Though my veins flows the blood,
Of all those in ancient brotherhoods,
Of artists and the tellers of tales,
Vagabonds, gypsies, and those in jails,
Stories passed down through the family tree,
Branch to branch, until they came to me,
I heard these stories sitting at my grandmother’s knee,
Of an old sea captain with sagas of terror at sea,
A confederate soldier who dreamed of his own death,
Tales of Vikings, whose plundering ways would take my breath,
Of heroic women bent on civilizing their wild, wild men,
It was never a question of how, but when,
These, all these, have shaped me and fired my soul,
Opened my eyes so I could set my artistic goals,
I saw the images of craftsmen who carved on ships,
Saw sailors sail proudly off on some of their trips,
Watched the natives who painted on rocks and skins,
And all the adventurers who pulled strength from within,
The artists who recorded where they had been,
And told the stories or painted what they had seen,
Their blood flows through my veins,
But their memories are not all my dreams,
For there are also the quilters who brought to life,
With multi-colored designs all the joys and strife,
And stories about mothers who prepared the meals,
Wiped away the tears, and danced the reels,
These, all these, have left their genes,
And if I but remember where they’ve been,
They will live again through picture and tale,
And my offspring will embellish all that I regale,
The legacy of artists and bards will continue on in time,
As generations discover their past in art or rhyme,
Giving back truth and beauty through color or weaving of tales,
Sharing talents that have been handed down through others,
Special inheritances from grandfathers and grandmothers.

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