They rise like heat-mirages
at the edge of memory,
shimmering figures who never learned
the art of being seen.
They move through our days
soft as dust lifting from old floorboards,
leaving only the faintest signatures~
a tilt of the head,
a stubborn kindness,
a way of listening
that feels older than we are.
Invisible ancestors
thread their breath through ours,
teaching us how to stand
in storms we never witnessed.
They murmur in the marrow,
a language without vowels,
a pulse older than sepia photographs.
Sometimes they arrive
as a sudden stillness in the room,
as if someone stepped in
and chose not to speak.
Sometimes as a dream
where a stranger’s face
feels impossibly familiar.
We carry them
like lanterns under the ribs~
their light small, steady,
refusing to go out.
We live our lives,
their shadows entwined in ours.
And though they left
no names to call them by,
they remain the quiet architects
of our courage,
the unseen chorus
that steadies our trembling hearts.
demons lurk in shadows dark
hidden and furiously silent
their presence oozing at clairvoyants
soothsayer pauses in her reading to listen
juggling the genuineness and the risk of mistake
was this message from angels or demons?
she calls upon her ancestors for clarity
the message stops while the demons laugh
intimidated by her parentage, they disappear
“The present is what slips by us while we're pondering the past and worrying about the future.”
Ziggy Marley
An angel guides me despite my lack of faith
In my own destined path blooming by grace
I am a weed in the green garden of Eden
Dilemma is a tree a red apple in season
How I wish to be wise yet I can be a fool
Hoping to grow use mistakes as a stool
Caught up in life blindsided by events
Praying for time to make it right repent
I exist because an ancestor persevered
Destiny is a kiss from heaven despite tears
I ponder the purple meaning of a licorice life
Have I made my mark as I attempt to fly
Pondering the past happiness is delayed
Views in looking glass see eyes that prayed
Future is a kite rising above all clouds
Living life is art amethyst goals vows
As they plant opportunities like seeds for me
So shall I blossom for those who follow my lead
I am grateful for my ancestors….
all those who have sailed before me down life’s stream…
and I hope from where they’re watching…
I have exceeded their wildest dreams…
And I gladly take my place among them
as I sail down life’s stream…
as I watch my own children and grandchildren
exceed my wildest dreams.
May we be blessed to remember
all the ancestors we’ve come from…
and to live our life so they’ll be proud
of the person we’ve become.
They come softly~
not with footsteps,
but with the faint shift of air.
I feel them
in the way the light
rests on my shoulders.
My ancestors
move through the marrow of me,
lifting in a sunbeam,
They do not speak,
yet something in me listens~
a pulse, a pull, a quiet knowing.
I am made
of their courage,
their spirit and unfinished prayers.
I feel them gather~
a circle of presence,
a lineage of light.
My life just didn’t start when I was born
It is interwoven with those who have come before
Many people make up who I am
Some I have met but for a few short years
Others have been gone long before I am
From far-away lands they came to be
Looking for a better life for them and me
From all kinds of walks in life were they
But yet each has made an impact in some way
As my hair could be curly or straight
My eyes could be as dark as the night
Or as blue as the sky
My skin could be light or dark,
Or any shade in-between
My genes are what my ancestors gave to me
Whether it be shaping the country
Or shaping me
Their journey continues even in me
I am alive because of you
I live because of you
I suffer because of you
I love because of you
I am dysfunctional partly because of you
I am loved and needed because I care, because you cared
The only thing which is not predetermined
Is how I choose to live this life
Will I spread love and acceptance to myself and others
Or will I repeat the same mistakes in myself or my children?
We are not robots, but we are 'wired' together
We are not artificial intelligence, but intelligent, living, breathing fallible beings.
We live so many years on this ground, but are not defined by what we do.
We are defined by what we are.
I am alive and I'm grateful for that.
I am grateful for the best parts of my ancestors
they have shared with me…
It’s apparent ever time I look into a mirror…
and see them staring back at me.
I lived in the garbage of the slums of a fertile land.
I crossed the Mediterranean to wedge my dreams into bleak, unsanitary concrete blocks.
I am trapped in a thermal sieve filled with rats and cockroaches.
I miss the dust of the ruined roads of my homeland.
In the land of human rights, police brutality has disfigured my dignity.
Life in this chaotic dimension is a horror movie.
I think of the Grim Reaper every day, like a terrified inmate on death row.
I numb myself with cannabis to clear the darkness in my deranged mind.
Sleepless nights piled up over the years in the furnaces of decay.
A solitary existence, without ties, without love, without a story.
Dirty hands and a cold heart, fueled by adrenaline against the atrocities of misery.
I am a free spirit, detached from the tyranny of conformity.
If I don’t love you, I will tell you to your face, looking you straight in the eyes.
I am guilty of embracing the innocence of my transgressions.
Telling the truth in all circumstances is a blessing that sometimes gives birth to curses.
I feel the presence of my ancestors
in the warm rays of the sun
in a robin’s tweets
in whispers of a quickening breeze
in dazzling sparkles gracing a pond
I sense my ancestors lingering
keeping suggestions and ideas to themselves
one flits past me wearing a red cardinal suit
I feel comfortable knowing they care
yet
trust me
to make my own decisions
ancestors hugged strength
extracts penetrated veins
woody breast o p e n e d
incense smoke twirls truth
plans beaming across green boughs
resin rooted s.w.e.a.t.s
prayers and blessings
protect tree of life steady
energies v i b r a t e
ceremonies sound
strong deep drums beating time bold
air fire water
eyes fraternal l a u g h
circling tree smiling joyous
I dance smelling e_a_r_t_h
____________________________
Placed 7th : Premier Contest
Sponsor: Brian Strand
Feb. 26
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
The history of Black or African People,
And all of our People should be celebrated
Year-round: every hour, day, week, month, and decade.
The celebration must go on unabated,
All the time. The first couple,
Ever existed, had dark or ebony skin, said
Many credible historians,
Archeologists and great citizens.
The month of February is evidently too short.
Twenty-eight days are not enough,
To commemorate our Brave People, who've fought
And defeated ignorance, bigotry and slavery.
Three hundred and sixty-five days are not enough,
To honor the struggle of the Slaves who were brought
To different parts of the world. A century
Is not enough. Many centuries are not enough.
We need, every day and month of the almanac,
To celebrate, to remember the first Black
Couple, our ebony Ancestors,
Our Black Brothers and Sisters.
Copyright© January 2017 Logerie Hebert, all rights reserved
Hebert Logerie is the author of several books of poems.
nothing there would be
without the vast Universe
no humans, land, sea
none here for better or worse
no lineage and odd verse
with no galaxy
adrift in cosmic darkness
no angst, apathy
rather complete absurdness
wrapped in unholy starkness
without stars above
could there still be you or me?
no rush, push or shove
all silent with nought to see
without longings roaming free
no blue, green planet
circling the Great Attractor
no floors of granite
no acts by a strange actor
sin becomes a non-factor
none subject to change
no progress or thoughts divine
nothing to arrange
no strange dreams or past bed-time
bound inside the timeless time
without history
when ancestors were not born
total mystery
when from existence we're shorn
leaving none to weep and mourn
such is human debt
while life is in the offing
driven to regret
when cosmic paths are crossing
'tis not dice we're tossing
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Rugged
Kansas prairie
Her hands rough with dawn tasks
His fingers trace Braille on table
Austere
Schoolhouse
ink and sweat smell
of small hands learning Braille~
a language pressed on waiting skin.
Alive.
Fifteen
Scrappy children
Clarabel, Dulce, John~
syllables hauled up* from the well
sweat, tears
Drought years
Calluses, sweat,
Stiff-backed, and obstinate
Heavy with weight of wheat and words
Courage.
At dusk,
they counted heads
and sang hymns of harvest~
Only thirteen grew tall as wheat.
Strength, faith
*hauled up from the well refers to both a physical action of rescue as well a metaphorical expression of support or accountability.
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