towards the surface I fight with all my might but this force proves to be stronger than I. It's now I realize a human reels me towards the shore line, and I'm fearful. This one called a human, grabs my tail and places his hand on my under belly. Pulling me from my home, he dislodges the hook from my mouth. I gasp for oxygen. He looks me over from nose to tail, smiles and says how beautiful I am. He looks me in the eye And says " This was a wonderful fight my friend, enjoy the rest of your life, He places me back in water, gently reviving me and finally lets me swim away. I dare to turn and look back at him for a moment and as he continues to watch me, I hear him say " I fish, knowing everyday on this stream is a gift."
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Feb 7, 2017
Feb 7, 2017 at 3:59 PM UTC
The Tail Out - A Brook Trout Story
Its in these waters, when I was merely a Parr Or as you might refer to me as a fry, This wise but young Brook Trout cruised the slow water with my kinfolk fry. Moving to and fro hiding among the biome vegetation The sunlight supported my living space and warmed my growth rings. I dart in and out of the oxygenated seams which help me flourish. Some days, I had to use stealth to outwit the pine marten and warblers, I shadowed the cattail and watched them fill their bellies with those around me. But I felt fate had a purpose for me to be something special. And When the time was right, I'd propel myself above the water into the night air. The large circle of orange light filled my eyes and the night sky was filled with luminary. I imagined what it must be like to live outside this riffle domain. This morning, through my refractory vision I spot some floating objects, And through an inherited sensory recall I can see these are hatching green Drakes. I immediately shoot to the surface and fill my stomach, then swim back to the undercut for cover. As the years pass by and maturity abounds,  I find my self settling in behind a large boulder Right at the tail out of the back eddy, providing me with an ample food supply. And it's here I prefer to live my life in the slow current, content and peaceful. And one day as I swam into the current seam, I spotted what appeared to be, A different looking bug with yellow belly,  so I make my move. He's not moving much so I decide to raise my head above the water line and sip. As I grab the hopper I start to slide back behind the boulder, When I feel a pinch, as if someone try's to pull me towards the surface I fight with all my might but this force proves to be stronger than I. It's now I realize a human reels me towards the shore line, and I'm fearful. This one called a human, grabs my tail and places his hand on my under belly. Pulling me from my home, he dislodges the hook from my mouth. I gasp for oxygen. He looks me over from nose to tail, smiles and says how beautiful I am. He looks me in the eye And says " This was a wonderful fight my friend, enjoy the rest of your life, He places me back in water, gently reviving me and finally lets me swim away. I dare to turn and look back at him for a moment and as he continues to watch me, I hear him say " I fish, knowing everyday on this stream is a gift."
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A Serotinous Pine there, Where winter snows soak into thirsty soil but relentless summer sun bakes motionless Every plant a tinder held close to conflagration, in a season's Russian roulette of forest fire. This pine seals precious seed away from every spring’s promise, lest burning destroys every one. Only searing heat during torched consumption triggers the last gentle act, At the knife’s edge of apocalypse itself, opening cones of seeds. Fluttering down to new life on the other side of time. Tiny bright green amid black ashes. Swimming Penguins Birds evolved to fly in ocean. Wings to flippers, feet stepping clumsily from water. Yet eggs must still nest, their babies still breathe. Safety is the very precipice of existence, on bitter ice at 60 below, Sheltering their young clustered from blistering winds, fasting from sustenance, While heaven’s glorious Aurora flame silently over their winter dreams. So what then are we, on This Earth? Cerebral Creatures, Storytelling Animals. Minds created to sense spiritual constructs. Living is the method of our creation, Sheltering each other from inherited trials With contrived joys and sufferings distracting each other from the soul freezing fearful cold of the Empty Void And consuming fire of electric chaos. In the End, our sacrificing gift for our children is God.
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Dec 13, 2012
Dec 13, 2012 at 1:37 AM UTC
This Earth, This Life
I learned how to draw dragons in 3rd grade. I did so compulsively, and voraciously because it was therapeutic. But they loathed me, and inherited no majesty from whom they were made. Though I loved them. And I empathyzed with what they would never be. Because what if my creator had no plans for me.
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May 19, 2015
May 19, 2015 at 1:17 AM UTC
Empty Dragons
A SOCIETY WRITTEN IN FLAMES; SHROUDED IN DARKNESS *The tears flows in an endless way Bemoaning the days of yore Watching with eyes that sparks red, Sunken and beaten from the tragedies of yore Helpless and wishing for a relentless call As tragedy hits her most sensitive part, Bemoaning the tides, All her days of glory, Now a shadowy story* *She had been ***** by her very own, The children she yearned and bled for, The men she fed and trained, Where her rain fell full and vast, to soothe their hearts Where she gave it all, and smiled, hoping that someday, they will realize her sacrifices and sleepless nights, Her nights of terror and horrors Where she stood in the midst of the stormy eerie night, shrouded in darkness* *It was her ******* they ****** and clunged to, It was her arms that shielded them from the shadows of the dark, But when they grew and flew, She waited still Praying and wishing they would remember the days of yore* *Then the dark hour rolled away, And when morning came, it was harrowing. It was harrowing how she waited abandoned and dejected, As her sons and daughters peaked at the sky, Trampling her down, Relegating and belittling her Painful it were, as she cried from the agonies of the days of yore, Where she laid all her virtues down, Giving it all to see her children smile,* *It is this dejection that has brought her to tears, It is this wickedness of a child to a mother, that has made her weep endlessly It is this tragedy that have swallowed her glory, As her children keeps flying above huddles, in peace and harmony, Forgetting her, It is this callousness, that pushed them to sapping her virtues and enriching themselves with it thereon* *What is worse than a child abandoning his mother? It is this penchant, that drives them It is the love of greed, It is the seed of corruption, It is not an inherited trait, It is a despicable decision Like a monstrous shadow, Twirling the back of the night. It is the fire that burns within their heart, The fire to **** steal and destroy To take what she can never give again To live, To live big at the expenses of others sorrow and agony It is this evil that has perused Nigeria and has rendered her a roaming wretch And now tragedy looms, It booms and blooms,* A society written in flames Who will save MOTHER NIGERIA? Ovi Odiete© 2016, Oct. 31 All rights reserved Note Children here signifies the evil politicians and men that has sapped our country dry with their evil penchant
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Oct 31, 2016
Oct 31, 2016 at 7:03 AM UTC
"~~Nigeria-Written in Flames~~"
A SOCIETY WRITTEN IN FLAMES; SHROUDED IN DARKNESS *The tears flows in an endless way Bemoaning the days of yore Watching with eyes that sparks red, Sunken and beaten from the tragedies of yore Helpless and wishing for a relentless call As tragedy hits her most sensitive part, Bemoaning the tides, All her days of glory, Now a shadowy story* *She had been ***** by her very own, The children she yearned and bled for, The men she fed and trained, Where her rain fell full and vast, to soothe their hearts Where she gave it all, and smiled, hoping that someday, they will realize her sacrifices and sleepless nights, Her nights of terror and horrors Where she stood in the midst of the stormy eerie night, shrouded in darkness* *It was her ******* they ****** and clunged to, It was her arms that shielded them from the shadows of the dark, But when they grew and flew, She waited still Praying and wishing they would remember the days of yore* *Then the dark hour rolled away, And when morning came, it was harrowing. It was harrowing how she waited abandoned and dejected, As her sons and daughters peaked at the sky, Trampling her down, Relegating and belittling her Painful it were, as she cried from the agonies of the days of yore, Where she laid all her virtues down, Giving it all to see her children smile,* *It is this dejection that has brought her to tears, It is this wickedness of a child to a mother, that has made her weep endlessly It is this tragedy that have swallowed her glory, As her children keeps flying above huddles, in peace and harmony, Forgetting her, It is this callousness, that pushed them to sapping her virtues and enriching themselves with it thereon* *What is worse than a child abandoning his mother? It is this penchant, that drives them It is the love of greed, It is the seed of corruption, It is not an inherited trait, It is a despicable decision Like a monstrous shadow, Twirling the back of the night. It is the fire that burns within their heart, The fire to **** steal and destroy To take what she can never give again To live, To live big at the expenses of others sorrow and agony It is this evil that has perused Nigeria and has rendered her a roaming wretch And now tragedy looms, It booms and blooms,* A society written in flames Who will save MOTHER NIGERIA? Ovi Odiete© 2016, Oct. 31 All rights reserved Note Children here signifies the evil politicians and men that has sapped our country dry with their evil penchant
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inspired by Ben Noah Suri <*> come to us in twilight, and just before sunrise, in the in~between times, when souls exit and enter. through microscopic cosmic windows, and there is nothing but you and the full emptiness of earth and then! fill our void with words as yet unborn, and aid all our passages from nether to glory... for you, we, await... for guidance inherited from all your visions of greater-than-us metamorphosis <*> upon first awakening and reaffirmation of life, reading the first poem of the day 6:59am Sabbath Sep 13 2025
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Sep 20, 2025
Sep 20, 2025 at 7:01 AM UTC
We Await For All of You (1)
I may have forgotten some things about you but there are some things I could never forget They are ingrained in all I do... I wear green as much as I can It's my favorite color because it shows off my green eyes that I inherited from you You always said my eyes and smile are my best features I can still see your long legs in the bathtub Bent in like a happy frog just trying to relax Yet you still had time for a conversation with me I wish I would have inherited those long legs of yours :) I wash my face with nozema because when I smell it I think of you When Christmas comes around I buy Andes chocolate mints and make spice tea because they both remind me of you As long as I live and breathe you will always be remembered I love and miss you always ~ Dear Mama Merry Christmas
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Dec 19, 2017
Dec 19, 2017 at 9:30 AM UTC
Dear Mama
Mirrors are all traitors As in them I can see Just what a monster I am; That I will always be. I have lumps and and spots That make me unloveable. And everything I eat is Another bite of trouble. Why can’t I ever look Like the models in the book? Why is it that I Can’t look myself in the eye? No one will look longingly At the gorgon I turned out to be. I don’t watch cartoons Because what I see is me What did I do to deserve To become so **** ugly? Did I cross the path of a cat That was an omen meant to warn And I ignored it so now I inherited this awful form? Why can’t I be the kind With a beautifully formed behind? I wish it was my history To stimulate evil jealousy. I want to look like a dream, But instead I must surrender A fragile wish, as it seems An unfilled hope altogether. Some friends are sweet to me They say I look fine to them, But I know what I can see And I deserve no diadem.
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Jun 7, 2017
Jun 7, 2017 at 11:06 PM UTC
BODY DYSMORPHIA
The shadows have their seasons, too. The feathery web the budding maples cast down upon the sullen lawn bears but a faint relation to high summer's umbrageous weight and tunnellike continuum- black leached from green, deep pools wherein a globe of gnats revolves as airy as an astrolabe. The thinning shade of autumn is an inherited Oriental, red worn to pink, nap worn to thread. Shadows on snow look blue. The skier, exultant at the summit, sees his poles elongate toward the valley: thus each blade of grass projects another opposite the sun, and in marshes the mesh is infinite, as the winged eclipse an eagle in flight drags across the desert floor is infinitesimal. And shadows on water!- the beech bough bent to the speckled lake where silt motes flicker gold, or the steel dock underslung with a submarine that trembles, its ladder stiffened by air. And loveliest, because least looked-for, gray on gray, the stripes the pearl-white winter sun hung low beneath the leafless wood draws out from trunk to trunk across the road like a stairway that does not rise.
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4.7k
Penumbrae
White body kills Black body But no body saw a thing. Every body has an opinion But no body has the truth. White body thought that it could Beat the blackness out of Black body But Black body stayed black. Black body cried out, "Some body! Please! Help! This violates ****** rights!" But still, no body heard a thing. White body has weapons It inherited from its ancestors:             Police             White Privilege             Justice System             Freedom             Hypocrisy             Lies             Gun. Black body had a weapon too:            None White body stays free, remorseless While Black body lies in the ground. White body's name is America. Black body's name was Black Body.
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Oct 26, 2017
Oct 26, 2017 at 6:20 PM UTC
Bodies
I dream of innocence of days long spent beneath summers sun a Carpenters son and royal daughter a Queen and a martyr one girl one boy eyes fuse like alloy caught in a sudden trance a courtship dance loves hypnotic rituals of star filled visuals white lights against black night white Knight versus black Knight this is now a game of chess strategizing what to do next. Three is a crowd how I wish he wasn't around your first mistake so I sit and wait for the nightmare to be over for my Knights mare to save her I already know the pain she's due it's as old as the sun, this rain isn't new nothing washes away infidelities sinning nothing can make them white sheets of linen once innocence is lost like paradise if only you took another roll at the dice maybe fate is predetermined numbers and maybe innocence only exists in slumber maybe it was lost at birth maybe it's just an ancient curse inherited from days long ago maybe we were never white as snow. But still I have this martyrs cause yet still I never really give pause the Knight that sacrifices for his Queen for he has already witnessed all to be seen history repeating itself Déjà vu sapping our health reincarnated pain can the black Knight ever be slain? or is it just another side of the coin everyone is still curtain drawing hiding from the dark the day that's lost its spark black night only masks the sun black Knight versus the Carpenters son but white lights appear in the sky the white night is there when we die when our numbers finally up when our slumber finally stops the ending of the night maybe we aren't really Knights maybe we are all just pawns so innocence can be reborn.
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Aug 18, 2016
Aug 18, 2016 at 8:44 PM UTC
Innocence Reborn
I dream of innocence of days long spent beneath summers sun a Carpenters son and royal daughter a Queen and a martyr one girl one boy eyes fuse like alloy caught in a sudden trance a courtship dance loves hypnotic rituals of star filled visuals white lights against black night white Knight versus black Knight this is now a game of chess strategizing what to do next. Three is a crowd how I wish he wasn't around your first mistake so I sit and wait for the nightmare to be over for my Knights mare to save her I already know the pain she's due it's as old as the sun, this rain isn't new nothing washes away infidelities sinning nothing can make them white sheets of linen once innocence is lost like paradise if only you took another roll at the dice maybe fate is predetermined numbers and maybe innocence only exists in slumber maybe it was lost at birth maybe it's just an ancient curse inherited from days long ago maybe we were never white as snow. But still I have this martyrs cause yet still I never really give pause the Knight that sacrifices for his Queen for he has already witnessed all to be seen history repeating itself Déjà vu sapping our health reincarnated pain can the black Knight ever be slain? or is it just another side of the coin everyone is still curtain drawing hiding from the dark the day that's lost its spark black night only masks the sun black Knight versus the Carpenters son but white lights appear in the sky the white night is there when we die when our numbers finally up when our slumber finally stops the ending of the night maybe we aren't really Knights maybe we are all just pawns so innocence can be reborn.
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I think of mom often. Like when I read anything by Jack London or Ernest Thompson Seton. Her memory swirls around me when I see a dead opossum by the roadside it reminds me of the one we had as kids. Yes, we had an opossum. It wasn't a pet as much as it was a wounded soldier, convalescing in a field hospital close to the front and cared for by Florence Nightingale, except the field hospital was our carport under a suspended Old Towne wood canoe, the battle, with a Ford or Chevrolet, on the main road near our house in Connecticut. Florence was Mom. She peeks at me around corners in the kitchen when I make fish, or soup, because I hated fish as a child. She made us eat it because it was healthy and the blocks of frozen Turbot were cheap and she was a single mom at forty two with three hungry mouths to feed. She tried to make me think it was exotic because it came from Iceland. I thought Turbot was Icelandic for "more bones in your mouth than you ever thought possible". Mom was, however, an accomplished homemade souper. She's by my side as I explain wild things to other little wild things which hang on my every word. Words put into my head which make it seem, to the under four foot set, that I know everything. Knowledge put there by her in our yard, by the lakes of New York, the mountains of West Virginia or deserts of California. She is in every frog that jumps, whippoorwill that calls or each stalk of Jewel **** which is a cure for poison ivy by the way, that grows near a stream in the woods. But then today as my daughter opened the overhead sunglass holder in her car for the first time, the Subaru she inherited from Mom over a year ago, and Grandma's sunglasses fell out, there were no thoughts of lessons learned or knowledge imparted. Today, I just thought of her.
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Jul 14, 2013
Jul 14, 2013 at 1:10 AM UTC
Grandma's Sunglasses
I think of mom often. Like when I read anything by Jack London or Ernest Thompson Seton. Her memory swirls around me when I see a dead opossum by the roadside it reminds me of the one we had as kids. Yes, we had an opossum. It wasn't a pet as much as it was a wounded soldier, convalescing in a field hospital close to the front and cared for by Florence Nightingale, except the field hospital was our carport under a suspended Old Towne wood canoe, the battle, with a Ford or Chevrolet, on the main road near our house in Connecticut. Florence was Mom. She peeks at me around corners in the kitchen when I make fish, or soup, because I hated fish as a child. She made us eat it because it was healthy and the blocks of frozen Turbot were cheap and she was a single mom at forty two with three hungry mouths to feed. She tried to make me think it was exotic because it came from Iceland. I thought Turbot was Icelandic for "more bones in your mouth than you ever thought possible". Mom was, however, an accomplished homemade souper. She's by my side as I explain wild things to other little wild things which hang on my every word. Words put into my head which make it seem, to the under four foot set, that I know everything. Knowledge put there by her in our yard, by the lakes of New York, the mountains of West Virginia or deserts of California. She is in every frog that jumps, whippoorwill that calls or each stalk of Jewel **** which is a cure for poison ivy by the way, that grows near a stream in the woods. But then today as my daughter opened the overhead sunglass holder in her car for the first time, the Subaru she inherited from Mom over a year ago, and Grandma's sunglasses fell out, there were no thoughts of lessons learned or knowledge imparted. Today, I just thought of her.
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37
My father always had a picture hanging up over the mantle. It was an oil, possibly acrylic, painting. I've always been terrible with art, and the definitions and distinctions therein. It had a gold-leaf frame, and I recall, as a child, staring at the shine that the sun reflected off of the beautiful gold that surrounded the picture. The picture itself, however, was far more extraneous: a deer head and the body of a businessman. The suited businessman's body sat in a chair, within the painting, but instead of a man's head poking out of the collar, there was a deer's head. It was adorned with antlers, two to be exact, and it sat above that mantle, staring emotionless into you or the distance. I was never sure which it was. And after my father passed, I inherited the deer head and the body of a businessman.
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Aug 2, 2013
Aug 2, 2013 at 12:43 AM UTC
A deer head and the body of a businessman: I
I don't consider various eye colors "beautiful" nor "enchanting". In all honesty; I've never really understood the incorrigible obsession with iris pigmentation that is genetically inherited and beyond the control of the possessor of the same pair of eyes you deem "beautiful". But in contradiction to the callous statement I've opened with; I've found a pair of eyes that I can unhesitantly call beautiful. It should be noted that I only fell in love with the eyes after I'd seen them roll back with pleasure (a memory that still makes me shiver) And from that night on; I started to notice every single beautiful thing the eyes did. The way they lit up with frenzied excitement, The way they burned with raging desire, The way they filled up with salty achromatic tears. I've loved the eyes for as long as I can remember. But I don't consider myself lucky just because those same eyes look at me lustfully midweek; but because in a seemingly redundant life, those eyes became something to look forward to seeing; or feeling pierce through your skin on a warm Saturday night
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Sep 6, 2013
Sep 6, 2013 at 10:45 AM UTC
Green eyes
just now my heart gave two great and heaving beats that shuddered my whole chest. i know this is just a symptom of the cardiac quirk i inherited from my mother but it felt to me like some sort of physical closure. for a moment after it happened my chest didn't have that emptiness anymore. my body is healing my nonbody. that's what it felt like. for a second, anyway.
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Mar 24, 2013
Mar 24, 2013 at 11:03 PM UTC
my hereditary heart disease is sending me subliminal messages
With the house they are selling their childhood and adolescence, five funny brothers and grandmother's sweets, late night dramas and the unattractive maids they inherited, cigarettes they puffed secretly and lessons they learned with jackfruit pulp. Now the roots are being pulled and I wonder what'll be left. I wish people live there, generations come and play on its front yard and I hope my ancestors understand new generation urbanism and modernity.
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Nov 15, 2015
Nov 15, 2015 at 8:02 AM UTC
falling inheritance
Loving someone is a confusing task. Its that point of time when people don't really understand what they are upto. Maybe its because, when we fall in love, we are not only driven by the modern world instincts, but also by traits which we've inherited from our earliest ancestors. Its an amalgam of varying emotions resulting from numerous hormones. We get involved in the act of love either to enrich out lives or to generate lives...its all logic. However, the simplest act of expressing or explaining this strange feeling, appears to be a mammoth task for most. We call it 'love' just like we call God 'God', but its just a verbal pronunciation for things we don't understand, for things which are much greater than just the words... We say 'I love you' but we mean so much more, even the most beautiful poems cannot possibly explain it properly. Hundreds of letters written by a lover cannot compensate for the lover in person, 10000 words cannot compensate for a simple gesture or an act of love. Words are just sounds which transmit thoughts from one mind to the other, But in order to touch the deepest core of the brain, which is the heart, one must go way beyond the thoughts, way beyond those 10000 words.
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May 3, 2015
May 3, 2015 at 2:40 PM UTC
10000 Words
Will it help? If dams are made out of handkerchiefs to hold floods of sufferings and griefs. Will it help? If murmurs are subdued within glasses of loyalty to wash away the sins of ancient royalty. Will it help? If we break all ancient walls to break barriers between hearts, wide and tall. Will it help? If we make some ground in oceans mixing 'self respect' and 'ancient sins' or learn how to survive in waters without gills and fins. Will it help? If progeny is punished for their inherited guilt and each drop of brutal blood is spilt. Will you promise? Then you will again find no reasons to divide and live without any quarrel happily, satisfied. I doubt! As it has nothing to do with 'ancient walls' or 'ancient sins'. It is something related to species and has nothing to do with genes.
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Nov 11, 2014
Nov 11, 2014 at 9:24 PM UTC
I doubt!