Long Ancestral Poems
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Mist feathery drifts
last night’s breath loosening
above basalt slopes of Huatung
Pacific swallows trace morning brushwork
over Fuli’s rice paddies
new green scented with rain.
Xiuguluan River flows jade mountain-born
among ancestral stones
white willows in Ruisui weep
dew-kissed
cycad fronds catching first sunlight
Leaf pearls gather on my thatched sandals
Walami earth holds stories in its coolness.
Bihe Pond rests hidden in Wanrong’s stillness
waters reflecting the tribe’s quiet prayers
Bamboo leaves in green and gold
crested mynas gather in quiet repose
wind moves with the chime of a temple bell.
Ancestral path wanders into the Central Range
oolong tea clouds drift
above Qilai’s blue ridges
A white egret lifts over Guangfu’s terraces
air clear as poured Longjing.
A bulbul calls
blue magpie glides
the slow unlayering of day
Huatung Calligrapher’s span warm to newborn light
time unspools—
bright
unmeasured.
Light widens
dawn follows Yu Shan’s shadowed valleys
the world in quiet promise
soft light
drifting into morning.
Circled light from angels' faces dawning
traces the darkening way all feet must tread,
reflecting forgotten silhouettes on rain wet streets.
Old city lights beam bright pathways through the gloom,
resplendent pools shimmering luminous enchantment,
mirroring tear washed memories of distant pasts.
Buried beneath regret-slick brick roadways,
specters gather round glowing gas lamps--
modern street lights' ancestral flames--
ghost lovers lingering in shining orbed dreams, remembering . . .
trembling vaporous fingers tracing love across softly illumined faces.
So linked in melancholic splendor, lovers old and new,
ply life's sacred needle, stitching the golden tapestry.
Copyright, October 1, 2014
Faye Lanham Gibson
Midnight of October thirty first
I jumped out of bed to quench my thirst
As I groped my way down the huge kitchen
An eerie coldness crept on my skin and then...
When I fumbled the light’s switch on the wall
I was frozen to hear deep whispering calls
Echoing laughter followed my repeated name
I couldn’t move back, I felt completely lame.
I tried to turn on my mini-flashlight
But I’ve felt numbness as I gripped it tight
Darkness was a vast monster devouring me
But I tried to compose myself so I won’t pee.
White figures of entrants slowly passed by
I couldn’t believe, I tried to rub my eye
They were in pairs while holding hands
Looked as if they were all going to dance.
White glowing shapes of women in gowns
Infront of men as white smoke blurred around
Spanish waltz played in haunting sound
When a man’s figure came, seemed I lost pounds.
The man was wearing formal suit in white
In front of me, His skull smiled so bright
I lost control and dropped on the floor in fright
And I slept in the kitchen that spooky midnight.
My landlady woke me up in the morning
With boarding mates all laughing
I told them of the ghosts in our boarding school
Everyone believed my story, that was so cool.
No matter yours truly an atheist,
I consider myself fascinated with my ancestry
x cited regarding: upcoming
Jewish holiday fast approaching
by the bewitching hour which doth hold key
to Chamber Of Secrets to – me
analogous being Sorcerer's Apprentice
as you will read and see,
though impossible mission
to proffer extensive family tree.
Courtesy of Google, this grown man
linkedin with tribes of Zion
indulged curiosity of mine
proudly harkens, (particularly
as he doth accumulate orbitz around the sun)
from Semitic ancestral line
surrounded by Jewish community
(countless years ago,
when we called Penn Valley
our place of residence)
off a street that arches
(like Noah’s bow sprint)
and named Woodbine.
Yet, he knows virtually nothing
about Jewish History
lets inquisitiveness wander
as a descendent from the “Lost Tribes Of Israel”
pondering how his life would be lived
if baptized in customs, faith, and religion
considered one of the oldest codified paradigms.
The first of the High Holy Days
or Yamim Nora'im ("Days of Awe")
celebrated on the first two days of Tishrei
the first day of the seventh month as "Zikhron Teru'ah"
("A memorial with the blowing of horns").
Rosh Hashanah is described as "the day of judgment"
(Yom ha-Din) and "the day of remembrance"
(Yom ha-Zikkaron)
occurs 163 days after the first day of Passover (Pesach)
beginning of Rosh Hashanah
at sundown at the end of 29 Elul.
The evening before Rosh Hashanah day is known
as Erev Rosh Hashanah ("Rosh Hashanah eve").
On Rosh Hashanah day,
religious poems, called piyyuttim,
are added to the regular services.
A special prayer book,
the Mahzor is used
on Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur.
This sacred day, the horn doth blow to chauffeur
(two precious daughters
now grown and autonomous
didst long since exit and escape
parental basket of deplorables,
where freedon beckoned,
when age of consent attained
exited out front door)
marginally linkedin with historical past
replete with tantalizing lore
where legions of commandments pour
and more relevant than ever
as global tempests roar
atrocity diminishing Hebraic peoples
courtesy incessant pograms and war.
My muse is animated anytime I sit silently
Awaiting sleep stoically sliding into
A sacred onyx veil of poignant peace
as if it is my personal death angel
For we all yearn for eternal rest
Never knowing what we will find
Within the final moments of slumber
To wake again perhaps a curse
If you journey beyond this existence
Shedding earthly body gaining growth
Becoming light pouring into the universe
As I slip into the void of this endless black
I feel relaxed and soothed by a higher
Consciousness as a piece of a puzzle I fit
My rebirth from this body is like awakening
Silver stars guide me through a tunnel
Where my next journey awaits
I hear and feel ancestral heartbeats
My anxiety is peeled like an orange
The fruit of my spirit blends with light
I have only to submit to my calling
If I am ready for the next level
I gain a golden insight as I
Open the third eye and find
A rainbow of souls welcoming
Like neon ornaments on a tree of life
I feel love and fulfillment
I know it is only a matter of maturity
I feel the old world like sand on my feet
Feet that no longer have a purpose
As a new form I can submit to the
New existing light or I can wake up
And continue in the classroom called life
Far back in the ages of the old
The dark magicians came bold
They attempted to steal our magic
By showing us ways it was evil
All while against us they were deceitful
Beyond the stones and buried bones
Myths were created to cover the moans
The secrets were not all they stole
It began by killing the story keepers
Taking their language along with the reapers
They hid in places of secret truths
Their lies began to grow roots
Within the same hallways they hid
Behind their indoctrinated books
Slaughtering more as people gave looks
Few were left of these horrendous crimes
Into hiding they went for many lifetimes
They buried as much as they could
In hopes they would find their way home
Through their bloodlines they were left to roam
Perpetuating the madness on every shore
Destroying things way down deep to the core
Mixing the dark ones amongst the light
In hopes that ancestral roots would be muddied
Along with everything left to be studied
History was changed through the written word
Until you couldn't even trust what was heard
Focus fell away from simple to complex
Reading between the lines is not easy for most
As to why behind many were left as a ghost
(For: those who fell on the hills of Liberia)
I hear a song from my hills
I hear it sound from afar;
And towards my homestead
Near those aging banks of the Niger
I feel the disturbing songs
Of drummers announcing with cannons
The ravages of Monrovia
Like ancestral funeral men
But these drummers are different:
A shadow of their ancestors?
Is it something beautiful
For Doe’s ever-haunted soul
That Sulima should breathe of
Blood-fouled air?
Does it touch the heart of Taylor
That St. Paul’s river should mirror
The dying souls of pregnant mothers
On forced premature delivery mats?
The guns are eating
New diets in broken skulls
Everywhere!
And all my kins
Are traded for the mean
Prosperity of war
The smell of their black blood
Slapping the face of our dignity:
And does this dunghill of skulls
Touch on the human side of Johnson
And those other warlords?
How long would the orphan’s bones crack?
When would a man walk freely
Across the streets?
Tell us! you noble warriors, tell us:
When the guns would stop singing;
When would fear stop celebrating?
Here as I sit in my hut
Fully fed-up with homicide news
Of thousands and countless of my kins
Dragged into early and tombless deaths
I dreamt of slow-walking hunger
Load-bend of the souls of my kins
Like ants in a dry season:
Would you tell me the number
Of black skulls cracked
On the top of every hill?
Tell me the quantity of black blood
Spilled each day along those currents
Of Mao and Sherbro rivers
And the quantity of children’s bones
And ribs ript open near Monrovia:
Would you be brave enough
To tell these and more atrocities
To the deaf ears of the world,
O! strongmen of noble Liberia?
Form:
It was a day of jubilation,
A majestic country got its independence
After a hundred years of being ruled.
It was also a day of utter gloom,
The majestic country with ancient culture,
was divided into two -
As if a devastating Earthquake split the land
Forcing millions to leave their ancestral homes.
On one disastrous night, eyes blinded with tears,
millions of people trudged to the other side of the border.
Leave their priceless memories, for ever,
To begin life in a foreign land they had never known.
Families who owned acres of land, and pleasant dwellings,
found themselves penniless, no roof above their head,
Struggling for mere food and refuge.
It was a day of Hope at its Zenith,
It was a day of unprecedented Grief!
Notes: On August 15, 1947, the Indian Independence Bill took effect. The Partition of India of 1947 was the division of British India into two dominion states, India and Pakistan. The partition displaced between 10 - 12 million people. (source: Wikipedia).
September 20, 2020
For A Historic Event Contest
Sponsor: William Kekaula
For "Z" Old Or New Poem - Poetry Contest
Sponsor: Constance La France
Long since ago this paradise, became our proud ancestral home.
Where eventides are graced, with skylines flames of vermilion shades,
Their embers finally embrace sundown, as night draws nigh and twilight fades
Those heady scents of frangipani, casts magic potions upon summers breeze.
And mockingbirds forever never cease, to mimic natures sounds in song.
While the menagerie of wildlife silently, still forage verdant banks of lakes,
Moonlight mirrors on pellucid waters, silhouetting mountain peaks.
Luscious landscape all to recall, in memories and distant dreams
Where wild flowers perfume, infuse emotions evergreen,
To tranquil sounds of ripples, soothing senses, endlessly reprise.
1/ 9/ 2018.
In a dismal old fashioned cell at our ancestral home,
Wherein coconuts, new and old, heaped like a hillock dome;
Kid-butterflies, we're often asked to pick some for curry,
Finding phantom-forms we ran as scared as rabbit bury...
Ghosts of the dead, cloud-looking, appear before the living,
Like quirky grey fogs, smokes, or polar creatures, fear-filling!
Great buffets - Necromancy holds - of hosting for the ghosts;
Thirst of restlessness of souls could be quenched- animism boasts...
My logician friend, at the name of ghosts, like thunder, laughs,
Scared, like a mouse, at celluloid ghosts; impulsively coughs!
My alienist neighbor mocks at the poor ghost-affected;
He, in anger, shouts and yells, like a spirit-infected...!
Returning home from Saint Jude Shrine, my grandpa narrated,
Ghost - a monstrous muddy vulture - flew after me, dread spread!
Helpless, like a lost, at that odd hour of snoring slumbers,
I genuflected; made signs of the cross, countless in numbers...
Ghosts got into human beings, like, termites in the wood,
Jesus, chasing them away, their cruel power, withstood;
He worked, as on war-time haste, erasing, greatest evils,
Did the traditions allow him to nail down true devils?
Merchants and money-makers bake ghosts- cakes and sell gently,
Spreading tales on ghost-havocs, they hoax humans kindly;
Holocausts, burnt offerings, and slaughters they delight in,
Cannibalism, for ghosts-sake, in their eyes is not a sin...
Fire-walking, hooking the flesh, live animal wedding,
Cow-trampling, hanging in the air on hooks, hand-hair plucking...
Goety, Bruja, Lamia, incantation, witchcraft...
Aren't all such mountainous magic and myths great ghosts-updraft?
Phasmophobia, like death-knell, is a fright alarm,
Like illness of body, it hurts the spiritual realm;
An equilibrium of body, mind, spirit, and soul,
Could free us from false fears, molding us integrally whole...
Humans are ghost-angel amalgamation in nature!
Loving and hating themselves and every common creature!
Each thought, word, and action can turn into a ghost in life!
When morals derail from the tracks of existential strife!
17 October 2021
(Missed the Contest)