Family Ties

nicely woven thoughts in these two verses ...i read this between those lines:- they are the reason why we are her they are the reason we will move into the silent oblivion warmly...raj (sublime_ocean)..

reminds me of an instance of not too long ago, with my mom. I had come across, in my possession, a lot of old photographs. My mother visited shortly after, and I showed them to her. She recognised people in some of them, but there were many that she didn't know. Both my father, his mother would have known more of them than she. They are both gone. I wonder if there is somewhere, someone who knows who these people were? I think this poem is the example of what a poem is supposed to do. Generate emotion, and thought! I might just go do one! Awesome! ~ Gee

A walk through memory lane as I can see it. Beautiful choice of words. Nice form, magnifying the feeling. Simply brilliant!

Sigh ... poignant poem hun ... nothing to add just my stars love and hugs JayCee x x x (Quote~~"It is by universal misunderstanding that all agree. For if, by ill luck, people understood each other, they would never agree. "--Charles Baudelaire)

Ann of Norway It is so wonderful to meet our ancestors and feel we say hello to them as we gaze into their eyes or see their dress and sense their presence reborn before us so intensely, due to our ties to them; our sentiments of time and bond are strengthened and we dream ourselves back in time to be there, sense their lives, ponder their woes and joys; but as we do we know, just as the cat knows when you are playing with him, that the ball on a piece of string is not the real mouse, we too know that these people are only cardboard figures frozen in time, motionless and lifeless before our conscious minds and this makes us feel deprived of their presences, wishing for miracles to bring them back to life before our eyes and live the thrill of knowing them. It is indeed a melancholia that gives rise to tears and sadness at life's short span and yet we would not be without them. What a lovely thought, feeling one goes into the silent oblivion of time like paper dolls, their fragile delicacy fading and loved, slowly becoming and becoming, and yet that world should be turned inside out and made into the not becoming but be-going of all life as its tatters finally (now the word) BECOME what all is made of and we, all us fragments of real and imaginary matter, become ONE WHOLE. ANNUCCIA we still hold the threads as we follow on.