Long Bloodlines Poems
Long Bloodlines Poems. Below are the most popular long Bloodlines by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Bloodlines poems by poem length and keyword.
(A Poem of Two Brothers Torn)
They call him tyrant, ruthless, cold—
A shadow cast in headlines bold.
But truth, like buried roots below,
Feeds deeper than the world may know.
He studied where the West holds sway,
Learned Plato’s path, Machiavelli’s way.
Philosophy shaped his guarded mind,
A mirror to a world unkind.
Yet history speaks through hidden pain:
One Korea—once whole, now twain.
A single people, torn in two,
By foreign hands who never knew.
Not Kim, nor sire from whom he rose,
Drew bloodlines where the fire flows.
It was the West—its empires blind—
That split the heart and chained the mind.
The South was lifted, crowned with light,
While North was shrouded out of sight.
But had the West not picked a side,
Would either brother truly divide?
Behind the rockets, threats, and steel,
Lies silence no one dares to feel:
A son who watches skies grow grey,
A bloodline crushed by distant play.
What right has one to sit and judge,
While feeding wars through subtle grudge?
What mercy lies in sanctions cold,
That starve a child yet preach the bold?
Yet still they lie—the talking heads,
Who sleep in silk while others beg.
They paint a beast, ignore the cage,
And profit from a nation’s rage.
But rising now from East and South,
A quiet wind from honest mouth:
“We see through games, through cloaked command—
And reach again with outstretched hand.”
O Western world, your mirror cracks,
You speak of peace with blades at backs.
You broke the East, you bred the pain,
And now you rule through guilt and shame.
But blood remembers—blood forgives.
A nation torn still breathes and lives.
And when these brothers meet as one,
No West shall turn them with a gun.
For peace is not in flags unfurled,
But love restored in broken world.
And may that day bring truth anew—
That power serves, not burdens you.
So listen now, before it’s late:
The world you broke still dreams of fate.
And unity, not fear or greed,
Shall bloom again from common seed.
Meeting someone who still believes in the goodness of humanity feels almost mythical in a world that has taught her to trust only what lies north of her own borders. She grew up with the nation above her as her reference point — its language, its culture, its shadow. And yet, when she looked at me, there was no hesitation, no fear of difference. There was only curiosity, the kind that bridges continents without needing permission.
I spoke to her in Italian, the language of my grandparents, the language that still carries the warmth of Sunday kitchens and old-country stories. She answered in Spanish, soft and melodic, like she was letting me into a world she didn’t offer to just anyone. Somehow, between her Spanish and my Italian, we found a rhythm — two languages dancing around each other, meeting in the middle like they had been waiting for this moment.
She was adorable in the way she tried to make the conversation work. At one point she typed in Spanish and let Google translate it into English, laughing at the robotic voice that didn’t match her sweetness. I should have kissed her then — not out of impulse, but out of recognition. Recognition that something rare was happening. Recognition that this was one of those moments that could have rewritten the rest of my life.
If I had taken that step, maybe we would have started a conversation that didn’t end. Maybe we would have walked a path that led us down an aisle instead of back to our separate lives. An Italian American man and a Mexican mamasita — two worlds meeting not by accident, but by alignment.
I imagine the life that could have followed: a home filled with the aromas of both cultures, a table where Italian hand gestures met Mexican warmth, children who carried the bloodlines of Italy, Hungary, Spain, and Mexico all in one heartbeat. A new generation shaped by Western grit and Southwestern soul, a living testament to the beauty of crossing borders — not with passports, but with hearts.
It’s strange how a single moment can hold the weight of an entire future. Stranger still how easily it can slip away.
But even now, when I think of her, I don’t feel regret as much as I feel possibility — the reminder that connection doesn’t need perfection, only courage. And maybe next time, I won’t let the moment pass.
Fear
loathe
pity us Not
We scars
so judiciously brought into existence
by silent shreds
of emotion:
Jagged sighs,
wretched smiles,
come journey Dysfunction.
We beg your brave outsiders' senses
to peer
Are you
Perplexed by soft whispers
that emanate Clear
from each
line?
Does our breadth
of a slice
of depth
of vice
the stripping of seams
to bloodlines
within,
defy perfect dreams
of sweet nectar
skin?
Dare you touch these velvet ropes
muddied
from cold steel
hue
now dry
in caked puddles
of lost hopes,
once winding
thick
through?
Fear
loathe
pity us Not
We scars
so judiciously sought into existence
by silent shreds
of promise:
Sound larks
of empathy's
song,
Heed the marks
of our concern,
liquid and long...
We merely yearn
to be forgotten
in realms of healing
Hope
begotten.
" My mother shed her protective love around me and without knowing why, people sensed that I had value." ~Maya Angelou
" As mothers and daughters, we are connected with one another. My mother is the bones of my spine, keeping me straight and true. She is my blood, making sure it runs rich and strong. " ~Kristin Hannah
“ I hold three magic rocks, in my hand
Rolling them over and over and over
Leaving this reality behind, far behind"
Born female, and upon my brow the magic mark ,
as my mother's mothers before me.
Red pigmented and shaped like a broken heart,
the very heart of my story.
From generations of wombs and bloodlines before,
I am chosen to take up these stones.
And being apart of this family,
I am yet destined to be alone.
The Amber, with whiskey color glowing within…
pumpkin tinged and power singed.
Giving its wielder healing power and
protection through the midnight hour.
The Sapphire stone, deepest indigo,
as the depths of the ocean's foaming folds.
Granting wisdom within it's warming light
and discernment of truth, of wrong and right.
And the third stone is a Ruby of red,
whose clarity muddles the mind and clouds the head.
Releasing passions once held in check,
while you see clearly, their pulsing neck.
Combined the three, passed down to me,
from maternal bloodline flows.
So now with these words and the heat of my hands,
I part the veil to long ago...
Though darkly, I see, far back through time,
this several great-great grandmother of mine.
And watch as she, undeservedly,
is made to lie in an early grave …
No knight in armour in this tale,
Herself alone she must save.
These stones that I now hold, she finds,
as in darkness they begin to shine.
All air is gone, her breathing stops
and the heart inside can beat no more.
Until the magic finds a home in a wronged woman's maternal core.
Then hearing
a weak pulse,
somehow
MISPLACED...
upon her brow I see
the red- pigmented mark,
the broken heart
Upon her brow,
BEGIN TO B E A T....
And now we know this history,
the story that began my own.
I await the rest of my family tale
from inside the stones, I'm shown.
When I know my true life's purpose,
when I am connected with all of them…
then my hearts blood will stop beating...
...but my magic heart beat will begin.
BLOODLINES
They dug a grave deep that day
‘What colour were Daddy's eyes’
a voice was heard to say as
they buried him deep in the clay
and as a youngster began to pray
Later he wrote upon on his slate
‘enlisted on the rebel's side
With final words..before he died
‘What colour were Daddy's eyes’
This lad studied hard and long
‘What colour were Daddy's eyes’
became a chorus to a song
It was the source of all his fame
His Daddy’s heartfelt refrain
Look into a mirror, mother had said
,both Daddy & Granpa..you will see
Eyes grey-blue,ever -love-filled for thee.
Listen to me read this poem on youtube under the name ichthyschiro
Chants Of The Palm Fruit Eaters--CM
I ate the palm fruits midst, my folks,
Delight in sounds we made.
The gourd chants to our ancestors,
It binds our souls with theirs.
I delight, despite echoes, bounce,
Midst, the palm fruits, eats I.
Of gourd chants to our ancestors,
Sits quietude, but I.
“… an alien life, a life unlived, not lively, hardly ours.”
***In the 60's, full-blooded Hawaiians numbered under 2,000--I venture naught, what our numbers are today, but I am the last survivor of 4 bloodlines. The impetus of my return to Hawaii, leaving my family in the States, to be with my buried descendants.
2019 August 23
*1st Place*
CHOOSE AN OCTAVIO PAZ LINE
~~nette onclaud
Afro-Arabia Historical Trauma
The sprawling sand sea bridge; a mirage historical overview
Across the red sea, the dhows used to glide,
Where the sand of the desert met the ocean’s wide tide.
From the Horn of the east to the Swahili shores,
They traded in spices, in fabrics, and ores.
Then the seventh-century crescent rose high in the sky,
Bringing faith to the kingdoms as decades rolled by.
A fusion of bloodlines, a blending of speech,
As Arabic phrases reached the Zanzibar beach.
Yet history bleeds through the dirt and the stone,
The Trans-Saharan routes heard the captive man's groan.
An Indian Ocean trade that left a deep scar,
A trauma that echoes from near and from far.
The modern paradox in alliance and in friction
In the halls of Cairo, in the Riyadh sun,
They speak of a future where two worlds are one.
Nasser and comrades, unified in their stand,
To chase the pale empires away from their land.
Nine flags fly together in the Arab League fold,
While Gulf billions venture in infrastructure gold.
Yet a fracture still lingers in the modern day light
Where the border of identity splits black and white.
One without telling their histories?
From the banks of the Nile to the Sahelian sand,
Resource and water divide up the land.
While workers traveling north for a life that is new
Still look for the dignity they are rightly due.
Moving on without hearing their stories?
Historical Trauma; the scar of the slave trade
The desert is vast, the ocean is deep,
They carry the secrets that centuries keep.
Prolonged years, before they trade
West sailed to the Atlantic shore,
The caravans marched through the wilderness door.
For a thousand long years, the footprints were made
The wealth of empires built on a human trade.
Though faith tied the continents, a shadow remained
The memory of ancestors captured and chained.
We speak of alliance, of summits and trade,
Of strategic bonds that our leaders have made.
But the ghost in the ledger, the pain in the bone
Is a trauma of history that must be known.
Arab-African history is a tapestry
Of deep spiritual brotherhood woven alongside
Heavy, painful threads of human bondage.
Tensions of the Arab-African slavery
Historical PTSD relationship trauma.
A dynamics historical trauma
Paternal grandmother's headstone - Beth David, Elmont, Long Island
Shaindel (Sadie), variant of Shana Harris
died May 13th, 1959 exquisitely chiseled
alphanumeric characters legibly engraved
sepulchral casket entombing lovely bones
deoxyribonucleic acid repurposed into me
Matthew Scott Harris patronymic protector,
when I die taking family surname to netherland
who unwittingly named his youngest daughter
after his recently deceased father's mother.
Mortality encompasses subsequent cremation
never mind death of yours truly unbeknownst
mine soul will migrate towards deceased kith
kindred folks only known courtesy genealogy
descendents called Eastern Europe homeland
upon landing at Ellis Island émigrés hugged
immigration officials and illegibly scribbled
unpronounceable/ unreadable birth names
subsequently adopting common shorthand.
Chromosomes reconstituted genetic material
gifted from forebears ecstatic immigrants apt
to be regaled by relatives hustling newcomers
into fast paced frenzy, the latter gesticulating
at cityscape marveling over hubbub jabbering
babble synchronized in tandem with hawkers
and vendors selling, peddling comestibles,
gewgaws, papers, et cetera predating buyer
beware analogous to innocents abroad say
by George an American in Paris humming
Rhapsody in Blue.
Agog regarding novel sights never seen within
father/mother land, viz supposed New World
blitzkrieg eventually quieted, relegated, shelved...
analogous by Dickens perusing tchotchkes
commonly found within olde curiosity shop,
yet no matter acclimatization arose espying
eye opening merchandise, the dirt poor status
regarding bloodlines a couple generations ago
immediate deterrent experienced by Aaron
Harris (papa's father) as a boy, who provided
for his family, their hardscrabble existence
only somewhat alleviated thru hook and crook.
Please pardon poetic license usurped,
especially slight exaggeration of penury
promulgated concerning up by bootstraps
scenario evinced by paternal grandfather
after he attained and emerged out boyhood,
though destitution imprinted thru his infancy
until growing up hardened qua hard school
of knocks limiting him to eighth grade education.
Raise the banner – answers draw near,
El-Shaddai reigns, our mighty God on high.
Sing louder now, let freedom’s voice be clear,
Let praises soar and echo through the sky.
The Son has set us free – we are free indeed,
Darkness shattered by His supernatural light.
Dance, for we are touched by Heaven’s Hand,
Our feet anointed, proclaim peace and insight.
A different beat shall guide our feet anointed,
With eyes of discernment, use what you possess.
The chains are broken, devil’s control is crushed,
Our bloodlines blessed; our paths lead to success.
On Christ, our Rock, we build never to sway -
Let God walk and talk with us each day.
Written By: D. Collins 5/15/25
To Piggy-back what was said by Kendrick Lamar.
I concur that what he said is the way things are.
Around the corner from me used to be Compton High.
On 120th and Central was that Centennial prize.
I go back in the day to the 1960's.
When Fort McArthur took care of our safety.
I remember Barton Hill in the San Pedro Hills.
Abraham Lincoln in Compton to learn fighting skills.
Junior High was the beginning of what was felt.
7th Grade meant I had to go to Roosevelt.
I lived around the corner from the Pilot House.
A Sailor's stomping ground where mom met pops.