The Old Door Of Ancestry Poem by RIC BASTASA

it is an old door,
the jams are eaten by termites
the lock is not working
the hinges are rusty
and without the frame of my hands
it will just fall
as pieces

i imagine the house back
to restore
our ancestry, and i travel to places
to gather
what memories are left

the old men in those far places
are telling me stories
my notebook is swelling like
a river of tears
about to flood the banks of my
heart

many have abandoned
what the house of ancestry has to offer
there is nothing to eat
there and no one is cooking
some
noble concoctions

i am the son of Gregorio and my
grandfather is Domingo
who is one of the five children
of Juan who was married
to Rosa

they sailed away from
Maribujoc
and it was Modesto's rebellion
that carried them
away
to the island of Mindanao

and they cut the trees of the forest
built their homes
and cared for
their families

now i am moving places
into some other places of
no interest

the hours are fading
and the heirlooms are forgotten
i am looking for my roots
for i do not have what i call my own

i knock at the old broken door
of my ancestry
asking for pity.