bottles of memories

you drained the bottle of San Miguel beer

as if it was tap water

showing me, your first cousin,

how you have grown:

loud arguments for women's rights,

with cigarette pack (ignoring the surgeon

general's warning)

& a swagger pose for an 18 year old

i joined you and our cousins 

by grabbing a bottle of beer myself,

proud to show off that I can hold both the beer

& lively talk (a rite of passage as a teen)

the beer tasted a bitter lager to me

but the ice made me gulp 

each swig a little easier & bolder

it was never the bottles of beer though

or uncle's signature pork & beans dish 

that made this family gathering remarkable

our fathers (all 4 brothers) were gathered

around the table, expertly brandishing

the golden beer bottles

(we are poor imitators of their beer rowdiness)

with their eyes teary with mirth

as their wives 

chatted in another huddle, exhanging gossip

our fathers are the heartbeat &

life of this party

it was the jokes & silly advices

(repeatedly ex/changed over the years)

it was the sloppy conversations

(he said, she said versions)

it was the fake quarrels & rousing debates

(challenges issued & done)

my father's belly laughter

(young, rippling of energy)

that echoed in the night 

that i still remember 

long after our fathers

(all the 4 brothers)

have died, 

& yes after our

silbings & 2 aunts have died too

now, you (still a proud 

single first cousin) quit smoking & Scientology 

& rowdy arguments

we don't order San Miguel beer 

but sip our glasses of water with cheers

as we catch up with the lost years

in between 

the chasm is wide

but we warm up in our distinct sing-song vowels-

also, the family jokes still make us giggle

your face is soft sadness of sunset

and my hands are looking more like my

mother's 

as our voices fade, holding on to lost

letters

Posted for dVerse Poets Pub - Bottled Poetry.   Join us when the pub doors open at 3pm EST about what is brewing inside your bottle.  Thanks for the visit and comments.

Bokavar, Tales from the story fires

June 1725

What runs in my blood
is deep love for this land with rolling meadows
& soothing river 

It is month of green corn, golden as sun
I remember my mother & grandmother's gnarled hands on soil
seeding and nurturing each corn stalk like precious
bread for tomorrow

I am a grown woman now (14 years old), with a husband
and a new baby
and the most beautiful patch of green corn

I walk back to my small cabin and carry my baby
out in the warm summer sun.

How beautiful he is
suckling my breast as we rest
under the sugar maple tree

I wish him to grow tall and handsome
as his father

I still recall the first time I saw him
Wheat yellow hair 
Eyes so blue as the sky
His skin so fair against my earthly color

His words, so strange to my ears
But his tongue, how swift to learn of my tribe's words
As he bartered fur & tobacco with my brother, Cunnawehala 

Israel, my husband, would be happy to see the baby now
He had gone after the baby's birth
to speak with Governor and that had been a full moon ago

I miss the chatter of neighbors and
spring bread dance with the arrival of baby
to thank the creator for the abundance of corn

A cluster of swans came into view
preening noisily by the meadow, their wings 
immaculate as dancing clouds

River of Swans, I muse
Their cacophony stirs memories of my own family

I long to speak to my grandmother and show her
the beautiful baby and inquire about proper name.

My son will be the first of many blessed children
I will stake our roots

Here, in this isolated meadow 
I am learning patience 
& price of love

June 2014

church bells chime
as i step up subway stairs
pedestrians amble like ants

under cherry tree, i inhale  

river tides, fearless as budding leaf 

Process Notes:   The title is from the book I was looking to buy but it is unavailable.  This is a short blurb:

She was a Shawnee girl who lived beyond white settlement. She fell in love with a Swedish trader named Israel Friend. Together they built a good life in the place known to the Shawnee as the "River of Swans."    Bokavar is the wife of my father's ancestor, Israel Friend (1690-1748).    

Posted for D'verse Poets Pub - Poetics - Family HiSTORY  - Growing up in the Philippines, I have a very unusual surname, Friend. I already knew my grand father is half-American.

In tracing my father's roots, I read that my ancestor came from Sweden,  Nicolas "Nils" Larsson.  He came to America in 1648, to trade tobacco and fur with native Indians.   The locals liked him and treated him as "blood brother" and called him "Frande" (meaning kinsman in Swedish).     Under English rule, his adoptive surname was anglicized to Friend. 

Israel Friend, the grandson of Nicolas "Nils" Larsson Friend, was also an Indian fur trader and interpreter, like his father Anders and grandfather Nils.   According to the Friend oral tradition, he married the daughter of an Indian Chief, Bokavar.   The Friends were Christian (Lutherans) and Bokavar, though a native American, also had an english name, Sarah.

The Israel F. Friend house was built in 1737 and is located near Bakerton,

West Virginia (USA) .The land was a gift to Israel from the Indian Chiefs of the Five

Nations with an addition of a regal grant from the Governor of Virginia.

Picture credit:   here

Dividing time

Artist:   Vandy Massey 

Time divided your life
to before
and after your father left the family

You tried to save the hands
of ticking clock but it was warped cold
like a deep bitter root &

when you pulled it up,
the worms have eaten it away & you
you could not staunch the wounds-

You shoulder on,
a proud sapling for your mother
& 5 sisters
Standing on your ground, this home

is where you'll root & stake your name
Pulsing of tropical sun & rain
you soak the country's heritage 
until your tongue knew only one language -

Now, all I recall of you before:
your smiling brown eyes
then after:   big gentle hands
wrinkled & bluish grey
Your fair face, lined like a fallen tree

Death came in one heart blow
For you, time proved to be merciful 
For us, it was a flash of lightning

coming & coming again-


Posted for Imaginary Garden for Real Toads - Featuring the work by Vandy Massey
Shared with Poets United

Process Notes:  This post is about my grandfather who died when I was very young. What I remember though was his funeral, which was celebrated like a fiesta.   When his American father divorced his mother (Filipina with Spanish descent), he was left to provide for his mother & 5 sisters.  I heard that he was given a chance to come to the US to be with his American father (who spoke 8 languages) but he chose to stay in the Philippines with his mother & sisters.   During WW2, he & his family were hunted down by the Japanese soldiers.   I may write about this next time     ~  Thanks for the visit ~