What is marriage, mother? ""Child, it is spinning, having children, making money, and weeping.
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What is marriage, mother? Daughter, it is spinning, bearing children, and weeping.
A marriage of two is for love that is true...
A marriage of two is for love that is true
A marriage of two is always something new
A marriage of two happens sometimes out of the blue
A marriage of two is worth it when it’s due
A marriage of two is a marriage of trust
They are only very few who have a clue of when love accrues
A marriage of two is about love making
It is not about money raking
You should only be glad if
A marriage of two is for love that is true
poem by Shashidhar Kumar
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A Marriage Of Two Is For Love That Is True
A marriage of two is for love that is true
A marriage of two is always something new
A marriage of two happens sometimes out of the blue
A marriage of two is worth it when it’s due
A marriage of two is a marriage of trust
They are only very few who have a clue of when love accrues
A marriage of two is about love making
It is not about money raking
You should only be glad if
A marriage of two is for love that is true
poem by Bikramjyoti Kashyop
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A marriage of two
A marriage of two
is for love that is true
A marriage of two
is always something new
A marriage of two
happens sometimes out of the blue
A marriage of two
is worth it when its due
A marriage of two
is a marriage of trust
Many can find themselves lost
It can be an expensive cost
They are only very few
who have a clue
of when love accrues
A marriage of two
is about love making
It is not about
money raking
A marriage of two
can be bad
A marriage of two
can be sad
You should only be glad if
A marriage of two
is for love that is true
Copyright 2005 - Sylvia Chidi
www.sylviachidi.co.uk
poem by Sylvia Chidi
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982: Sannyasin
Sex between any two is banned,
But marriage gives sex the grant,
Not just a grant, it acts to sanctify,
Which otherwise society shall defy,
Love makes sex a love-making,
Supreme expression of love, but nothing,
Sex is a body-act, love is that of minds,
Love is life, though marriage may be a grind,
What happens to a marriage without love,
Goes on for the children in the hub,
If one such meets love in an accident out,
Marriage comes to a halt without a doubt,
In such a marriage how long sex shall continue,
As long as one is other’s detainee,
Sannyasin you may feel, I know its prostitution,
Though may give-in to you, knows the love-institution,
When family is splintered, what use of the marriage,
There is more in life than money and falls prestige,
Learn to be bold and use a marriage meter to gauge,
Free yourselves than being in each other’s cage.
(May 27,2006)
poem by Amit Biswas
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A Mother
A mother shows the child the world
A mother is its world when small
A mother shows the child what's love
A mother loves her child like a doll!
A mother makes the home and bed
A mother cares for all at home
A mother trains the child to walk
And stand on own, perfectly talk.
A mother is the teacher prime
A mother moulds the character
A mother shows the child to pray
And trust the unseen God all life.
A mother is the child's best friend
A mother knows its needs and wants
A mother cares for child when sick
And feels so proud, when child achieves.
Children, thank God for a good mother
On ‘Mother's day! '
Copyright by Dr John Celes 13-05-12
poem by John Celes
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(Hate Ppoems) All She Can Do Is Pray Your Bad Friends Were Dead
You say without sparring a thought
About her every day needs'I must call
My mother she's the most important woman
In my life'You are so used to her you think
She's part of the furniture in the house
You treat her as if she's your sister
There is no passion in your routine
Love making and the intimacy doesn't exist
And all she can do is pray and wish your
Bad friends were dead they're always interfering
She will not reach a compromise withe the jackals
Who're always following you
She cares about you and the children
She loves you but she won't be dictated to by
Those who are always interfering in your marriage
She won't take orders from your mother and your
Sisters who want to manage your marriage
She hates your bad friends who take you
To the houses of ill repute and maybe you too
Must find your inner strength and make
This marriage work
poem by Ngaka Motaung
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Being A Mother
MOTHER! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! !
MOTHER IS A WORD
MOTHER IS A PERSON
MOTHER IS A WOMEN
BUT WAT IS REALLY A MOTHER?
MOTHER! ! ! ! ! !
MOTHER IS WOMEN WHO GIVES BIRTH
NO........
MOTHER IS A WOMEN WHO CARES OF HER BABY
MOTHER IS A WOMEN WHO IS WILLING TO GIVE HER LIFE FOR THEIR BABY'S
ANY WOMEN CAN HAVE A BABY
ANY WOMEN CAN GIVE BIRTH
ANY WOMEN CAN BE CALLED MOM
BUT ONLY A REAL WOMEN
ONLY A REAL MOTHER CAN TAKE OVER HER RESPOSABILITIES
ONLY A WOMEN CAN DO WHATS BEST FOR THEIR CHILD
A MOTHER! ! ! ! ! ! !
A MOTHER LIKE ME
A MOTHER LIKE U
A MOTHER WHO CRIES FOR THEIR CHILD
A MOTHER WHO PRAYS FOR THEIR CHILD
A MOTHER WHO GIVES HER LIFE FOR THEIR CHILD
A MOTHER WHO STARVES TO FEED HER CHILD
A MOTHER WHO IS WILLING TO SLEEP IN THE COLD FOR THEIR CHILD,
A MOTHER WHO MAKES HER CHILDREN FEEL SAFE IN HER ARMS,
BEING THAT MOTHER! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! !
BEING THAT MOTHER TAKES ALOT OF WOMEN N A PERSON
BEING A MOTHER........
poem by Leticia Sanchez
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A Mother Child
A mother is a child
She is younger than her children
That is why she learns from them
She learns the value
Of overcoming sin
Temptation passes her by
Her Children are her mentors
She teaches them while
They teach her…… Perfect
A Mother loves her child
With her life ……. Nothing more
She is burdened by love
She cares, She loves
She’s our mother
We love her
A team of the greatest
A mother and her child
One can’t live without the other
They run a race
A relay
Her love powers her
She can over come
All things
Just dig a little deeper
They are the strongest
A mother and her child
Nothing can separate their bond
Emotions pay a truce
A battle can be mended
Strongly from their hearts
She follows a God
A being not be seen
And so does her child
Her child follows her
They make her feel the love
What more could we want
poem by Dustin Bennefield
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Mother Is Dying: Part 2 (Filicide)
Mother is infuriated
Mother is irritated
Mother is agitated
Mother is aggravated
Tormented by Her children
Sickened by Her children
Scarred by Her children
She is beginning to die
Mother was gentle
Mother was accepting
Mother was enduring
Though mother is now corrupted,
Similar to Her children
Her anger boils from her very core
Swirling vortexes of hatred dominate the skies
Her loathe floods Her children’s lives
The incarnate of Her disgust with Her children
Is devastating and cataclysmic
Her children can no longer find
Sanctuary from mother’s mercy
Mother is too enraged to rationalize
Mother will create The Rapture.
Mother will cause The Apocalypse.
Mother will eliminate humanity.
Mother will commit filicide.
poem by Alex Gomez
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His mother is weeping
His mother is weeping
Near the lake several flowers were blooming.
Fragrance was in the air.
A cobra was lying near bush.
Beauty & ugliness lies at one place.
What a scenario was there?
A child comes near the lake
& starts to pluck some flowers for prayer
That snake bites him & he died at once there.
That snake was no other he was Mr Raj thakrey of Maharastra.
That child was a student of Bihar
who went to Mumbai for getting a small job for his livelihood.
His mother is weeping still now.
Have you any word to say her?
poem by Vijay Gupta
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When my mother was dying in the hospital, he thought, when she knew her end was coming, it was not me she looked to but someone who stood behind me: her mother or the ghost of her mother. To me she was a woman but to herself she was still a child calling to her mother to hold her hand and help her. And her own mother, in the secret life we do not see, was a child too. I come from a line of children without end.
quote by J.M. Coetzee
Submitted by Veronica Serbanoiu
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Innocence blood
Country, beauty fills it
Home of mother nature
With all the Creature
The voices of children
Is the music of the roses
A child's smile
It is the roses sunlight
A child's laughter
Is nature's patter
Colorful faces
Is the City's rainbow
Now it is country, ugly fills it
Home of a mother warrior
With all the war
The screaming for help
is The Crying of the roses
A child's frown
Is the roses crown
A child's weeping
Is nature's sleeping
Pale faces
Is the City's clouds
Innocence blood
What they have done?
poem by michelle al G
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Song: XI
Mother, mother, do you not hear?
Mother, they come; there is news to tell!
– Give me your hands, my daughter dear:
'Tis but a ship that saileth well.
Mother dear, have a care, give heed!
–They go, my daughter, away they speed.
Mother, the danger is sore, alas!
– Child, my child, it will quickly pass.
Mother, mother, She draweth near!
– It is down in the harbour, daughter dear.
Mother, mother, She opens the door!
– Child, they go, to return no more.
Mother, She enters! I am afraid!
– Child, they now have the anchor weighed.
Mother, I hear Her speaking low.
– Child, my child, it is they that go.
Mother, She makes the stars go dark!
– Child, 'tis the sails of a shadowy bark.
Mother, She knocks at the casement still!
– Child, maybe it is fastened ill. . . .
Mother, mother, my sight grows dim. . . .
– Child, they sail for the open sea.
On every hand I can hear but Him. . . .
– O child, what is it, and who is He?
poem by Maurice Polydore-Marie-Bernard Maeterlinck
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Missing Link
A sickly child lie
frail on the sofa in the living room.
A knock on the door,
His mother opened.
The man who entered the child knew it was his father.
Whose child is this?
“It is your youngest son” his mother said.
The children in the street
all had a father; the child had waited for him.
But his father ignored him,
gave chocolate to his sister and brother,
then he drank from a bottle,
his mother threw him out.
Next day asked his mother, ” are you sure he is my father? ”
She slapped her son’s face and cried.
poem by Oskar Hansen
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What those marriage worth, I am already yours
What those marriage worth, I am already yours
We have marriage by heart not by rituals.
Our marriage is pious then those done by priests
And those other who are eyeing are big fool
Those who tell that I have no right on you
Don’t know that we are lovers by heart
Our children have already started to play
Not those physical children but our love has passed third anniversary.
Is physical marriage bigger then natural?
Even god believes in original heart marriage
Who dare to discard my say can anyone tells me?
If not then why dismay in her physical marriage
I am already husband of yours and you my wife
That crimson in your head, necklace in your neck has not value.
poem by Sambidhan Acharya
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The mother and the artist
A mother might bear just a single child in 9 months; but an artist blossoms
into an infinite children of wonderfully emollient freshness; every
unfurling instant of impregnably magnificent existence,
A mother might bear just a single child in 9 months; but an artist blossoms
into an infinite children of spellbindingly undefeated innocence; every
unfurling instant of symbiotically pristine existence,
A mother might bear just a single child in 9 months; but an artist blossoms
into an infinite children of timelessly unconquerable truth; every unfurling
instant of bounteously magnanimous existence,
A mother might bear just a single child in 9 months; but an artist blossoms
into an infinite children of unfathomably unfettered creativity; every
unfurling instant of timelessly burgeoning existence,
A mother might bear just a single child in 9 months; but an artist blossoms
into an infinite children of royally triumphant resplendence; every
unfurling instant of unconquerably majestic existence,
A mother might bear just a single child in 9 months; but an artist blossoms
into an infinite children of eternally exhilarating vivaciousness; every
unfurling instant of redolently insuperable existence,
A mother might bear just a single child in 9 months; but an artist blossoms
into an infinite children of unbelievably ameliorating optimism; every
unfurling instant of marvelously benign existence,
A mother might bear just a single child in 9 months; but an artist blossoms
into an infinite children of brilliantly liberated camaraderie; every
unfurling instant of iridescently inscrutable existence,
A mother might bear just a single child in 9 months; but an artist blossoms
into an infinite children of unshakably virgin righteousness; every
unfurling instant of beautifully untainted existence,
A mother might bear just a single child in 9 months; but an artist blossoms
into an infinite children of uninhibitedly heavenly frolic; every unfurling
instant of tantalizingly sensuous existence,
A mother might bear just a single child in 9 months; but an artist blossoms
into an infinite children of compassionately humanitarian friendship; every
unfurling instant of magically mitigating existence,
A mother might bear just a single child in 9 months; but an artist blossoms
into an infinite children of miraculously everlasting freshness; every
unfurling instant of invincibly coalescing existence,
A mother might bear just a single child in 9 months; but an artist blossoms
into an infinite children of pricelessly ubiquitous oneness; every unfurling
instant of robustly blessed existence,
A mother might bear just a single child in 9 months; but an artist blossoms
into an infinite children of unbreakably Omnipotent desire; every unfurling
instant of victoriously effulgent existence,
A mother might bear just a single child in 9 months; but an artist blossoms
into an infinite children of unceasingly reinvigorating fantasy; every
unfurling minute of poignantly charismatic existence,
A mother might bear just a single child in 9 months; but an artist blossoms
into an infinite children of insurmountably intrepid enchantment; every
unfurling minute of rhapsodically unhindered existence,
A mother might bear just a single child in 9 months; but an artist blossoms
into an infinite children of Omnisciently tranquil serenity; every unfurling
instant of endlessly bestowing existence,
A mother might bear just a single child in 9 months; but an artist blossoms
into an infinite children of perpetually fragrant breath; every unfurling
instant of Omnipresently benevolent existence,
A mother might bear just a single child in 9 months; but an artist blossoms
into an infinite children of Immortally ardent love; every unfurling instant
of limitlessly fructifying existence,
A mother might bear just a single child in 9 months; but an artist blossoms
into an infinite children of fantastically alleviating poetry; every
unfurling instant of boundlessly splendid existence,
A mother might bear just a single child in 9 months; but an artist blossoms
into an infinite children of fabulously effervescent tanginess; every
unfurling instant of spiritually uplifting existence,
A mother might bear just a single child in 9 months; but an artist blossoms
into an infinite children of unlimitedly enlightening Sunshine; every
unfurling instant of infallibly luminescent existence,
A mother might bear just a single child in 9 months; but an artist blossoms
into an infinite children of immaculately godly melody; every unfurling
instant of amiably melanging existence,
Because. And Only Because. A Mother is; has and shall for times immemorial
remain the Greatest Sculptor of every organism on this astoundingly
multiplying Universe; A Mother is the Greatest Artist….
poem by Nikhil Parekh
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Three children
Three little children.
One with a home.
One sitting on a thrown.
The last child only skin and bones.
One child lives happily with his family.
One child sits alone; his family won’t spare the time
The last child watches his mother die.
One child has a few new toys.
One child has the best toys anyone can imagine.
The last child plays with sticks and stones.
One child attends public school.
One child stays home and studies alone.
The last child has to cook and has never opened a book.
The children become men.
One man is off to war.
One man is sitting behind a jail door.
The last man is very far from poor.
poem by Yvette Carbajal
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Don't Cry, Child
Don't cry, child
For children starving far away
For homeless people on the streets
Begging for change.
Don't cry, child
For those of us who have no dreams
Who live in dark holes
That we dig ourselves, laboriously - why?
Don't cry, child
For forgotten rainbows
Or melancholy rainstorms
For wispy clouds, always drifting away.
Don't cry, child
For who you are not
Or who you have been
For who you are.
Don't cry, child
For the last animal of it's kind
The mother who cannot feed her children
A planet in need.
Don't cry, child
When you stand on the edge of forever
And wish you could fly
And see the world at your fingertips.
Don't cry, child
For long-gone yesterdays
Or yearned-for tomorrows
Don't cry, child
For what you have done today
Forgive
Start a new day
Make it better than the last.
poem by Nina Dringo
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A Mother
How can a mother forget her child,
the child who is conceived nine months in the womb
the child that is cradled at daytime,
night time until dawn?
How can a mother forget her child?
How can a mother forget her child
the child who after the flow of months
has learned to stand and run?
How can a mother forget her child,
the child whose mouth imitates her mother`s tongue,
the child who after a year or two can say,
'Mama, I love you'?
How can a mother forget her child,
the child who is so dear in her own heart and mind,
the child that reveals the mystery of creation,
the beauty of growth and human interaction.
the infinity of our own universe
within its finite linear time?
poem by Elizabeth Padillo Olesen
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