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quinn Feb 2021
let’s pretend that our ancestors danced in forests and ate flowers
so that we can do the same, without feeling embarrassed,
because, really, we’re just honouring our forebears, their tradition.
the past was apparently full of flower crowns
Filomena Rocca Nov 2020
The spirit of these long dead men
Be found to live in me again
And just the same when I am gone
Our spirit guide our children on
Meditation on ancestors.
"I" may be changed to"we" for group recitation.
"Men" is meant to encompass all humankind here.
Mose Nov 2020
Christmas music echoes off the walls.
Apple cinnamon candles fills the halls.

A mistletoe for every absent kiss.
To remember those who we miss.  

A memoir to commemorate the old days.
The way to honor our ancestral ways.

Traditions pay homage to those who have passed.
To let them know our love will out last.
Maura Oct 2020
They say, the dying are greeted, by their mothers
She comes for them at the end
Her love reaching further than bookends
Loving before, when you’re but an idea
A single cluster of cells,
Pregnantly waiting,
For birth

You came into the world quickly,
Precariously, the way you moved in life
Your pace blazing—light speed  
A glow that burned from the beginning

You were likely, the first person I ever held,
Me being too little to hold onto anything much bigger
But of course I adored you right away,
Right from when I first held you,
You made more than a daughter

You left the world quickly too,
during the month the sun burns the hottest,
August sweeping you into the air.
So I wonder, who came for you?

What I like to imagine,
and most desperately hope,
Is that you were greeted by a softness
A loving net cast by our grandmothers
Rocking you slowly
Pulling you back into our linage
Nylee Sep 2020
who is the winner,
who is the loser,
ask the ashes, dust and paper.

the papers inked from history
what does it really tell.

the victor of half the world,
he had to surrender too,
who is the real victor
when the time came
and even the greatest empire fell!

A single word in history,
maybe not even that,
like losing identity
with a swish of a spell

Ink the story,
blue, black, deep
where I haven't even been
My ancestor's glory
won't keep the gleam
the light will fade off
the coming years will tell.

A select, an opportunity, a calling
it is coming with the wind,
but what does it really mean
what does it sell?

wise words,
and nothing, well!

No name for the fame,
a letter to begin,
but it is the end, expel.

My end, and yours
we'd leave the world,
leave behind our body
what of the legacy,
is there even one?
I'd be in places,
earth, heaven or hell
!

would it matter even,
I am going off empty hand
my hands that type won't accompany even.
Unpolished Ink Sep 2020
Not land or water
Sacred to our ancestors
Gateway between worlds
Marshland was considered to be a sacred portal between worlds.
SiouxF Aug 2020
When I view a sunset,
A burning bright red sunset,
or look upon the horizon
between the land and water,
I am reminded of Ancestors’ stories
of the betwixt and the between.
Neither one or the other.
Not this one, nor that one,
But the place in between.

The Betwixt and the between two different worlds
Betwixt and between waking and sleeping.
Betwixt and between dusk and dawn.
Betwixt and between the upper and lower.
Betwixt and between Heaven and hell.
A place of intrigue, mystery and wonder
If you dare
So much as to take a peek.
But it’s beyond most people’s imaginations
To ever go as far as
The betwixt and the between
This poem is based on a comment in a photography group I’m in, which had more meaning than I understood at the time
rk Jul 2020
i bathe with charcoal and roses
and spray nettles in my hair,
i cover my body with moon oil
and whisper my secrets to the stars
when i'm silent i can hear them
dancing in my blood
when i feel lost and truly alone
i feel their tender fingers
brushing my hair,
with their gentle voices
singing in my ear

r i s e
sweet child, we are with you
r i s e
sweet child, we will guide you.
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