Continuous persecution of widows and orphans is a crime. Even the Bible says there is a specific place in hell for those who oppress widows.
quote by Imelda Marcos
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The Opposing Sex
The Widows of Ashur
Are loud in their wailing:
'No longer the 'masher'
Sees Widows of Ashur!'
So each is a lasher
Of Man's smallest failing.
The Widows of Ashur
Are loud in their wailing.
The Cave of Adullam,
That home of reviling
No wooing can gull 'em
In Cave of Adullam.
No angel can lull 'em
To cease their defiling
The Cave of Adullam,
That home of reviling.
At men they are cursing
The Widows of Ashur;
Themselves, too, for nursing
The men they are cursing.
The praise they're rehearsing
Of every slasher
At men. _They_ are cursing
The Widows of Ashur.
poem by Ambrose Bierce
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Sonnet: On Widows
My heart feels truly sorry for widows,
Who're young and lose their husbands suddenly;
What quirk of fate has given them such woes?
-Of solitude, sexlessness forcefully.
My mind is angered yet, when I behold,
A frantic widow searching for a mate!
Her heart is cold, vixen-like, she is bold;
A female-spider-like, she waits to bait.
My God, how pangs of sex affect women,
Who've tasted love's magic potion on bed?
The widows are much worse off than such men,
Their bosom's fire aren't so easily dead.
Yet, how will widows fight their love onslaughts?
-Companionless, for life, on empty cots?
poem by John Celes
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A person may rightfully be happy if in this life he could do a great favor for widows and orphans, could assist support than, and facilitate fate of people.
quote by Islom Karimov
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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I will work with my colleagues on both sides of the aisle to preserve the Social Security promise that provides secure retirement benefits for all, especially those who are most at risk such as widows, orphans, and people with disabilities when the need arises.
quote by Chaka Fattah
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Worth A Shot
What kind of lottery have we won?
When we are here having fun
War-torn countries at the end of a gun
Where the dying has just begun
People dying
Children crying
Widows weeping
Justice sleeping
Contemplate this, it would be a start
With wisdom and effort we may impart
For someone’s existence, a piece of our heart
Making a difference before we depart
People dying
Children crying
Widows weeping
Justice sleeping
Corporate America are you hearing this?
Can anyone see how they are so remiss?
Reaping millions where ignorance is bliss
Their dollars filling their own void, an abyss
People dying
Children crying
Widows weeping
Justice sleeping
It’s what we do with what we’ve got
It’s who we help with who knows what
It’s sharing with those who have not
Don’t you think it’s worth a shot?
poem by Rose Falcone
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It's always the generals with the bloodiest records who are the first to shout what a hell it is. And it's always the war widows who lead the Memorial Day parades.
quote by Paddy Chayefsky
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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World peace
A mirage,
They are running after it,
A game,
Played by big players,
A net,
Cast by the biggest hunter,
And the whole world trapped into it.
Thou cannot look for it
on the heap of corpse,
On the heap of ruin,
Amidst the wail of widows,
Amidst the scream of orphans,
It will surely come,
When man will be
the centre of man's hopes.
poem by Mohammad Akmal Nazir
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Just before the Harvest
That day stands sharp in focus
Whenever it's called to mind;
A peaceful Sunday Morning,
just before the Harvest time.
They held a picnic benefit
Each year on public land
For the Widows and the Orphans
Of the firefighters clan
.
All gladly paid to enter
and bought chance books besides.
The old men brought their families
The young men brought their brides.
Bouncing on the rides and slides
erected for them here-
The children had the best of times
as their mothers hovered near.
The men were cooking barbecue,
Tossing footballs, drinking beers
You'd recognize their names-
because you hear them once a year.
The day was nearly cloudless
Seldom was the sky so blue.
Who knew so many would be lost
before that week was through.
Within two days too many here
were cut down in their prime.
Betrayed by poor equipment-
They could not escape in time.
But I, permitted to grow old,
remain to testify
about the courage of my friends-.
so that their memory never dies.
That day is sharp in focus
Whenever it's called to mind;
A peaceful Sunday Morning,
just before the Harvest time.
My Brother-in –law is an active member of the F.D.N.Y. and on Sunday, September 9,2001 we joined with his family to attend a picnic held on Staten Island. It was a charity event designed to raise funds for the Widows and Orphans of Firefighters who had answered the last alarm.
I am often asked if I lost friends in the World Trade Center. My answer is that we all did.
poem by John F. McCullagh
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I wonder who was this guy...! ! ! ! !
I wonder why…
Am I denied
A ride on the swing.
I wonder why…
Am I deprived
Of Colours in my life.
I wonder why…
My bangles were broken
And my bindi wiped…
I wonder why…
On my birth, my parents
Cursed their fate.
I wonder why…
Why am I alive
If all wait for me to die.
I wonder why…
I am not allowed
To play like a child.
I wonder why…
When I can speak
I have no voice.
I wonder why…
I was given in marriage
When I had not come of age.
I wonder why…
I have to wear white
And people want me out of sight.
I wonder why…
They call me a widow
And even hate my shadow.
I wonder why...
do I have to mourn and cry
for an unknown guy.
I wonder why…
am condemned
to pretend to live.. am dead
Written after reading an article in a leading Indian magazine, about the plight of child widows, in Desert state of Rajasthan. It’s a long dark tunnel for thousands of child
Widows. Govt. doesn't even have census figures
Mamta Agarwal
12.04.09
poem by Mamta Agarwal
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Do We Remember Them?
We remember our fathers
They remember their sons
Who fought long battles
And paid with their lives
We remember the glories
We have forgotten the pain, ,
of the widows and orphans,
of those who will never return again.
We remember the machinery
With which battles were fought
But the names of the fallen
Are all but forgot.
We remember, we say
With the crimson petalled poppy
And silence at eleven
On Remembrance Day
But of all the boys and men
Who fought wars large and small
Paying dearly with their lives
Do we really remember them, at all?
9 Nov 1986
poem by David Harris
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Widows And Warriors
Widows and Warriors
On the plateau a file of women, all in black,
war widows waiting to be given tea, bread
and rice from two men in a pickup truck.
The men spoke hoarsely, scurrying them on,
found their work shameful, would rather have
been up on the mountain fighting, thought
the women superfluous. They had given birth
to sons who now fought in war and to daughters
married to warriors on the mountain.
The women didn’t look the men in the eyes,
spoke softly and briefly amongst themselves
about the health of their grandchildren. They
had miles to walk, back down to meagre soil
and skinny goats.
Soul to Soul is a literary journal
Editor/Publisher: Joneve McCormick
Written by Jan Oskar Hansen
poem by Oskar Hansen
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Widows
The world was widowed by the death of Christ:
Vainly its suffering soul for peace has sought
And found it not.
For nothing, nothing, nothing has sufficed
To bring back comfort to the stricken house
From whence has gone the Master and the Spouse.
In its long widowhood the world has striven
To find diversion. It has turned away
From the vast awefull silences of Heaven
(Which answer but with silence when we pray)
And sought for something to assuage its grief.
Some surcease and relief
From sorrow, in pursuit of mortal joys.
It drowned God's stillness in a sea of noise;
It lost God's presence in a blur of forms;
Till, bruised and bleeding with life's brutal storms,
Unto immutable and speechless space
The World lifts up its face,
Its haggard, tear-drenched face,
And cries aloud for faith's supreme reward,
The promised Second Coming of its Lord.
So many widows, widows everywhere,
The whole earth teems with widows.
Guns that blare-
Winged monsters of the air-
And deep-sea monsters leaping through the water,
Hell bent on slaughter,
All these plough paths for widows. Maids at dawn,
And brides at noon, ere eventide pass on
Into the ranks of widows: but to weep
Just for a little space; then will grief sleep
In their young bosoms, where sweet hope belongs,
New love will sing once more its age-old songs,
And life bloom as a rose-tree blooms again
After a night of rain.
There are complacent widows clothed in crêpe
Who simulate a grief that is not real.
Through paths of seeming sorrow they escape
From disappointed hopes to some ideal,
Or, from the penury of unloved wives
Walk forth to opulent lives.
And there are widows who shed all their tears
Just at the first
In one wild burst,
And then go lilting lightly down the years:
Black butterflies, they flit from flower to flower
And live in the thin pleasures of the hour;
Merging their tender memories of the dead
In tenderer dreams of being once more wed.
But there are others: women who have proved
That loving greatly means so being loved.
Women who through full beauteous years have grown
Into the very body, souls, and heart
Of their dear comrades. When death tears apart
Such close-knit bonds as these, and one alone
Out to the larger freer life is called,
And one is left-
Then God in heaven must sometimes be appalled
At the wild anguish of the soul bereft,
And unto His Son must say, 'I did not know
Mortals could suffer so.'
But Christ, remembering Gethsemane,
Will answer softly, 'It was known to Me.'
God's alchemist, old Time, will merge to calm
That bitter anguish; but there is no balm
Save the sweet certitude that each long day
Is one step in a stair
That circles up to where freed spirits stay.
Widows, so many widows everywhere.
The world was widowed by the death of Christ,
And nothing, nothing, nothing has sufficed
To bring back comfort to the stricken house
From whence has gone the Master and the Spouse.
Hasten, dear Lord, with Thy Millennium,
Hasten and come.
poem by Ella Wheeler Wilcox
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Who is terrorist?
Is it a state of mind or thy ambition?
The friends of past are now foes,
Who nourished these thorny plants?
They have taken the form of huge trees.
Thy double standard has put the world
Into the furnace of destruction.
They are terrorist or crusadors,
The world peace has been spoiled,
By thy dubious definition.
Millions of children were orphans
And women widows,
In the name of terrorism.
The whole universe belongs to
Almighty,
Let Him decide what is to be done,
In this way balance will be maintained,
And terrorism will be checked,
But whom He will punish?
Why fear thou?
Thou dost call thyself innocent.
poem by Mohammad Akmal Nazir
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Widows weep but they look for another husband.
South American proverbs
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Girls marry to please parents, widows to please themselves.
Widows are divided into two classes; the bereaved and the relieved.
quote by Victor Robinson
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Widows comfort themselves when they remarry, widowers take revenge.
God Is Coming Back
God is coming back
with the Son and the Father and the Mother and the
Holy Spirit
and all the angels and saints and all the angels
of heaven
just to see you again
in your disbelief just to check on your faithlessness
and he will utter your name
your age your work your address your circumstances
what you do what you think what you plan to do what you want to think
are you the bride?
are you ready for the groom?
are you ready for this walking on the aisle?
this marriage of God and Man
this surrender of mortality
to divinity?
are you ready?
that is the question
an order, a command, a request,
these demands of love, some responsibilities of loving
the obligation to care for the other
the poor and the oppressed, the sick and the dying
the meek and the humble
the widows and the old, the orphans and the children lost
the fetus and the bleeding navels of innocence
for salvation.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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There are three kinds of person that you must not challenge: civil servants, customers and widows.