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I was brought up in a whorehouse in Peoria. My mother and father lived there and worked there.

quote by Richard Pryor
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Real Life Tale Of An Ungrateful Daughter

an ungrateful poor daughter blames her father
her mother sad died thirty-two long years ago
her mother did not choose to suffer illness die
was not mother’s fault choice to daughter leave
daughter in bitterness hate life torments father

her father worked two three jobs her education to pay
her poor father said study succeed attend university
she wanted to spend money work in Texas chicken
she married a shiftless dreamer saying play party angles
her father helped raise their two children in his home

she appreciates nothing saved not never to buy her home
she appreciates not years her family lived with her father
she appreciates not her eldest daughter her father raised
this daughter her husband accept no responsibility blame
daughter says if mother were alive life would be different

poem by Terence George Craddock
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Oh, FATHER! - FEEL MY Untold LOVE! (Part-1)

At schooltime, my father left me at house gringo!
Yet I Kept my tender heart at home of lingo!
When I quested, for fate “he is right as rain.”
Tender tears exploded like MISSILES yet in vein;
Mother, oh mother, I am still your little son!
Father, Oh father, I love thee till I am done!

While I missed mother’s love and father’s stories
All the night I stood without sleep with many worries
I asked the god, why two legs and hands!
Why not two bodies and two souls for errands!
Mother, oh mother, I am still your little son!
Father, Oh father, I love thee till I am done!

Sugarcane Juice, peanuts and berries!
Our green fields, summer holidays and holy tours!
When thousand memories flashes in mind, now,
How much I miss mom's care! How much I miss dad’s love!
Mother, oh mother, I am still your little son!
Father, Oh father, I love thee till I am done!

The small buns you bought for me still smell good,
The grapes brought, coming from city is still my favorite food;
The fruits you brought me with roots; are they heaven sent?
Yet I didn’t pay any rent pay as you are my parent!
Mother, oh mother, I am still your little son!
Father, Oh father, I love thee till I am done!

Do you know who my MAHATMA is? Oh, my brother!
He is not Mandela, nor Gandhi but my father
Who taught me A to Z rather?
What to do and what not to do, I gather!
Mother, oh mother, I am still your little son!
Father, Oh father, I love thee till I am done!

When I think of all the things you gave to me:
Your sacrifices in food; love and affection are some to name,
............................................. ................................................. .....
*A big NOTICE BOARD: Oops! Sorry the poem is NOT completed. This is just break time! Now continue Your reading in part 2 the poem.

Oh, FATHER! - FEEL MY Untold LOVE! (Part-2) contin'd in part 2.. Read it.

poem by Harindhar Reddy
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My Mother

Every one gives praise about their mothers
But none can give as much praise as me.
She brought me from a country
Where most lived in poverty.

She worked hard and saved her money
So that I may have a better life
She is an excellent mother
And to my father a good wife.

She has been there every step of my life
She turned bad things into right.
She has given me the strength to pursue my dream
For in me, there is something that she has seen.

She taught me how to love and respect
All that GOD has given
and to make life worth living.

Through her pregnancy and through my birth
She has given all her worth.
Then through my childhood years
To my teenage years, she was with me
To shed her tears.

when I was feeling down and out
And I wanted to scream and shout
She was there to wipe my tears
And put to rest, all my fears.

Even now that I am grown
all her love is still shown.
No one can love you more than a mother
And in my life there is no other.
So to my mother this is for you
You are my life, my love, my dream come true
And I am so thankful to you.

poem by Louis Rams
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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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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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The family tree

I am known by my father
Though equally owned by mother.
I trace from my father’s father,
And not from father’s mother
Nor my mother’s mother or father.
Has family tree any sense?
19.08.2010

poem by Rm. Shanmugam Chettiar
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To be fanatic

Mother is a Christian, father, an Islam,
Mother’s mother, a Jain,
Mothers father, a Buddhist,
Father’s mother a Saivite,
Father’s father a Vaishnavite,
And their forefathers none,
Which religion must I be fanatic of?
24.10.2009
[saivites = followers of God Siva;
Vaishnavites = followers of God Krishna]

poem by Rm. Shanmugam Chettiar
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Unseen

something's wrong with mother always cleaning the house
and father complains for she does nothing but sweep and scrub
and dust and wipe and rub,
the floors are shiny and father does not like it
he may slide and the children too
and each may hurt the body, but mother cannot be stopped
and we complain like what father does, but mother does not
really mind, for she has become so hardheaded because father
slaps her and we make her deaf with our grumblings

until then when mother died and father cried and we felt we had all our
lives wasted, but there was one in the family who smiled
someone who thought that mother simply did what she liked best
clean the dirt, mop the floors, get all the spider's cobwebs

someone sees the beauty of mother, she's doing her chores still
but now unseen

poem by Ric S. Bastasa
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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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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How Do Prepare For The Coming Famine?

i like the way my father and mother
once lived.

they died with all serenity, and there
was this banquet we tendered, before
each passed away, as though
there is nothing to worry

they danced their days, their entrance
of course was silent, and their exits
a little serene, and then we talk as
though we understand how to live
just like them

there were droughts but father knew
how to store water in the house and
each of us had its own fill of our thirts

there were past hungers but mother
has her own skill of using the knife
in cutting each share each piece to
be nibbled by our mouths

and now, we are left here my brothers
and sisters, warned about an incoming famine
let us remember how it was with father and mother
and grandfather's father:

when life was so simple then
when there was hunger and yet none died of hunger
when there was drought and yet each of us has a glassful of water
when there was crisis, yet each had symbiosis

poem by Ric S. Bastasa
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Best of All

Over the years, I could recall
My father is not best of all
He brought me here
And left me uncared.
And now I am here
Struggling to get there
Never a hand he extend.

My mother one way
Is best of all
Solely she brought me up,
Me and my sisters.

By petty trading, and selling
Of almost all her priced wrappas,
She saw us through school.

Over the years I could recall
My mother one way is best of all.

poem by Efe Benjamin
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First Teacher

First teacher is Mother
Next comes father
Mother gives birth
Mother is the earth
After five years
Father takes care
No substitute of
Father and mother
And they are ours
Life's newspaper.

poem by Gajanan Mishra
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Funerals are a Festival

An old lady was dead. She was my father’s
Mother’s elder sister, who brought him up
After his mother’s death when he was at seven.
I went with him to attend the funeral.

Then I was fifteen; no sadness engulfed;
Not aware how much it engulfed my father.
My funeral will be a festival to
Most who would come there for connections.
21.01.2011

poem by Rm. Shanmugam Chettiar
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This is the man my mother lived for. My career means something now because I've worked with Robert Redford.

quote by Jennifer Lopez
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Hands & Knees

You see me walking away
What more could I say than sorry
I failed by all your complaints
You pushed a life change but its not me
And filthy hands lay apon my chest
Lay upon my sin, but I do it for green
And in your mind you are blind
And your back turn so fine
Where were you when I needed you most
So mother so father
Im on my hands and knees
So mother so father
Im scrounging for whats left of me
My self-indulgence to blame
For all of the shame in the family
You dont know what its like
How I feel how I cry
How I hate the way I hate my life
So mother so father Im on my hands and knees
So mother so father
Im scrounging for whats left of me
Pues madre, y padre
Esta vida no quiero vivir
So mother so father
I dont want to live this way
So mother so father
Im scrounging for whats left of me
So mother so father
I dont want to live this way
So mother so father
Im scrounging for whats left of me

song performed by by Unloco
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Father also mother

Father was
Male...
Mother was

Female...
Thats all
For children....

Father with out
Not mother...
mother without

Not father...
All are same...
Father's works

Mother doing...
Mother's works
Father doing...

So...
Father also
Mother...
Mother also

Father...
Male... female
No for husban and wife...?
Or for children...!

poem by Otteri Selvakumar
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My mother worked in factories, worked as a domestic, worked in a restaurant, always had a second job.

quote by Ed Bradley
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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My mother's father drank and her mother was an unhappy, neurotic woman, and I think she has lived all her life afraid of anyone who drinks for fear something like that might happen to her.

quote by John Hurt
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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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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