I always read all these books about the slaves. My mother is very educated. My father would talk to us like we were grown men. We never knew what he was talking about half the time.
quote by Wynton Marsalis
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The Little Big Man
I am small because I am a little child. I shall be big when I am
as old as my father is.
My teacher will come and say, "It is late, bring your slate
and your books."
I shall tell him, " Do you not know I am as big as father? And
I must not have lessons any more."
My master will wonder and say, "He can leave his books if he
likes, for he is grown up."
I shall dress myself and walk to the fair where the crowd is
thick.
My uncle will come rushing up to me and say, "You will get
lost, my boy; let me carry you."
I shall answer, "Can't you see, uncle, I am as big as father?
I must go to the fair alone."
Uncle will say, "Yes, he can go wherever he likes, for he is
grown up."
Mother will come from her bath when I am giving money to my
nurse, for I shall know how to open the box with my key.
Mother will say, "What are you about, naughty child?"
I shall tell her, "Mother, don't you know, I am as big as
father, and I must give silver to my nurse."
Mother will say to herself, "He can give money to whom he
likes, for he is grown up."
In the holiday time in October father will come home and,
thinking that I am still a baby, will bring for me from the town
little shoes and small silken frocks.
I shall say, "Father, give them to my data, for I am as big
as you are."
Father will think and say, "He can buy his own clothes if he
likes, for he is grown up."
poem by Rabindranath Tagore
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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We had literary references, so we knew what we were talking about. We could quote things, talk about books we'd read; you can say something, you don't have to explain it.
quote by Kevin Ayers
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Father, Mother, Son
Father, thanks for playin with my friends and me
Im glad they got to meet the man I know
You always knew the words and taught me honesty
Picked me up when I was feeling low
If I could talk to you one more time
I know youd work things out just like before
Where did I go wrong, can you hear me sing this song?
Father, I wont see you anymore
Mother, dry your eyes why do you cry those tears?
You knew someday your babyd be a man
Letting go is hard when its for ever dear
I know its late, but now I understand
If I could hold your hand one more time
And hear your lullabies just like before
I know that I did wrong, so Im singing you this song
Mother, I wont see you anymore
Son, I wish you knew how much were missin you
I saw them cry their tears from up above
I try to tell them, but the words arent getting through
I didnt mean to hurt the ones I love
Mother, father, I hope to see you soon
And things will be just like they were before
Im sending all my love, Im watching from above
And Ill be in their hearts forever more
song performed by by Motley Crue
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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She Sinful Or Wild
All or nothing at all
her father had said
and it seemed right
until she met Harpoon
and he seemed her
Mr Right the one she
had been waiting for
the one she'd dreamed
about but then it all
went wrong and he
became Mr Wrong
and oh yes that was
the downfall that was
the way to her deep
depression and that
episode in the bath
when she tried to
drown herself as her
mother had before her
and she discovered her
as a child coming home
from school and the
door was ajar and when
she went in there was
her mother with her
wrists slit and blood
and her mother drowned
and dead and now sitting
there in her mother's
chair her father some
place her husband poking
some other and all or
nothing at all seemed all
there was left apart from
the few books on the shelf
the Bill Burroughs her mother
had read and left and that
Bukowski book she'd found
in some second shop and the
battered Bible which her
father had beat her about
the head and backside with
as a child when her father
had been boozing or she
had been sinful or wild.
poem by Terry Collett
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Mother, Father
Mother, father please explain to me
Why a world so full of mystery
A place so bitter and still so sweet
So beautiful and yet so full of sad, sad...
Mother, father please explain to me
Why forests march to desert speed
While snowcapped mountains melt away
What do we tell our babies, when do we say, oh
Mother, father please explain to me
How a man who rocks his child to sleep
Pulls the trigger on his brothers heart
He digs a hole right to the middle of this storm of hatred
Mother, father please explain to me
How it could be so this world has come to be
A precious balance in between
Such cruelty and such kindness please
Mother, father please explain to me
How this world has come to be
Unequaled in her blessings, oh, I see
Unbridled hatred so extreme, please tell me
Mother, father please explain to me
How this world has come to be so
Twisted between time and dreams
Oh, mother, father please explain to me
Oh, whats all this talk about?
All this talk about it
Spinning down, down, down, down, down
All this talk about
Endless words without
Nothings done
Mother, father do you know
Why one mans belly overflows
Another sleeps in hungers bed
Oh, we trade our world for a piece of bread
Oh mother, father please explain to me
How this rare worlds come to be
A place so full of color yet overflowing
Always in black and white
Drowning in the waters of our...
Mother, father please explain to me
How this world has come to be
While still blessed in all the things we see
Such a sad, sad home for you and me
Come out, and hold,
Come on out you
Come on out you
Come and save yourself
Come on out you
Come on were taking the water
Were taken the water
Were taken the water
But you know
We got the freedom
We got the freedom
Theres no God above
And no hell below
Oh, its here with us
Its up to us
To keep afloat
How this sweet world has come to be
Oh to keep afloat
Mother, father please explain to me
How this rare world has come to be
Oh, let the blue planet
Let the blue planet
Mother, father please explain to me
Mother, father please explain
song performed by by Dave Matthews Band
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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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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Dad and Me
Inside our house you'll find crannies and nooks.
Crevices and cracks and fissures and books!
Books under the bed and on the floor,
Books around the table and beside the door,
Books on the bookshelf and surrounding it,
Books all over the house, every single bit!
Not a one of these books are non-fiction,
Different worlds are their depiction.
Fictional, sci-fi, dark and fantasy,
Horror and happy, more books for me!
Books belonging to my father,
Or belonging to me as I rather.
My father and I in bookworm heaven,
Until mum cleans up around half past seven.
She throws the books in a huff,
Says it's a mess and to clean it up!
Well dad and I try to clean,
But on the work we quickly wean
And in one of the larger nooks
You'll find dad and me reading our books.
poem by Lenore Lee
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Mother’s day
It was mother’s day
and you wanted your dead mother
to be alive again,
more sincerely than anything.
You even were angry with me
for not thinking about you
on that day
of you now being motherless
when you had a mother
for most of your life
and a father too
and that there was something empty,
something missing from your life,
and her being gone
was terrible on that particular day.
That you couldn’t make her breakfast,
pick nasturtiums
from the garden for her,
or even talk to her,
on that special day
and I said that I didn’t realize that you were
missing your mom so much,
and offered my sincere sympathy
and told you that we have to appreciate
our parents
while we still have them,
that life lies only in the hand of God,
that I had grown up without a father
and that my mother was the only parent
whom I really knew
and ironically the only woman
that didn’t leave me in the lurch
which made you angrier,
so much so that you slammed
the phone down in my ear
when I called to apologize
and I wondered why
the persons that we hold dear
leave so much pain
when they are gone
and what had gotten into you?
poem by Gert Strydom
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Hey brother, why do you want me to talk?
Hey brother, why do you want me to talk?
Talk and talk and the real things get lost.
Talk and talk and things get out of hand.
Why not stop talking and think?
If you meet someone good, listen a little, speak;
If you meet someone bad, clench up like a fist.
Talking with a wise man is a great reward.
Talking with a fool? A waste.
Kabir says: A pot makes noise if it's half full,
But fill it to the brim - no sound.
Lady Writer
Lady writer on the tv
Talk about the virgin mary
Reminded me of you
Expectation left to come up to yeah
Lady writer on the tv
She had another quality
The way you used to look
And I know you never read a book
Just the way that her hair fell down around her face
And I recall my fall from grace
Another time, another place
Lady writer on the tv
She had all the brains and the beauty
The pictures does not fit
Youd talk to me when you felt like it
Just the way that her hair fell down around her face
And I recall my fall from grace
Another time another place
Yes and your rich old man,
You know hed a call her a dead ringer
You got the same command
Plus your mother was a jazz singer
Just the way that her hair fell down around her face
And I recall my fall from grace
Another time another place
Lady writer on the tv
She knew all about a history
You couldnt hardly write your name
I think I want it just the same as the ...
Lady writer on the tv
Talking about the virgin mary
You know Im talking about you and me
And the lady writer on the tv
Talking about the virgin mary
Yeah you know Im talking about you and me
And the lady writer on the tv
song performed by by Dire Straits
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Courtesy....
you talk to someone
and you keep on listening even if you do not want to
he keeps on talking too
even though
he does not like to talk to you
educated fools...
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Half my father
Half my father
Half my mother
My mother white as a ghost
My father black as coal
In my face the mixture glows
My skin is white
Still I am a black man
By the make of my nose
My hair is curly
My eyes are gray
Within me both if them lives
My mother’s race
Did enslave
My father’s race
Was never paid.
Still within I bare the two
Am O the new American?
My father is white
My mother is Korean
They met during the war
And I was born
Their only son
By my tone of skin
And by my eyes
You can tell
That there is a divide
And by my blonde hair
It is there for you to spy
Am I the new American?
My mother is German
My father polish
I learned three languages
As I grew older
Both of them
Did love me well
And of each country did tell
That I could draw
From each well
Am I the new American?
My father is Chinese
My mother Spanish
Both crossed over the Rio Grand
I am in the make of my father
But I have my mother’s brown skin
Am I the new American?
poem by David E. Patton
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The Horse Show
Constantly near you, I never in my entire
sixty-four years knew you so well as yesterday
or half so well. We talked. you were never
so lucid, so disengaged from all exigencies
of place and time. We talked of ourselves,
intimately, a thing never heard between us.
How long have we waited? almost a hundred years.
You said, Unless there is some spark, some
spirit we keep within ourselves, a life, a
continuing life's impossible-and it is all
we have. There is no other life, only the one.
The world of the spirits that come afterward
is the same as our own, just like you sitting
there they come and talk to me, just the same.
They come to bother us. Why? I said. I don't
know. Perhaps to find out what we are doing.
Jealous, do you think? I don't know. I
don't know why they should want to come back.
I was reading about some men who had been
buried under a mountain, I said to her, and
one of them came back after two months,
digging himself out. It was in Switzerland,
you remember? Of course I remember. The
villagers tho't it was a ghost coming down
to complain. They were frightened. They
do come, she said, what you call
my 'visions.' I talk to them just as I
am talking to you. I see them plainly.
Oh if I could only read! You don't know
what adjustments I have made. All
I can do is to try to live over again
what I knew when your brother and you
were children-but I can't always succeed.
Tell me about the horse show. I have
been waiting all week to hear about it.
Mother darling, I wasn't able to get away.
Oh that's too bad. It was just a show;
they make the horses walk up and down
to judge them by their form. Oh is that
all? I tho't it was something else. Oh
they jump and run too. I wish you had been
there, I was so interested to hear about it.
poem by William Carlos Williams
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Father there you Are(For my dad)
Father it's been a long time,
Since I was baby which I cannot count on my ten fingers,
Cradle my mother's arms,
My eyes closed yet to see my father,
Father running around,
Now I can talk and walk,
Those years later,
Father where are you?
Seeing my mother,
Saying I love thy father,
Which I do,
My love will forever be true,
Now as I grow older once again,
I ask myself,
Father where are you?
Inside my life I see a tunnel,
Running through that tunnel I hear a voice,
Do I go or should I stay?
Trusting my gut I do,
A smile on my face,
Father there you are!
poem by Qeeony Luv
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Blissful Bookworm
I sit in my soft easy chair in the silence of my study
Surrounded by a multitude of special books.
The humming sound of my computer breaks the silence
From where I normally work.
After awhile I don’t even notice the noise.
The books on the shelves have a special way of talking
To me. Some have scared me shitless with their stories.
Others filled my mind with facts and fiction.
Sometimes separating the two proved problematic
For me, but I managed. Yet through the years few have failed
Me. I wish I could say the same but I know I cannot.
There were times I abandoned a few. Finding fault
With what they had to say. Sometimes surrendering
The read, barely or half-read, but always blameworthy.
poem by Albert Ahearn
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Authorship
You say that father write a lot of books, but what he write I don't
understand.
He was reading to you all the evening, but could you really
make out what he meant?
What nice stores, mother, you can tell us! Why can't father
write like that, I wonder?
Did he never hear from his own mother stories of giants and
fairies and princesses?
Has he forgotten them all?
Often when he gets late for his bath you have to and call him
an hundred times.
You wait and keep his dishes warm for him, but he goes on
writing and forgets.
Father always plays at making books.
If ever I go to play in father's room, you come and call me,
"What a naughty child!"
If I make the slightest noise you say, "Don't you see that
father's at his work?"
What's the fun of always writing and writing?
When I take up father's pen or pencil and write upon his book
just as he does,-a,b,c,d,e,f,g,h,i,-why do you get cross with me
then, mother?
You never say a word when father writes.
When my father wastes such heaps of paper, mother, you don't
seem to mind at all.
But if I take only one sheet to take a boat with, you say,
"Child, how troublesome you are!"
What do you think of father's spoiling sheets and sheets of
paper with black marks all over both sides?
poem by Rabindranath Tagore
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The Prisoner Of War
he waited from night to night
he waited till the son started peeling over the horizon
he waited till he heard the morning birds chirp
he waited for a long time
he waited for his father
his father lost at war
his father he knew since he was born
but as time grew
the boy felt so weary
the boy waited and waited and waited
his mother giving him the same face
the same face when his father left
and the same face when he didn't comeback
but the boy did not notice this
the boy never knew his dad has been lost
but until
until he strayed up one night
a night he would never forget
he saw his father walking about in the streets
his uniform on but he noticed something else
his father had many medals
but he knew nothing of them
all that he cared about was his father was home
the boy waited 10 years
his mother fell asleep in tears
for all those years
but then he finally came home
this poem is dedicated to all POW
poem by Montana Hohensee
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Talk To Me
After it was over, after the crying
And all the angry shouting
When we'd both just given up
And you turned and closed the door
I didn't know what was wrong
Anymore than I did before
Maybe it was over
When you stopped trying
Or when I started doubting
Maybe you don't care enough
Maybe I'm just scared you'll go
But maybe what was really wrong
Is that I still don't really know
Talk to me quietly, peacefully
Tell me what to do
Talk to me honestly, don't you see
I need to talk to you
I need to hear that we're okay
And say the things that I meant to say
So talk to me before
Before it's really over
When it all was starting
When I first met you
We couldn't keep from talking
I knew everything you felt
And I felt you knew me too
Now I'm talking to myself
Or I'm just yelling back at you
How this could have happened
How I could lose you
Or you could think to leave me
After where we started from
I'm too dumb I guess to see
But you can't go 'till I do
And you know
You owe that to me
Talk to me quietly, peacefully
I don't wanna fight
Talk to me nice and slow
So I'll know
How to make it right
I'm not afraid to take the blame
I'm just afraid we'll stay the same
And we won't talk until
Until it's really over
I don't understand
Why you're always mad
What could I have done
What could be so bad
Don't you wanna know
Why I never sleep
Look what we've become
From all these secrets that we keep
When it's really over
'cause I can't take it
Or you've walked out
For the last time
When these years are just a dream
And these tears somehow have dried
I can't wake up in my bed
And regret what we never tried
So please don't say it's over
Don't even think it
Just think about the good times
Think of all we've got to lose
And not who's done what to who
And when it comes time to chose
Think of who would still die for you
Talk to me quietly, peacefully
Make me understand
Say what you need to say
Find a way
Take me by the hand
The only thing I ask of you
Is please, for once, just listen too
And talk to me before
Before it's really over
Talk to me
Before it's really over
song performed by by Barry Manilow
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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I Don't Believe 'You' Wrote This!
I am told I have a way with words.
I am encouraged when I hear that said.
I remember listening to my father talk.
And when he would sing...
He would bring a different meaning,
To each word I heard.
And what his singing to them he would bring.
My mother would play the piano.
Thunderous and loud!
And when I walked through the projects...
I would sing to the trees,
I once walked into one...
Humming to the clouds.
I would make up melodies and tunes with words.
Mocking my dad and my mother's love,
For gospel verse she would rehearse.
I didn't think anything really about words I wrote.
Until my sister read a poem of mine.
And I wanted to choke her by the throat!
YES!
She was the first to read something I wrote out loud.
I was embarrassed by that.
Her nosy grown up butt...
Reading my 'stuff' behind my back!
And then she said to me,
'I don't believe 'you' wrote this! '
I must have been 13 years old...
When I started to make my writing public.
I am told I have a way with words.
I am encouraged when I hear that said.
I remember listening to my father talk.
And when he would sing...
He would bring a different meaning,
To each word I heard.
And what his singing to them he would bring.
Each 'thing' I write now...
Is added to a mixed bag offering!
And reflecting how I'm feeling at the time.
I am grateful for this blessing.
It offers a comfort and a peace of mind!
And when someone says they enjoy what I do...
I must be honest with 'you', the reader!
I-do-too!
poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Children are educated by what the grown-up is and not by his talk.