Heritage

Through my mother, 

I come from a Scottish isle –

a fey place of warriors and poets.

Through her I come, too,

from a sea coast in India –

town of temples and sacred trees.

Through my father, I come 

from temperate Australian farmlands

and a tiny island in stormy Bass Strait.

Through him, I come from

thinkers and rebels, dancers and lovers; 

and from sober preachers.

Through my own birthplace, I come

from mountains and rivers,

tall trees, surrounding ocean.

Because I can feel and hear and see,

I come as well from an old people

who walk here still, who made me welcome.

Soon is the Feast of Samhain

here in this Southern Land.

To all my ancestors: Hail!

At 'imaginary garden with real toads' we are invited to answer the question, Where Do I Come From?

Photo of tartan and badge: Heirlooms from my mother. 

© Rosemary Nissen-Wade 2016

Photo of crag available under Creative Commons licence:

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Completion

On being asked to write about what this date, celebrated as 
Halloween (which is based on Samhain) truly means to me.

Tonight

I would light a candle.

I would stand it

beside your photo.

Tonight

I’d recall

the daily rituals

of our time together.

Tonight

I’d set a place for you

at our table.

Tonight we’d feast.

If it were truly Samhain

here in the warm South,

that is what I’d do.

However, it’s Beltane.

The hot, hot summer

is coming. But

the way we ushered it in

my dear, is over.

You are ghost or angel,

more ethereal than smoke.

And I shall be lighting
no fires tonight.

Image: Beltane Fire Dancer by NataliaLeFay (free download)

Note: For those who don't know, Beltane is traditionally celebrated with sexual passion. 

This was written when my late husband, Andrew, had been dead only two years. I'm sharing it now, 31 October 2025, with Poets and Storytellers United at Friday Writings #201: On Halloween. Having written a number of Halloween poems over the years, rather than write another I'm choosing to show this old one to an audience that didn't see it last time. 

31 Poems in 31 Days (Poewar / Writers Resource Center). Prompt: Completion.

Also a follow-on to the previous poem, which was in response to Poets United's Midweek Motif: Halloween, or Celebrating the Dead.

On Samhain Night

On Samhain night, when the veil is thin,

I collect photos of those gone before.

I set them out for viewing,

I do them honour.

It is the time of festivity for them,

our predecessors — sires, mothers,

siblings, lovers, spouses, friends,

others even longer gone….

How deeply must we reverence

those who bestowed their love

upon us, those who were here

in their lives, living.

They were here in their homes;

they knew us.  They return

to our homes which were theirs

for one night’s visit.

We owe them this: for love, for blood,

for respect, for the proper

sequence of things, for every

bond which lingers.

This is the time which we give

to them, to remember

who they were then, once —

now only ghosts.

Welcome, beloveds. We esteem you.

Here is your spot — sit, dine!

Be with us. When you go, rest

in our love until next time.

31 Poems in 31 Days (Poewar / Writers Resource Center). Prompt: Use no words with the letter a, except one word where it appears twice.

Poets United Midweek Motif: Halloween, or Celebrating the Dead; what does it truly mean to you?  (I addressed the prompt as given. However, this is the Southern Hemisphere! For what this date really signifies to me, see the next poem.)

Remembering the Dead

It's the night of Samhain

here in the Southern

half of the world.

I find photos

of my dear dead,

going through old albums.

Two were my mother's,

which I inherited; the rest

cover most of my life …

most of my loves —

but there are two faces missing.

I scrabble through shelves and drawers.

A whole album, I realise

has been mislaid.

The big one with the red cover.

In that, my children were little

and there were many shots

of their handsome father

(my second husband,

the one I had the longest,

who died in January '95).

It was the only place I kept 

pictures of him. But he was a friend 

and should be honoured.

And my beautiful Nana,

who died when I was four —

where is she?

She hated being photographed.

So the family had only one:

official, serious, in her nurse's uniform.

I've put my copy somewhere safe. 

Too safe, and now I can't 

discover the hiding-place.

Eventually I call it a day —

late into the night — and go to bed

after finally casting circle.

I tell the Listeners 

what I choose to discard 

at this time, from my life,

and what I choose 
to bring in. (Life, and all

its varied memories.)

Then I dream all night

of old homes, old dramas,

ghosts who demand their due.

When I wake, I see

it rained while I slept; the sky

is still grey, the sun

struggles through cloud,

and Samhain leaves me a task:

write the stories.

April Poem A Day Challenge, day 30: calling it a day