"family tree, the roots of a..."

Maybe it lies,
Deep within the buried
bones of a rich culture,
tradition, beliefs of a family;

that unfortunately, I'm unlikely to cross
paths, let alone, ever meet. An entire
colorful culture, full of rich tradition,
Is my heritage, where I feel roots...

which I would have little, to no,
first hand access nor knowledge of, a past
buried; If, it had it not been for her.

Taught me how to find, to pick
the right size grape leaves to
stuff, full of ground beef and rice.

Introduced the generation of
my siblings, cousins, and myself,
to a unique rice — enriched
with a simple, exotic flavor;
created in one simple act —
adding pine nuts and beef.

She saw the good, my light,
much as I still choose the belief that
she also recognized my darkness,

which I a was taught from a young age,
to have kept hidden, completely, under the
guise of my opaque eyes. 15 years ago,
even before I'd recognized it within myself.

Maybe it is truly, what is left,
when the fires die; as ashes
fall slowly, unsuspended in gravity,

as frenzied embers just might be
all that remains, as a smog of angst,
a haze of fury, begins to extinguish..

the smolder, hangs heavily,
when a country, when family,
when a country's families, turn
against one another, further divides
indivisible boundaries,

clearly a violation and defiance
against one (and all) "foreign," cultures,
as basic human rights of a (any) people,
are repeatedly violated.

Where sands of our lands, of time,
have long since, been buried beneath
the trillions of Mother Earth's, grains
of sand left hidden unto myself,

beneath the winds of hatred. Yet,
as the smoke clears, fear and hatred,
stoked by thousands of years of war,
the genocide of so many peoples,

yet, despite all of this common history,
rather than unite under similarities,
we stretch across the globe, just about
as far as mortal humans possibly can,

until we no longer, have the power to
continue withstanding the constant, undying,
indifference of humanity; oftentimes, of family.

She was sick. In order to spare my
"fragile emotions," to preserve what was
my "unstable mental state," protect the

"precious feelings," of a young adult
despite what was then,
an obvious deterioration.

Yet, rather than giving me an opportunity,
to see her, to give her one last hug and kiss.
To tell her one more time that I loved her.
No one told me. No one talked about it.

She's sick, but she's in the hospital.
She's doing okay, still making everyone laugh.
She's gone. That was how I experienced my first,

She was (at that time), the only death,
I had experienced, just until I began college,
where after much needed practice

And socialization, it became
most natural to express my feelings.
to my friends and extended family,

But not my immediate.
We still don't talk. Even when
everyone knows that an unspoken

elephant is lying dead,
in a room, in the center
of our divided home.

in the middle of our home.
Perhaps the civil war, that took place
not only here in two Americas,

but also, between the people of
my great- grandparents, their children;
My grandmother, the unrest,

What must have been a primal fear,
A deep, burning rage at three world,
Runs deep in my bones,

Yet I've managed to carry it
lightly, with grace, the best I can..
But my dreams?

Disconcerted, they just may be.
The same low dimensions, shallow
divets where unmarked graves, lie;

The places my unmet relatives, my
unborn siblings, my never, before- seen,
distant family, blood that seems to be lying
frighteningly close to a quickly fading,

almost lost entirely, amongst dust of past,
appear to be, where a nearly lost-
forever- history, of so many peoples, must lie.

Still, in a more positive context,
we can feel the warmth of the sun
Kissed by the touch of rainfall

The heaving breaths of wind
Lying, intertwined, with the
roots and soil of Our Mother.

There was always a time,
when nobody talked about a yesterday,
let alone, a tomorrow.

In my family, we don't 'talk' about anything,
we never discuss anything, with each other.
Yet, still, unto this day, no one talks.

C. Kilian —

Pensive Poetry;
Parenting Priestess Per Pandemonium

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