Carriers

He:
To see my parents, chocolate for eyes;
To see my siblings, thoroughly brunette.
To see myself is seeing dusky ties:
Too dark for mousy, yet too light for jet.

She:
To see my siblings, there you see my eyes;
To see my parents, there you see my debt.
To see myself is seeing fates devise:
So brown is passed to brown, and brown we get.

They:
But see our children, golden in their flush,
So pasty-blanched of face and pale as day.
So bright in hair and eye, so fair in blush,
So flax and dandelion in the hay.
Our children lurked within us all the while –
We show, not in their eyes, but in their smile.

Concestadors

Just think, there once was a couple like us,
Some ten or twelve thousand-odd years ago,
Who looked on their children and started to suss
How far might their progeny grow:
From out of their children would flow ev’ry nation,
All wandering further with each generation,
Till ev’ry damn human alive in creation
Is each one a cousin – we’re kinfolk, you know.

From Kenya and Fiji and Rome and Nepal,
Through love, rape and conquest, each fam’ly propels:
They’re mother to each and they’re father to all,
They’re filling our veins and our cells.
Their dynasty, you and me, thoroughly blended;
They’re either to ev’ry- or no-one descended.
And could it be, thousands of years on, portended
That we shall be flowing through ev’ryone else ?

A concestor is the last common ancestor.

Coming Distractions

From the edges of your vision to the edges of the room,
From the sweeping of cognition to the sweeping of the broom,
From the buzz of distant chatter to your neighbours through the floor,
To the thousand tiny matters that are breeding by the score –
So many things to notice that were always there to notice,
But were never worth the noticing before.

So ev’ry thought that seeds your day,
And finds such rich and fecund soils,
Will parasite your bark –
And ev’ry thought that runs astray,
And wanders through your mental toils,
Will leave its tiny mark.

From the edges of your reason to the edges of yours scars,
From the sweeping of the season to the sweeping of the stars,
From the altogether trivial that scatters anyhow,
To the random and equivocal that sleet against your brow –
So many things to worry that were always there to worry,
But were never worth the worrying till now.

So ev’ry thought that tries to sway
Is often sly as it embroils
Its subtle, plaful lark.
But ev’ry thought that comes to play
Shall leave behind its share of spoils
In particle and quark.

From the edges of a bare trace to the edges of awake,
From the sweeping of the staircase to the sweeping of your stake,
From the incidental incidents and glorious mundane,
To the vaguest feeling since it went from overcast to rain –
So many things to wonder that were always there to wonder,
But are never worth the wondering again.

For ev’ry thought that seeps your clay
Will ooze its crude and viscous oils
That faintly glow the dark.
And ev’ry thought that blows your way
Will drive your turbines, spin your coils,
And generate your spark.