Long Lineage Poems
Long Lineage Poems. Below are the most popular long Lineage by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Lineage poems by poem length and keyword.
We’ve been together since creation.
You’d be my mother, I’d be your son.
We watched each passing generation,
Hoping mankind would continue on.
Our assigned ancestors lived and died,
While perpetuating onward our lineage,
In spite of disease, famines, genocides--
Or wars for lands, religions, or just pillage.
Civilizations rose and fell, rise and fall;
Empires, city-states, kingdoms, and nations.
Our ancestors were amidst them all
Back to our earliest generations.
You and I were held back to a modern age.
Happily mankind managed to carry on
Long enough for us to take the stage.
But there’s a new terror for us: abortion.
Your parents happily wanted you to be,
So I wished you godspeed at the portal.
Saying “see you later” you promised me
That I’d have a chance to live as a mortal.
Now I’m left with my potential descendents,
Hoping that you will soon keep your word,
Because now on you we are all dependent
To perpetuate our family ever onward.
I am from planet Earth.
Surrounded by an atmosphere
Shared within this house;
We are all together...
I live with you.
When times pass, people look away.
Eyes hide from other eyes.
Life plays elementary games; most likely in dark places.
Certainty is an opinion.
Unsure is the truth.
Facts are what they are.
Feign understanding is not always false.
Temperament is the framework of our home.
Attitudes reflect our comfort levels.
Moods are contagious.
I'm from yours.
Yours is from mine.
We share our lineage from each other.
Half the time, I don't even know where I'm from.
And I cannot recall exactly where I've been.
Then
I forget you.
And you forget me too.
But that's because we share such an expansive home.
Life is fast.
Home is constantly changing.
This leaves a breath of fresh hope.
It is never too late to do the much needed work on our home.
It is a mental task,
Conjuring the idealistic.
A directive toward positive change.
It is so hard.
But it's so easy...
To make our home the way we deserve it to be.
6-25-17
Contest: Where Are You From
Sponsor: Joseph Soper
In the verdant pasture perched on the hilly spine,
ewe leads her frolicking lamb flock in the sunshine.
A lineage of woolly convoy on blithe bouncy trails,
its baaing symphony in the pastoral plateau sails.
With the satin fleece as soft as the morning mist,
each prancing sheep she adores can’t be missed.
Shepherd's calm control emits from love of ewe,
as her eyes glisten like dulcet drops of dawn dew.
She escorts the flock toddling in a dawdling pace,
ewe notice, she's the laudable lady of great grace.
As the sun sets painting horizon with golden hue,
the sleepy sheep seek for the cuddle of caring ewe.
See, I try to make sure my facial hair is
symmetrical on both sides of my face.
It’s not. I know it’s not. You may not be able to tell, but it’s not.
I don’t get much chest hair on the right
side, but there quite a bit on the left, so I just end up shaving it all off
because, well, who wants one hairy peck?
I switched to boxers in the 7th grade
because my high school actually had changing rooms, and I figured briefs were
embarrassing.
I’ve never hit anybody outside of a martial
arts class, and even then it was mostly me getting hit. Well, that’s a lie. I
punched my friend when I was three because he pulled my sister’s hair. I still
feel bad about that. Also I don’t know martial arts.
I don’t like to hurt people or kill things;
I’ll follow a spider around forever with a napkin or a box just so I can carry
it outside. This one time I accidentally drowned a daddy-long-legs and it
ruined my whole damn day.
I like to feel things. I like that I’m so
easily moved by other people’s suffering; that I have to bite the inside of my
cheek in the movie theater just to keep it together sometimes, but I don’t like
that I feel the need to keep it together.
I am... a man. Am I?
Who sets the beat to which I must
Align my gait, my stance, my stride?
Who draws the lines of should and shouldn’t?
These lines embedded in my grandfather’s
forehead
As he furrows his brow to scold my
shoulder-length hair
See, I come from a land of chivalry
Where all men are (men men men men manly men
men men)
Where gender roles are rooted in fear and
insecurity
And every man is a threat because I am not a
man without a leash on my woman
How low must this bladed pendulum swing?
How long my beard? How trimmed my hair?
How unchecked must my rage go?
How low must this pendulum swing?
No, how low must my scrotum hang?
See, I come from a line of angry men
Old and hard, with saddened eyes
Men of principle and veracity
Traders, merchants and builders.
But see, I come from a line of free-spirited
women
Socialites, teachers and artists
Who look their best and speak their minds
And hardly age at all
I am not a creature of honor
Shame brings with it the comfort of my own
fallibility
I am not a creature of honor
I am not a creature of lineage or conquest
Someone has said that every generation
Has its golden lipstick era
Philippines is not like that
It's always beautiful and stunning
A special beauty for all ages
Glittering golden beaches
Somewhere in every island corner
Of thousands islets in the Philippines
More so its unique lineage genealogy
From the primitives to the occupants
Conglomerating all races into one
Making the brown race formidable
A diasphora race around the globe
Sharing joy, talents and services
The culture, the food, the hospitality
Affecting the leaven bread of the world
I invite the people of the world to visit us
What the Philippines can offer to all races
Come, borrow the wind to fly
To the magical land that shines
As white as the pearl of the orient seas.
My love is like an Owl
Knowledgeable and deep and wise
My love is like the Raven
With magic behind its eyes
My love is like an Eagle
Its lineage crowned most high
My love is like a Lark
So swift and scarce and shy
My love is like the Peregrine
Soaring silent above the hill
My love is like the Dove
Spreading peace and good will
My love is like the Stork
Bringing life so fair and bright
My love is like the Sparrow
It’s intuition for life’s fading light
My love is like the Albatross
Floating high on fair winds
My love is like the Crow
The darkened portent that it sends
My love is like the fabled Tern
Crossing continents the status quo
My love is like the Penguin
With its tuxedo in the snow
My love is like the Mynah
Able to sing any song or say
My love is like the Rooster
Heralding each brand new day
But most of all my love is like the Lovebird
Her loving song oft heard
That perfect pair to my person
And the inspiration for these words
Through the eyes of real
selfish ideas wreaked havoc on many
whose hopes and dreams were snuffed out—
like the flame of a candle in a winter-wind storm....
Not just metaphorically... but literally
generations suffered the hellish terror— of stolen rights and identity...
lineage obliterated—
roots chopped like mulch and scattered in the wind like dry leaves of Autumn
with no regard— making it impossible to know—
from which tree we came—which yard?...
Through the eyes of real what are our real names?
Sad to say—"we don't know"— over 200 years ago— and still today
and we should pay for DNA?!...
Not!!!
Through the eyes of real
greed and laziness were the beginning motives that soon evolved into FEAR!
couldn't fathom the strength possessed to not succumb to infinite stress...
Through the eyes of real ...
friend of a friend ...
a peoples strife—deep within
the trail of rage
singing from the cage
turnin' the page
wiping away tears
crushing through fears
came the blood-bank
the multiplex telegraph
the potato chip—
the carbon filament lightbulb
and the list goes on...
ya see?
such treasures of a people contributions
were kept hidden from our educational institutions
Let’s keep it real... that agenda is alive today still...
the game to end black history conversation
is also an attempt to squash owed reparations
Through the eyes of real
visible restraints no longer seen
however... systemically present still
a people hard-timed...red lined...by design
hidden in plain sight
the continued violation of basic human rights
A cold lion roams, doctrinaire and sterile,
The expanse of Africa offers him no sanctuary, the Saringehti no salvation,
He can only smell the scent of his pride now, his cubs shun him,
Repelled by needless roars, the revolting rants,
Tail tattered, biten by jackels at will,
His nose bit and beaten from battles better avoided,
Soul tethered to a label, only a title, "King of the Jungle" ,
Fleas and insects of all sorts find haven in his muddy mane
once so puffed and wide like a thunderhead trampling over Tanzania,
I hear him in the twilight, lonely, unsated and undesired,
Paranoid about a life that does not seem to love him,
His heart became a desserted Athens, a broken, rigid column slumped on the earth,
He wanders near the Nile, nearsighted and nervous
As an Egyptian boy of ancient lineage stalks him sensitively
Putting the speartip to own temple saying,
I see your ribs, your broken paws, your futility,
I will now deliver your soul unto the cool night,
The spear is launched with a certain bloodlust
piercing behind the shoulder blade, his heart hollers
with the cry of scarred suprise, the lion stumbles and pants
vanity not allowing blame for lack of vigilance,
the boy trots to the spot, kneels in token reverence
telling him, sip the black puddle of your error, as eyes fold ever shallow,
let me feed you these apples of arrogance
so to quiet your grievence, to sooth your ego before final sight,
there is no shame in being slain by a Pharoah King, old lion,
I shall wear your teeth as a timeless trophy of tragedy,
Emblematical of Pride gone on too long,
may the spirit of Herodetous teach this lesson to a new breed -
J.A.B.
The True Builders of Giza
Born of the soil where the great river flows,
Long before history's boundaries arose,
The builders of Giza were sons of the Nile,
Crafting the stone in magnificent style.
Indigenous people of African grace,
The land was an ebony field of grace
Deep in the heart of that sun-sculpted place,
With skin of the earth, in variations of tone,
They carved out their lineage in monumental stone.
No modern illusions of "Black" or of "White"
Can capture the valley's true ancient light
Caused by suppousade supremacy of black over white
They belonged to the river, the silt, and the sun,
An African continuum, brilliantly spun.
And call them not Arabs, for history clears
The conquest of Arabs by thousands of years;
Three millennia passed ere that banner unfurled,
To change the face of this old desert world.
Nor were they capering, whip-driven slaves,
But honored designators, filling proud graves.
Paid for their labor in cattle and bread,
With seasonal respect for the sweat that they shed.
Moses and Rameses, in heritage true,
Breathed of the continent, old yet anew;
So let the truth stand where the monuments rise:
Native Egyptians beneath African skies.
Conquered, bashed and complete annihilation?
Capitulated, humiliated and completely exterminated?
Few poetic questions for the poem,
Rhetoric, depending on the tone you prefer
The history of sun beneath the African Skies
Of those who were before the Arabs?
Poetic and evocative of family and communities
Perhaps, we want to know?
Their histories and Their linage
Their achievement great and age
Where are the True Builders of Giza
Perhaps, we want to know?
Suddenly over the sudden years
I have felt an encumbrance; I sense an albatross -
the weight of sundry uncharted days.
Times I chronicle today as if I were a wax cylinder
or a broken spool in a cassette tape.
A gray goose wing flight is my personal sky.
I must write 'personal sky’ ten times a day
so that the abated will not be forgotten,
yet how to keep a dull sky fresh
when the days are so metallically shiny and blue?
How to recall those monochrome stories
we once told our fully colored-in children,
for they have grown far beyond
such unchanging horizons.
I have so little time, yet must set down
the legend of little boy gray,
his story has almost passed away,
now eyes have no corners to see around,
I knew him well, alas the roads to that tale
are backhoed by cartoon rainbows.
The bygone calls me out into the dinge and drizzle
where a lineage of dog turds leads the nose
to a yesteryear. a knuckle end of time it was,
free from the wow and weight of newness.
We lived under our own cloud cover,
Poetic meadowlarks meant something once,
but now look at them, they strut like gawdy roosters
over our gray-worn journals.
Times past cannot be cured, they are far gone,
all is hump-backed like a speed bump.
Wordsworth and his damn sunny daffodils -
as if we did not know already.
A long moment ago history ran through open fingers
as ungainly as any grayling gosling.
A flint faced sky was abuzz with love, war
and a brawny heraldic Kevlar,
It was understood that the compassion
of the ordinary is to drain away
any hint of an uncertain tint or hue.
I unshoulder now this burden of tawdry things,
shed this molting, wingless, emblematic Auk,
and for one last page of time
record all the trappings
of the then and thereupon,
dumping them most irreverently
into a vividly golden
ash can.