The Passage

In agreement with nature,

children were born in parents’ beds

on the sperm-stained mattresses.

They farmed and hunted,

gathered around the fireplace

during long winter evenings,

looking through a box of old pictures,

reading out Grandpa’s longhand diaries.

They married neighbors,

started families in their twenties.

They took their last breath in the bed

where they took their first.

The Bible, goblins, and furniture

stayed undisturbed for centuries

under the same roof.

Baby boomers introduced a new routine,

being born in hospitals by C-section,

driven to nursing homes

to take their last breath,

emotionally crushed,

confused and upset,

caged in safe hospital beds,

not feeling special anymore

because of their high intelligence.

Their houses and furniture

are sold to young overachievers;

the yellowish pictures and longhand diaries

end up donated to secondhand stores.

The mournful goblins hang themselves in the attic

on rotten shoestrings.

The impassive Blue Ridge Mountains

overlook the young overachievers’ houses.

Lacking talent for idle chattering,

they have nothing to offer.

        © Helen Kanevsky, 2016

A Huntsman and Dogs by Winslow Homer
from the William L. Elkins Collection in the Philadelphia Museum of Art
from Wikimedia Commons

My Ancestors Call Me

My ancestors call me to come to the Motherland

And I feel as if I’m drifting on a raft of disappointment

Loaded down with hopes and dreams and expectations

As if I should know the passage to travel

My ancestors call me and I ache to answer the call

Because I feel as if my heart lies on those shores

And I beg to walk as a native of that earth

As if I know every corner of that land

My ancestors call me and I want to bow down and touch that soil

Because I know I belong there as an elder

And my heart cries out like a lonely bird for its mother

Knowing I need my Motherland to console me as I grow

My ancestors call me many times and I want to respond

Because their calls are like a welcome to those who walk the uneven ground

And so I continue to work as if my ride will come tomorrow

So I can be carried across the water like a ship that knows its course

My ancestors call me over and over again

As if they are preparing me for my mission of life

And so I continue to hear the sounds of joy like a sax that draws you close with each note

Because I know those notes are like a signal to come and rest

like a baby needing a lullaby

My ancestors are calling and I hear you!

And I stand up like a young soldier responding to the bugle call

Because I know it is as important as life itself

And so I continue to hear the voices

I hear you Lucinda, Nana, Ida, Uncle Jimmy, Faust:

My ancestors who call me as if you are the bringers of those who came before

And so I will continue to hear you like a serenade humming

in my heart each day

Because I know you want me to come as the carrier of life and love like a servant of all humankind

My ancestors call me and I know you won’t stop

Because the call is like a bow strumming on my heart strings

And I will respond whenever the time is right with my soul

Your call pulls me and propels me and lifts me

My Ancestors, keep calling!

Your call carries me upward like a flight of eagles soaring

To help me to reach the highest heights

I will answer Your call when it is time!

And so it is!

        © Hilda Ward, 2016

A pendant portraying a revered ancestor
from the Democratic Republic of the Congo
Photo:Brooklyn Museum
from Wikimedia Commons