Best Familial Poems
Dad's youngest brother
is younger
than my brother:
Dad being the eldest
in his family,
my brother being
the eldest in mine.
Mother's sister
wed Dad's cousin.
Their offspring and I
are double cousins.
I crossed county lines
to choose a mate
totally unrelated.
Dream on.
Somewhere back there,
the name Pratt dangles
from both family trees.
genes swapped
stirred by unbounded love
family is born
bound by filial bonds
maternal and paternal
relations emerge
love, caring, support
joy and sorrow shared alike
life's music composed
echoing through ages
increasing genetic pool
Malthus' theory
you, me, and Genghis
bound by familial ties
family tree thrives
culture, colors, race
babble, blather, and blubber
siblings world-over
~ 04 May 2016 ~
A fellow stranger's doubt will surely sense
Judgmental indiscretion of defect.
'Tween enemies pure hatred circumvents
The moral obligation to respect.
The various consistencies as friend,
Distill from swollen hearts this lonely ache,
With passion starts yet may abruptly end
So rarely people risk their hearts to break.
A lover's walk is not fatality,
Creating life two intimately share.
If nurtured, loved, and taught respectfully
Prosperity so gratefully will care.
Of all relations listed here above
Why is it people suffer feeling love?
A spider plant* with many offshoots --
The mother firmly holds onto her little girl's hand at the nursery.
*Chlorophytum comosum
Dullness settles sharply, without warning;
The words are gone, as if they'd never been.
There is but acquiescent pain at the loss.
It is left now to wait
For the familial shadows to pass.
From hero to villian
Within the same breath
Now choices have caught up
Sentencing your death
Creating in me, life
Yet shaming my existence
Still I have chosen
A life of forgiveness
Separating me
From what others had
Those little girls that knew
There was a king in their dad
Struggles with jealousy
Envy pushing my nerve
For not a king ruled my home
Just a sickning perve
Why wasn't I good enough
Being just a daughter
Why must the demons
Play the role of my father
Now here, years past
A stumble caught your mistake
In prison, you'll rot
While freedom lies at my wake
Why then am I still torn?
Between sympathy and anger
When the one sent to protect
Was the one feeding me to danger
I painfully miss him
The man who hurt my soul
Because all I ever wanted
To be daddy's baby girl
Why does blood
Pull you apart?
Instead of filling you up?
- one vein is comprised of multiple layers
Disgruntled, they come to me as bit-parts
ripped from black and white movies.
Mad aunt Anastasia, who should have been a nun.
One of her hands will not touch her,
the other has been carried off
by wolfish priests.
The Holy Ghost has pickled her in a jar;
she floats now between worlds.
Uncle Sean, the satyric commis-waiter,
looming above a meaty cleavage,
flambéed Steak Diane with a sapid leer,
poured cognac and butter,
commingled shallots at the table.
Then after the hunt, he’d triumphantly decant
into whomever.
Cousin Tommy died early,
but not before he had burnt through
the Old Testament.
A brimstone disorder gnawed his innards,
left him lacking normal human kapok,
kept him bubbling until a self-inflicted wound
blew out his brains.
There are cousins removed and living
who disassemble themselves, with zealotry
or ennui. None took the middle way,
none quietly settled-in
to live among damp-stained regrets.
Like larks’ tongues, they sing in the invisible.
They reside in the far reaches,
until dark angels flame out
in their berserker eyes.
The thought is a terror when alone and you feel weak.
Sometimes, the stakes are so high, for fear you dare not speak.
Neither bet your honest dollar it will not enter through that door;
Its arrival will unravel everything, ending your lives if nothing more.
It's a fearsome being; such a despicable thing. It's my dad, boogeyman.
Deep in your psyche thrives a fear that will surely wreck your day.
Like this vicious entity, it will make you wish you prayed!
Best to keep your footsteps muted lest you wake it from a sleep.
Remove yourself hastily and find somewhere to escape.
Its own children were given as a live sacrifice. It's my dad, boogeyman.
The agony will never leave while the nightmare abounds.
It hears every footfall when it listens for your sounds.
Whether you know or either, it will find you somewhere in the dark.
If you're in pain, better to feel shame, and think twice about crying aloud.
It's a fearful being; such a despicable thing. It's my dad, boogeyman.
My dad, boogeyman
I often ponder about the perpetuous anathema in my household, because growing up, that abominable behavior was quite normalized.
I’ve always heard derogatory, disrespectful remarks or comments, God, they’re so standardized; my conception was that being unique deserved aberration.
Though, younger me questioned why I only heard these discriminating words and bigoted lies in my own house; it seemed as if these rigid beliefs were intertwined with my family alone.
I never realized how different our cultures were; I’d been enfolded in our similarities rather than our backgrounds and our internalized morals.
As expected, their perceptions were quite different from mine.
They grew up in India; where commenting about others appearance is normal, where mental health is degraded and rendered invalid.
Learning about all the kids committing suicide over a bad grade while having no psychological care horrified me; though I finally could see my parent’s perspective.
Now, I’m not justifying my parent’s words or actions- I’m simply acknowledging their internalized standpoints.
Though I can’t help but wonder if their diminishing remarks reflect on their own treatment.
…
How can you change someone when it’s too late?
My parents.
They were frequently pulverized whether or not they acted wrongly.
In pieces, bruises, and long red strokes.
Yet it was condoned; due to being “generational.”
My ankles were cut, I was force fed snake ashes, I was forced to drink water out of ant hills— because it was “generational.”
Thousands of years of longevity led to force and prejudice. It led to nothing but the death of our just traditions and impartiality within our family.
Though, these feelings are quite interiorized, and it’s too difficult to take it out; I hope to break this cycle, though for now, my shrieks are muffled.
It swirls about me
this world
this chaos
of watching
from afar
those things so near.
I sit
a Guru of sorts
knowing…
not the answers..
but the quest...
the torment
of life’s
longings
searching
the present.
I am always
right here
have always been
right here
at the center
of a micro cosmic
universe
wavering with
winsome wings..
familial butterflies
rippling the sunset
knowing
I’m always right here.
John G. Lawless
©2/17/2019
Who am I but another lost soul burning in hell
Once drowned in the blood of my dead heart
Ripped out without reason before doomsday
No one should have to die before their time
To be consumed by fire at any time of day
Familial betrayal comes warm to the touch
Cute and cuddly like a favorite pet hugged
Subterfuge is not another word for trust
Which once upon a time we called love
Death and taxes should be so easy when they come
As sweet and evil as the words rolling off your tongue
The pulse of money is weaker than you think
Take it now but it has no power in the grave
Which is not that far away from your doomsday
A definite air permeates
When in the walls of my room
Projected productivity is it?
Or rather the reflection of what those expect of me
Identity found... lost, through my grasp
Hard to dicier or fully know
Craving change, something swift
Yet nothing short of raw, with nature as my muse
Possibilities seem infinite, away from these parts
Just the sheer art of crossing unforeseen paths
Evoking my soul and lust for life, I sit and wait
As if the trust I should place in myself lies agape
Too close to home, I feel exposed
To judgements, expectations, and morale I hope I lack
By that I mean from their skewed sightings of things
And so the awe of discovery calls me
Replacing shame, resistance, anger, yet-
Through times of stagnancy I surely say...
Have I truly surpassed these past felt ways?
Assured, I realize triggers do arise, often times
Standing in the kitchen, pacing the halls, walking
Phone calls, a pause, anticipated familial talks...it all
Tales to be told to the generation to be
A family I will hold dear, never inflict previous cycles upon
Shared highlight reel of what once was, and everything in between
I am all the people who came before me And I am all the people who will come after me
This is an ode to all of our ancestors Just because we don't all share the same blood Does not not mean that we are not one
To me inheritance Isn't just about family But communal experiences
I inherited my voice From those who were silenced but not quiet
I inherited my purpose From those who didn't get justice
I inherited my essence From ghosts Of our ancestors
I inherited the power of love A force stronger than the hatred They shoved down our throats
I inherited the strength From those who dared to go against the system
What I honour is every black life who fought, spoke and died for us And it would be a dishonour to keep quiet and not speak up
And to them I'm very thankful
And my children will inherit All of the above
An ode to our ancestors
Disgruntled, they come to me as bit-parts
ripped from black and white movies.
Mad aunt Anastasia, who should have been a nun,
one of her hands would refrain from touching her,
the other has been long carried off
by wolfish priests.
The Holy Ghost has pickled her in a jar,
she now floats between worlds.
Uncle Sean, the iniquitous Maître D'
looming above a meaty cleavage,
he who flambéed Steak Diane
with a slyly sapid leer,
poured cognac,
then after the salacious hunt,
triumphantly decanted his thirsty+ lusts
into any grateful woman
whomever.
Cousin Tommy died early,
but not before he had burnt through
the Old Testament.
A brimstone disorder gnawed his innards,
left him lacking normal human kapok,
kept him bubbling until a self-inflicted wound,
blew out his brains.
There are cousins removed and living,
who disassemble themselves, with zealotry,
or ennui. None took the middle way,
none quietly settled-in
to live a life of unremarkable normality,
trysting the nights away
with damp-stained regrets.
Like larks’ tongues, they sing in the invisible.
They reside in the far reaches,
until dark angels flame out
in their berserker eyes.