Pangaean Drift

Who am I?

I’m one of many,
With a parent born to ‘foreign’ lands. 

Who never taught us their native tongue. 
Never spoke us the language
Their hearts were raised on. 

Countless empty excuses, 
But between limping lines, 
I feel an unspoken reason,
Whisper to mind.

They came here and weren’t welcomed. 

Even though this lands rule, 
Had seeped into and sapped many of their own, 
By a so called common wealth, 
Designed to siphon to it’s throne. 

Their loss, labor and longing 
Taught them to be wary and defend,
Against exposing their children to the harshness
They lived from start to end – 

As others. 


Excluded from conversations and communities. 
Sidelined and silenced for the sake of kingdoms unity.

Choosing not to pass down shamed tongues 
In hopes of raising up opportunities
To surpass the height of obstacles they knew,
From experience, we too, would face.

The result being 
A dislocation from half of my heritage, 
Yet never fully fitting with the other.  

A white man in my father’s land. 
A black man in my mother’s. 

Dissociative splits In patterns of potential play. 
Performing  Segments To suite cast and stage. 

So am I synonymous with stories of inherent essence?

Antagonistic animals
Barbaric beasts             
Corrupt conquerors
Dominating with deceit.

Am I just a mixed bag 
Of the saddest said sides 
Of trembling tides, 
That crash on shores 
Of unsure identities?

Sourly Separated by frontiers of acidified seas. 

Continents of in-congruent content.
A Pangaean drift of intangible trails
Connecting fathoms known by few, 
Like the last of the whales…

Endangered interstanding, 
Of inseparable depths. 
Bubbles of perspective, 
Dodge doubt caste nets. 

Towards an integrity to breathe deep, Inseperate in self. 
Interrelations of difference/linked in harmonious health. 

Resonant ancestral pasts and futures. 
Ryhmes of realms, behind time. 
What has, will and could happen, 
Quantum tunnels through national lines. 

Too disparate a spectrum, 
To fold in fabricated frames.
Imprisoning profiles. 
Yet, The moon, is not its name.

A Noun will never capture, 
All emergence entails.
From the docks of Dread and Rapture, 
Solitary stories set sails. 

While wild winds spin perspectives
Through the eyes of their storms. 
Torrents of inter-subjective
Varieties are born.

So am I simply the sum 
Of my heritage and history?
Or the beginning
Of emergent mystery?

To the eyes of beholders, 
Am I not enough?
Or am I not enough, of a cookie cut fit,
Who dares part from paths, And learn new tricks?

New breed,
     Old days,
       Expanding the script.

Who am I? 

       Who I am,

                     Is yet to be writ. 


Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in: Logo

You are commenting using your account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s

Website Built with

Up ↑

%d bloggers like this: