I met a man,
researching his genealogy.
He said he was looking
for his past, his history.
I said: “And, when you find it,
what will you do with it?”
He replied: “I don’t know!”
Sometimes not knowing who we are,
is the only salvation we have.
©2011, Donald Harbour
Great Grandmother Francis Elizabeth Blasingame painting, age 14, ca. 1856.
The lines of life diverge,
Crisscrossed paths of breath,
Entwined fingers of the past,
A scrapbook collage to the future.
The ancestors wait to be found,
Furtive scribbled lines in books,
A birth, a marriage, baptism, burial.
Who are you to ask who am I?
Dig deeper into the yellowed pages.
Horse thief, laborer, carriage maker,
Farmers, housewives, soldiers, MIA.
Holding a hand before your face,
The skin has belong to so many,
What will you pass on to the next?
Kindred, owner, user, chromosome?
The DNA of yesteryear a burden,
The crushing weight of evolution,
A contribution to the pool of existence.
And yet, we are what we have been.
Copyright: 2008, Donald Harbour
Donald Harbour Poetry 