April 20: Family

Lineage; The mother tongue

 

Lineage

She is golden memory folded in time,
her rhapsody a page of scribbled lines that live
only in the deepest places now that she’s gone—
but she does live on… I hear her in our laughter, and
see her especially just at the periphery of sight: when
I look in the mirror and flash a smile; because
when I look too hard, I never look quite alive, instead
I seem like a stranger with too much memory—
there should be nothing new, not with a single soul,
to see behind my own sea blue: but there is always lurking
a hint of coming home to find her – I know she lives there;
like in the deck of cards when I hold the winning hand,
when the world just keeps crashing and I just
have a good laugh in her name; but there is also
a golden-violet damask that threads even deeper, there
is inexplicable memory haunting me like a vague dream,
small cubes from the matrix of existence where
I seem to lose myself down the ways of obsidian dreams
that whisper to me a legacy I feel a seed of tremble within;
in my heart and in an echo that lives outside of time,
I watch Vesuvius boil with the ire of Vulcan frothing forth—
blood of our ancient mother’s heart flowing, I feel its heat,
and I sense the ash of ancestry, just around the corner and
hidden by a Venetian mask; I walk these streets and
I know them: the blood of my ancestors has a claim on me,
an older, more potent spell that enchants my heart; there is
no explanation for what I feel, except that pondering family,
I feel the power of a long lineage – it matters little
what they wielded and wove in life, their roots are nurturing
because they go so deep as to touch hidden streams ‘neath
the skin of the mother of all, where the heartblood of
the mountains roil; this is silken recognition of a place
I have inside humanity, with the legacy of my ancestry…
just by being born with a lineage that sings in a dusky velvet
of a fold of time: the lineage to which I am progeny.

 

April 20, 2014

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The mother tongue

My blood speaks to your blood,
our hearts are mirrors of soul-substance,
my pulse thrums at your sufferance, because
you speak my mother tongue;
there is age to the oases where we rest,
but the spring waters are eternally fresh—
I take water you offer, the flow circling
and spiraling clockwise returning: my water
is yours, I but a seed of your fruit, and
your fruit of a blossom on my branch;
we are interlinked in ethereal continuity,
our bodies separate entities, yet
you can read my mind as I can yours, because
I speak your mother tongue;
we are parallels that never meet, but always
turning in perfect unison – we are companions
swimming in primordial synthesis—
there is no beginning and ending
from you to me, where an eon is a twinkle
in your eyes locked with mine, and an age
passes with a word I whisper, because
we speak the mother tongue, the voice
of nothingness and everyone, only complete
with both vibrating in synergy;
my blood echoes your blood, we are
brothers, we are sisters, our minds are linked,
our hearts are twins, the rhythm dictated
by the pulse of existence around us:
I am daughter to the Moon as you are the son
of the Sun, but our meeting point is this place
where we both speak in unison,
in our mother tongue…

 

April 20, 2014

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