Bits About A Family Tree Poem by RIC BASTASA

the news came that there are people with same names as we have in that faraway island. I am curious.
I went to the place and introduced myself as a possible relative.
There is a need to trace our roots. My grandfather and his three sisters sailed
from Bohol to Zamboanga because they have no future in that rocky island.
They left taking only a few clothes and their dreams.

Their great grandfather was Juan and his wife is Maria.

When i went there, this i found: more or less there were 50 juans, and 100 marias.
They all look the same. Their faces are our faces too.

There were 3 politicians,8 bandits,2 at-large.
There is a priest. And there are 4 prostitutes.

I look at my list. It is same with who we are in faraway zamboanga.

I am not surprised. This is what a family is all about.

Scattered Leaves. Broken chains. Bricks that make a tower.
Black clouds. Storms.

Flickering Stars. And a big lighthouse.
There is a port there, abandoned by boats.

I took with me an exhibit of their poverty. Showed it to my arrogant sister
who hates kids. She looked at it with all contempt.

They are poor. They are not us. When you invite us they will not come.
I also have that contempt for poverty.

We are poorer. I concluded.We, too, must dislike them.