I attended Sunday School and then church with my father and mother throughout my childhood.
quote by Leverett Saltonstall
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Scenes from a Parish
The weekday Mass at 6 a.m.
brings old folks out
from bungalows
around the church.
They move like caterpillars
down sidewalks,
some with canes,
some on walkers.
Young Father Doyle says the Mass
and is renowned for giving
homilies on weekdays
superior to homilies
heard in other churches
even on a Sunday.
After Mass, he goes back
to the rectory to care
for a mother older than
most of his congregants.
A gracious lady, his mother
cannot move or talk
because of a stroke.
But every Sunday at noon,
when the church is overflowing
with people wanting Mass to start,
Father Doyle, in full vestments,
wheels his mother in a lump
down the middle aisle
and lifts her like a chalice
and places her in the front pew
before he ascends to the altar.
Sometimes at night,
when his mother is finally asleep,
he returns to the church
and rehearses in the dark
three hymns she long ago
asked him to sing at her funeral.
He practices the hymns
because the doctor said
she could go at any time
and when that time comes,
he doesn't want to miss a note.
The last thing she ever said was
'Son, I'll be listening.'
poem by Donal Mahoney
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Sunday Morning
Sunday morning silence, curtain stay closed late
No one thinks of kitchens mornings in a filthy state
Dishes cups and beer stains, ashtrays on the floor
Sunday morning papers are left outside the front door
Sunday school and sunday roast
Sunday papers sunday post
Sunday morning sunday rest
Sunday sermon sunday best
(sunday, bloody sunday rest)
Glass of fizzy water helps to start the day
Sit and listen to sunday silence, problems fade away
Sunday cars and drivers break the morning air
Uncollected milk outside reveals theres no one there
Sunday school and sunday roast
Sunday papers sunday post
Sunday morning sunday rest
Sunday sermon sunday best
Sunday school and sunday roast
Sunday papers sunday post
Sunday morning sunday rest
Sunday sermon sunday best
Bathrobes hang in waiting, windows steaming up
Somewhere in the sink downstairs lies an unwashed cup
Tea and toast for breakfast clear away the plates
Wash-up prepare for cooking sunday lunch awaits
Sunday lunch awaits
Sunday lunch awaits
song performed by by Madness
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Sundays Past
On Sunday mornings you would wear a dark suit
With a tie and shiny shoes you are ready to en route
The church bells would ring calling for morning mass
While you check the weather through the window glass
A last glance in the mirror and you are on your way
You join the church goers without any further delay
Walking over uneven cobblestones in our small town
Children would jump on the sidewalks up and down
Dressed up for church everyone is wearing their best
Thinking about the priest and what they have to confess
Men lifting their dark hats as they wish a Good Morning
Then pass by the cemetery bowing heads as in mourning
The church bells now ringing louder and more demanding
Calling all sinners to mass without misunderstanding
I always knew that right then the decision was made
And it was agreed to skip church without being afraid
Through the old alley you and others took a known detour
Heading straight to the pub on the corner that is for sure
Around noon I would go to meet my father by the church
And he would talk about mass having done some research
At home my mother would just smile and shake her head
While my father gave her a wink that was hardly misread
Joking around we would eat lunch smiling with every bite
Keeping my father's Sunday secret and the world was alright
© 2011
poem by Kristina Louisa Carr
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As Children
On Sundays mother sent us to Sunday school
at the huge St Osmund’s church.
My brother said he’d look after our collection money,
but he always ran off, leaving sis and me in the lurch.
poem by Orlando Belo
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Butter in her mouth
Butter in her mouth
School time is just too over, waking up and ready for the school otherwise I will beat you bitterly.
He put off the bed sheet from my body, stretched my hand,
In addition, put me on my foot.
Tears came in my eyes then I went slowly and slowly to my mother in the kitchen,
I put my finger towards my father
And complained about the rude behavior of my father,
Who was asking him to go to the school?
She embraced me; kiss my fore head, and politely asking me to become ready to school because I have to be an officer by studying in the school.
Orders were the same.
Father orders me to wake up and to go to the school while he was having a stick in his hand.
Mother also orders him to go to the school having butter in her mouth.
(From the diary of an Indian)
poem by Vijay Gupta
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Sunday Father
Hand in his hand though the park
All afternoon
A fine day to fly balloons or tell him a story
Hand in his hand to wonder
Till day is done
Sunday father and son
Sundays are theres to explore
Alone by law
One day to keep the two from turning to strangers
One day to know the answers
Be firm , be fun
Sunday father and son
The father weaves though the weekend streets
Sunday done, monday comin' on
He leaves the child by a modest home
That they share no more
With the woman who waits indoors
Till she knows he's gone
Where are the words or the games
A place to go
Someway to let him know you want to be with him
Somehow it's always ending
Just half begun
Sunday father and son
Sunday father and son
song performed by by Barry Manilow
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Lovelist Stage Of Life
Childhood is the loveliest period of life.
It is full of mother's love, father's pamper and teacher's blessings.
Unaware of the worldly problems.
No tension and no worries, freedom everywhere.
Freedom to laugh, jump and play.
Lovely are the childhood days.
Lessons at school are interesting but sometimes boring too.
Gatherings at assembly hall in the morning,
watching nearby friends and teachers with squint eyes during mornings prayers are lovely too.
Above all, the bed time stories of mother are very exciting.
It takes us to a fantasy world.
Lovely are the childhood days.
poem by Sarada Panda
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I Want To Say Thanks For My Mother
I want to say Thanks for my Mother,
To me she taught how to Love one another;
With only one hand, to do the work she had to do,
But; she worked as if it was more hands than two.
She took us each Sunday to church and Sunday school,
And really cared to teach us children, the golden Rule;
That we need to Love God, and obey and Trust Him too,
Yes, if only she were here right now, I'd say to her thankyou.
My Mother taught us girls to learn, how to be truthful, also,
And how to read and also to Pray, and to others love to show;
She also taught us how to cook, to sew and knit as well,
These things is a lot for one hand lady, is what I can tell.
She was a foster Mother to many a child and baby, it's true,
Some with health problems, and that couldn't say thankyou;
Some had other difficulties, some were very bad as well,
But Mum certainly showed she loved them, oh yes! We could tell.
So Mum if you could have been here today, and read this now,
It tells you thanks for everything, I love you any how;
Sometimes we were naughty, played up when you were tired too,
So! Mum, I'm sorry for those times, and Mum I say Thankyou.
poem by Margaret Haig
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Random things about my Mother
My mother whose eyes were strained
By a sadness that stained her eyes
With grey and blue hue
My mother who never blew
Out candles on a birthday cake
My mother who never knew
The thrills of flying in an airplane
My mother who forever threw
Her pearls to swine
My mother who knew
No contentment in living
My who mother never lived
To be even seventy two
My mother who it is true
Stopped living long before she died
My mother from whose mouth flew
Words of disappointment and fury
My mother whose lips
Tasted bitter tears
My mother sat impatiently
In sorrow through her years
My mother who like Kunta Kinte
Was tamed by Diabets
My mother who was tamed
By my father
My mother who was captured by my father
My mother who fought with my father
The two them struggling false teeth piercing each others flesh
My mother who my father told to go and cook the mint
My mother who would beat us and cause wounds and bruises to our skin
My mother who love to walk about
My mother who gave a toe
A day away
My mother who kiked with her stump of a leg after she lost her foot
My mother who was a great dresser
My mother who could sing
Sang on the church choir
My mother who would be at the front of the church earliest every Saturday
My mother who insisted I be baptized and save by the holy ghost
My mother had beautiful handwriting
My mother who had nine children for five different men
My mother who tried to settle down with my father
My mother who could never swim
My mother who loved to sing
My mother who would tie us up on leashes and take us for long walks through the town
My mother who sought out hand me-downs – for our clothing
My mother who was active in the Welfare Society at church so she could cream the crop for her family
My mother who instigated many a conflicts with her numerous friend was left with only a few in the end.
My mother whom I so wanted to help evolve
My mother who I helped to live
My mother who I had to let die
My mother who lives in me
poem by Fleurette Elaine Harris
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My mother was the president of the PTA at every school I attended.
quote by Vernon Jordan
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Sex & The Church
Though the idea of compassion
Is said to be
The union of christ
And his bride, the christian
Its all very puzzling
Sex and the church
Sex and the church
Sex and the church
And the church
And the church
All the great mystic religions
Put strong emphasis, on
Redeame this spiritual qualities
Of sex of sex
Chrstianity
Has been pretty modern
About sex
Of sex of sex of sex of sex
Sex and the church
Sex and the church
Sex and the church
Sex sex
I think there is a union
Between the flesh and the spirit
Its sex and the church
Sex and the church
All religions mother
Give me youre freedom of spirit
And the joys of the flesh
Of sex sex sex and the church
Give me youre freedom of spirit
And the joys of the flesh
Of sex sex sex and the church
Sex and the church
Sex and the church
Sex and the church
And the church
And the church
Sex sex
Sex and the church
Sex and the church
Sex and the church
Sex sex
Sex and the church
Sex and the church
Sex and the church
And the church
And the church
Sex sex
Sex and the church
Sex and the church
Sex and the church
Sex sex
Sex
Sex and the church
Sex and the church
Sex and the church
Sex sex
song performed by by David Bowie
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Some Say
Some say that life is a burden,
Some say that life is a blessing,
Some say that life is a cycle,
But I say taht life is boring.
Some say that church is religious,
Some say that church is precious.
Some say that church is annoying,
But I say that church is and will forever be holy.
Some say that our culture is unique,
Some say that our culture is rich.
Some say that our culture is highly respected,
But I say that our culture is a lot to deal with.
Some say that school is a lot of work,
Some say that school is no place for a fool.
Some say that school is a drag.
But I say that school is awesome and cool.
poem by Moana Tuigamala
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the little brown boy from Luyuran
he is the eldest of four
age is 7
he quit school
his mother is a
drunkard and
lives with another
man in the village
his father is
killed by the
lover of her mother
that early morning
four of them
are fetched to live
with his grandma
they buried his father
and his mother
is nowhere to be found
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Sunday In Savannah
One more
Sunday in Savannah
hear the whole creation shoutin'
Praise the Lord
see them flinging out the banner
while the congregation says amen
Young folk
tendin' Sunday School
they sing merrilly 'bout the golden rule
horse sense preaching all the day
they all hollar in the righteous way
It's time for me to call on Mother Hannah
while she sits there wishing for her last reward
one more Sunday in Savannah
one more Sunday in Atlanta
it's the same thing
same feeling
Don't ya dare
go fishin' son
Amen
song performed by by Nina Simone
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Letter to my Father.
If I try to go back into the hands of time
I can't recall the first day of my life
But with care and affection from mom I grew up
With the passing of age to school I went
Father you made me go to school
You made me keen to be in class
And saintly made me take pen and paper
And painted my books with a the colours of my writing
I must apologise my father
Despite the years in class I am not a doctor
Nor a pilot or a lawyer or the teacher you intended
Because I got tired of the books
When I could not cook the answers
I walked out of school
But father do not scold me
Nor poor cold water on my path
Cool down your wrath and smile
I am a self made man of God
I run a multimillion church with a large flock
And I milk them well by the Bible fodder
Father I write this letter to you
Beseeching you to revoke your decision
Of banishing me when I dropped out of school
Because father,
I dine with the kings, date the queens
And I still preach to the emperors of the land
poem by Major Elazia
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My Parents
Oh my mother Oh my father
Oh my mother Oh my father
Where are you where are you wher are you?
Ilove you i love you
I looking for you
to talk about my heart
which still ill
untill i will see you
Oh my mother Oh my father
Oh my mother Oh my father
Where are you where are you wher are you?
I love you i love you
You are the third one
In my small heart
After ALLAH and
And my prophet MOHAMED
Oh my mother Oh my father
Oh my mother Oh my father
Where are you where are you wher are you?
I love you i love you
Oh ALLAH is ordering us
Not to make them angry
Never to tell them
the smallest word ouufff
Oh my mother Oh my father
Oh my mother Oh my father
Where are you where are you wher are you?
I love you i love you
Oh ALLAH loves who
Makes his parents happy
And forgives those
Who have a lot of mistakes
Oh my mother Oh my father
Oh my mother Oh my father
Where are you where are you wher are you?
Ilove you i love you
Oh ALLAH enter me
To the higher Firdaous
With my parents and
every single MUSLIM
Oh my mother Oh my father
Oh my mother Oh my father
Where are you where are you wher are you?
I love you i love you
poem by Abderaouf Laoud
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Mother!
Mother! , She is a cursive art,
Let her sleep, its a sunday's part!
The dawn has set in a will,
The limpid heart is sleeping still!
Her work is wide than a tide,
Making her face fade a slight!
Mother! , She is a cursive art,
Let her sleep, its a sunday's part!
The Queen of Kingdom rests in peace,
The Queen of Home sets in work!
Her job is an endless ocean,
My smile for her is boosting mark!
Mother! , She is a cursive art,
Let her sleep, its a sunday's part!
Sunday is a great relief,
To recharge her mind and physic!
Its my part to pat her today,
Let her sleep, come on sunday! !
Mother! She is a cursive art,
Let her sleep, its a sunday's part!
poem by Jayanthi Sekar
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On His Father's Side
On his mother’s side
Born in Bethlehem
On his Father’s side
No one before him
On his mother’s side
Growing and learning
On his Father’s side
All knowledge showing
On his mother’s side
Stuck in one location
On his Father’s side
Present in every nation
On his mother’s side
He was hungry
On his Father’s side
The multitudes he did feed
On his mother’s side
At Calvary he died
On his Father’s side
He was the essence of life
On his mother’s side
Buried like other men
On his Father’s side
He rose again
On his mother’s side
Human and weak
On his Father’s side
The God of eternity.
poem by Joses Tirtabudi
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Male parental hierarchy.
My parents are two, grandparents four
And great grandparents, eight and so on.
I am known by my father, his father,
And his father and so on by male side.
My mother, her mother and father, their
Mother and father and so on are ignored.
My fathers’ mother and grandfather’s
Mother and so on go to oblivion.
I am known by my father, his father
And his father and so on as a family.
All women from whom I have drawn
Their genes have been shut out.
Parental hierarchy is represented
By male, women dislodged at every stage.
25.08.2009
poem by Rm. Shanmugam Chettiar
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Ode To The Child
the child is the
father, mother
mentor of the man
he gathers the whole
language for him
his mother tongue
with all the shades of meaning
in the first many years of his life
when you hear a man speak
he is speaking the tongue
of his childhood
when you hear a man lie
he is lying on the inoncence
of his childhood
poem by John Tiong Chunghoo
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