Children act in the village as they have learned at home.
Related quotes
Inspired by Issa - My Home Village
my home village
the virgin mary still stands
young as ever
my home village
old friends like me
away from home
my home village
old friends live in
new homes
inspired by
my home village-
the winter rain targets
a standing Buddha
-Issa,1816
poem by John Tiong Chunghoo
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Learned...
from being homeless,
i learned the value of home!
from being hungry,
i learned the value of being fed.
from being sick,
i learned the value of health.
from being left alone,
i learned the value of love.
from being confined in a cell,
i learned the value of freedom.
from being persecuted,
i learned the value of human rights.
from being an infidel,
i learned to see the face of god...
poem by Eric Cockrell
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You Have Not Yet Learned to Survive
You have not yet learned to survive.
I've heard you make excuses for it.
As you sit in the comfort of your parents' home.
Who provide amenities,
You use and they condone.
You have not yet learned to survive.
I listen to you pass your judgements,
On my appearance and how I dress.
And how I live alone,
Without complaints of being stressed.
And every bill I pay...
I do that on my own.
And that stress factor?
I have no reason to make that known.
You have not yet learned to survive.
You say you raise children?
Who are more with your folks than they are with you.
I have yet to see you do that by yourself.
Without complaining you have no social life left.
And you say your folks are always in your business.
If you stayed away and took care of it,
No one but you would know what that business is.
But you like to announce you have no life and two kids!
And then you tell me,
I don't know what life is about?
I don't know what it is to sacrifice?
Since I have it made living alone,
With no creditors ringing my phone!
And I am always at home I never go out!
Where 'is' your mind?
At Six Flags?
Or DisneyWorld?
Which one is it?
You have not yet learned to survive.
Not if you are relying on others,
To keep your lifestyle alive!
And I know you want to keep your 'lifestyle' alive!
Along with your siblings!
Who bring 'their' children...
For stops at mom and pop's.
To leave and come back when they please!
poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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The Sound Of Wings.....
from the bars of the cell,
i learned freedom from the body.
from the underside of the bridge,
i learned home has not a house.
from forty years of working,
i learned the bitterness of the slave.
from the political lies,
i learned that truth cant be bought.
from the books i read,
i learned to reason and question.
from the heroin needle,
i learned the value of life.
from love lost,
i learned how to love.
from doubt i learned seeking,
in seeking i found god to be more.
from the scars on my heart,
i learned to be a man.
from battles fought and lost,
i learned the need for peace.
from discrimination i learned equality,
from anger i learned forgiveness.
from the mirror i learned responsibility...
from the bars of the cell,
i learned the sound of wings!
poem by Eric Cockrell
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These Are Just Years
i thought home is where we went when we fell out of favour
ive since learned that home is where we go to learn what favours are
home is a language we all understand
and this is how the language came to me
i realise
home is where we dont feel things
fortune has arranged that the language wont abandon us
it never will abandon us
if you dont miss your home
i cant remember much about my home
when im away from...
home, where were welcome
we appear to be like you
the were welcome when we
appear to be alike
living in fiction
just seems much better than living in words
if you live in fiction
homes no match for a word
ever existence
the more you go on the same as before
the more you light up the same as this time
the more you sing
all your songs about
all your...
living in fiction
is much more better than living in words
if you live in fiction
homes much better than words
living in fiction
just seems much better than living in words
if you live in fiction
then homes no better than words
im in fiction [x6]
and what i see it seems so standard
it always seems that youre left stranded [x6]
why dont you look beond
the village wall?
look beyond the village wall
weve got four walls at home
got four walls at home
and these walls around your head
thats what they are
theyre walls around your head
an empty head is creative
and direct me
to where you come from
and what you thought you knew
where you come from
[?]
home is the most overused word [x4]
love is the most overused word
just are the most overused words
picture this the most
song performed by by Idlewild
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Evening In Paradise
Evening in the village it is about nine o'clock nothing on TV except
men in nice suits and cuff links talking about the economy, they all
are experts yet disagree about everything banging hands on table,
getting red faced and angry, so I switched off. A motorbike is making
its unsteady progress through the village, Joao home from the bar,
dogs don't bark, know the sound it is only when he is trying to get
off and fall they bark a little, angry voices, and then utter stillness.
I stroll through the village only street every window is shuttered not
letting out light it is like they think they have to pay extra if it does.
I walk down to the main road and hope anything would come to pass
enveloped as I'm by tediousness. A car drives past I spend minutes,
wondering where it is going. Back home I switch the TV back on,
a drone attack an important terrorist has been killed, as have eleven
other mostly children, collateral damage, but we fight a global war.
I wished for and found my Paradise on earth and it is bloody boring.
poem by Oskar Hansen
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A Voice On The Wind
I
She walks with the wind on the windy height
When the rocks are loud and the waves are white,
And all night long she calls through the night,
'O my children, come home!'
Her bleak gown, torn as a tattered cloud,
Tosses around her like a shroud,
While over the deep her voice rings loud,-
'O my children, come home, come home!
O my children, come home!'
II
Who is she who wanders alone,
When the wind drives sheer and the rain is blown?
Who walks all night and makes her moan,
'O my children, come home!'
Whose face is raised to the blinding gale;
Whose hair blows black and whose eyes are pale,
While over the world goes by her wail,-
'O my children, come home, come home!
O my children, come home!'
III
She walks with the wind in the windy wood;
The dark rain drips from her hair and hood,
And her cry sobs by, like a ghost pursued,
'O my children, come home!'
Where the trees loom gaunt and the rocks stretch drear,
The owl and the fox crouch back with fear,
As wild through the wood her voice they hear,-
'O my children, come home, come home!
O my children, come home!'
IV
Who is she who shudders by
When the boughs blow bare and the dead leaves fly?
Who walks all night with her wailing cry,
'O my children, come home!'
Who, strange of look, and wild of tongue,
With wan feet wounded and hands wild-wrung,
Sweeps on and on with her cry, far-flung,-
'O my children, come home, come home!
O my children, come home!'
V
'Tis the Spirit of Autumn, no man sees,
The mother of Death and of Mysteries,
Who cries on the wind all night to these,
'O my children, come home!'
The Spirit of Autumn, pierced with pain,
Calling her children home again,
Death and Dreams, through ruin and rain,-
'O my children, come home, come home!
O my children, come home!'
poem by Madison Julius Cawein
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Children Of The Night
All that I know in my life,
I have learned on the street
No magic carpet, no genie, no shoes on my feet
Will I wake up from this nightmare?
A fear that chills me to the bone
Though I may be one of many
I feel so all alone
We are the children of the night
We wont go down without a fight
Our voice is strong, our futures bright
And thanks to what we learned from you
Weve grown into the children of the night
Left by my father with only this scar on my face
Told by my mother that,
no, you were just a mistake
I have tasted my own hunger
Sold my body to survive
Some have paid to scratch the surface
But they cant touch whats inside
We are the children of the night
We wont go down without a fight
Our voice is strong, our futures bright
And thanks to what we learned from you
Weve grown into the children of the night
How I long for something better
Than this life I know too well
Lord, I know Im bound for heaven
Cause Ive done my time in hell
We are the children of the night
We wont go down without a fight
Our voice is strong, our futures bright
And thanks to what we learned from you
Weve grown into the children of the night
song performed by by Richard Marx
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Our good life sure is there for us, unless we learned some bad conduct in our home as children.
How Many Children? (Holiness)
how many children
are hungry this morning?
how many children
without a home?
how many children
with only one parent?
how many children
.....with none?
how many children
faced with no future?
how many children
thrown to the side?
how many children....
and how many know?
poem by Eric Cockrell
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Global Village
Global village
Though we are all human
we are made to be different
by forces beyond our clout
Yet they want remake us
in a new image of their choice
in a village too big to be safe
The world they now call
a single village in the globe
with a big brother to match
As long as we are second class
within that large village fashioned
we would be subjected to
someone’s standards
someone’s culture
someone’s technology
someone’s understanding
someone’s world view
someone’s theories and concepts
They try hard in harder ways
to make us part of that village
but we know we are different
and shall strive to leave outside
that fashioned unsafe village
poem by Yusuf Adamu
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The River of Desire
On the banks of the River of Desire
The abodes of our Gods are empty
The Gods deserted our village long ago
Leaving behind all the sanctums
Their broken walls yielded fine bricks
For the masonry of our village homes.
The River meandered around our village
Threatening to swallow our temples
Our children have hunger in their eyes
We have no oil to light God’s lamps
The River now threatens to swallow
Our parched paddy fields and our homes.
poem by Jagannath rao Adukuri
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Exile (Reprise)
You felt
Your head
Was in danger
So you ran,
Running away
From home?
Sweet home
Of yours
Where you were born,
Where you you
Learned how
To be a man, a woman.
You learned the
Rudiments of life
Here in your home.
And you are running
Away, alone,
To a strange land
To a place everyone
Is a stranger.
To seek what?
Peace perhaps
But I ask this:
If your own people
Could bring harm to you
What then could
A stranger not do?
poem by Efe Benjamin
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When You Have Done Your Best
when you have done your best
and they all begin to like
your art
your ways and what you want to become
when they also want to become like you
when you tell them now where to go
and what to do
when they are now at home with themselves
in their own chosen climates and houses
when they have understood their fears
and learned to live with their longings
when they have learned the power
of laughter
when they have learned to dream
when they have learned
how to talk to a tree,
it is time for you to go
you have freed them all from their shackles
you have taught them how to fish
it is time for you to go
your presence has become useless
it is now time to go
human reconstructor.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Lonely Children
You go where the wind blows, leading the life you chose
Your destination remains unknown
No one to help you, nobody cares about you
Youre looking for someplace you can call home
Lonely children on the run
Lonely children need someone
Too many questions, you need to answer to them
Your information is so incomplete
You seek directions, you would be lost without them
Dont let them find you lying in the street
Lonely children on the run
Lonely children, lonely, need someone
Someone to talk to
Someone who cares
Someone who listens
Is anyone there?
They may detest you, someday they may arrest you
They stop at nothing to hold you down
You need to be free, but will they ever let you?
They wont be happy till you leave town
Lonely children on the run, run on the run
Lonely children need someone, need someone
Lonely children in the night, cant see the light
Lonely children need a guiding light, dont forget
Lonely children all alone
Lonely children have no home
Lonely children on the run
Hope someday therell be someone
Lonely, lonely children
song performed by by Foreigner
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Everyone calls it India, but I call it Home!
Everyone calls it India, but I call it home. The place where I grew up. Where I started life, met my first friends. Where life started to make sense. Everyone calls it India, but I call it home. When I am in trouble all my friends are there, but most of all my home saves me from all. Where I learned to speak and learned my ABCs. Everyone calls it India, but I call it home. Where I learned to walk, I took my first steps but then fell, my home was there to rescue me. Where life started to make sense, its not just India, it’s my home. Everyone calls it India, but I call it home
poem by Innocent Angel
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What My Mom Left Me (Novelinee)
Sometimes memories of my Mom and me
an aging daughter's stories of delight
my children often hear quite randomly,
her love for art that bless with hand and sight.
She taught me skills and crafts I now pass on
her lessons to the next generations,
wise use of time for things that can be done
with hobbies, joy is the compensation,
in times of need, the handy solution.
My Mom loved to sew and make home decors from scrap cloth and ribbons - a hobby we learned as children. I set up a home business with my daughters making these things and this wall decor is one of our products.
Novelinee - 9 lines in 10 syllables, with ab/ab/cd/cd/d rhyme scheme.
poem by Cynthia Buhain-Baello
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The Jesuit Father
not one child
has your name
but your name is the name
of all your students
those who learned from your teachings
that life is beautiful
that it has meaning
that it must be lived to the full
not one child
is owned by you
not one child
gives you paternal posterity
but there are hundreds of those
who call you father
those whose lives you touched
those that found a home in your class
those that learned to be one with the world
those that give glory to God
they all have become your children, father.
you have served, and loved them all.
you are their father
and they are your sons, your family.
now they are thanking you and your name
will live and linger.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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First Year University Expereinces
I learned why it is not wise to skip class often
I learned that skipping homework in university is not the same as skipping homework in high school
I learned what it feels like to be awake for over 2 days
I learned how to smoke pot from a bong
I learned how to compose an essay the day before it's due
I learned that the Freshman 15 is no joke
I learned how to do laundry
I learned to pretend to be happy
I learned to multitask
I learned to be more sociable
I learned why my parents and teachers warned me about the difficulty of university
I learned that failing is expensive
I learned small things, like freshly washed bed sheets, make me happy
I learned to lie
I learned how expensive alcohol is
I learned what it feels like to be a failure
I type this rant while skipping my business ethics class as I further delay the composition of my psychology term paper
poem by Michelle Cow
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The Village Pond
Here, there, women, children and men
Talk animatedly, little water waves disrupted by scooping
Water vessels, the faded green water lilies, shoved aside.
Cows moo, the goats bleat,
School children scramble for a spill,
The edges, slippery and muddy, non of a bother.
The gold, liquid of life, simmers under the hot sun,
Though, shrinking in size, by every draw,
The earth is bare, the pond tags their hope.
Here in the pond, they see, sigh and fall
The feminine and masculine bodies attract
The gossip, filters, confirmed, a new life sees dawn.
Wild tree fruits, like monsters surround the village pond
I'm told the fruits, purify the village pond
Lives ruled, made to see day, Honor to the village pond.
poem by Charles Jagongo Ogola
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