My father was predisposed to drunken rages. I would hide under the bed. My sister and I were talking just the other day about the terror a drunken man in a rage can create in a child.
quote by Antonio Villaraigosa
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Related quotes
O What Shall We Do With These Drunken Men?
1
Oh what shall we do
what shall we do
with these drunken men -
like my very own darling
Mike Hammer?
Last night
I picked him up
from outside the pub
where he'd been drinking
with his mates
And in the car
almost near our home
he says: I love you
And I say to him:
Is that you talking
or the beer?
And he says
like lightning:
It's me talking.
I'm talking to my beer.
2
Oh what shall we do
what shall we do
with these drunken men -
like my very own darling
Mike Hammer?
I locked him in the car
doused him with effluent water
let him sleep there
till he turns sober
But it's 11am now and hot
and sober or not,
he's still asleep
in the car
and when I try and wake him up
he's still mumbling about love and beer
Oh what shall we do
what shall we do
with these drunken men -
like my very own darling
Mike Hammer?
Maybe I should dunk him over a hill
car and all
till he turns mature, till he's sober
poem by Raj Arumugam
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You Have To Decide....
even prophets are pilgrims,
and infidels are priests.
the murderer you sent
to be executed,
is just you in another form.
the child he killed,
is also you....
the drunken father who beat him
mercilessly as a child,
you got it, also you!
the prayer he prayed before he died,
you have to decide!
poem by Eric Cockrell
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Shes My Kind Of Rain
Shes my kind of rain
Like love in a drunken sky
Shes confetti falling
Down all night
She sits quietly there
Black water in a jar
Says, baby why are you
Trembling like you are
So I wait
And I try
I confess like a child
Shes my kind of rain
Like love from a drunken sky
Confetti falling down all night
Shes my kind of rain
Shes the sun set shadows
Shes like rembrandts light
Shes the history thats made at night
Shes my lost companion
Shes my dreaming tree
Together in this brief eternity
Summer days, winter snows
Shes all things to behold
Shes my kind of rain
Like love from a drunken sky
Confetti falling down all night
Shes my kind of rain
So I wait
And I try
I confess all my crimes
Shes my kind of rain
Like love from a drunken sky
Confetti falling down all night
Shes my kind of rain
Shes my kind of rain
Like love from a drunken sky
Confetti falling down all night
Shes my kind of rain
Shes my kind of rain
Oh, rain on me
Shes my kind of rain
song performed by by Tim McGraw
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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My Drunken Stupor
In a drunken stupor
I wonder what I should create
From the back my mind a light goes off
They say its part of the creative process
But I wonder if I'm actually making any progress
Or am I going backwards tripping all over myself
I drank tonight to make an unending headache go away.
Buzzed I hope does deteriorate my writing ability
That probably sounds kind of silly
Of course it does
It must
For my vision get kind of blurry, so my thoughts must also
Remembering what I write from word to word is kind of absurd
This is my drunken stupor
poem by Ace Of Black Hearts
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Who can’t stop drinking may get drunken three times a month. If he does it more often, he is guilty. To get drunken twice a month is better; once, still more praiseworthy. But not to drink at all - what could be better than this? But where could such a being be found? But if one would find it, it would be worthy of all honour.
quote by Ginghis Han
Submitted by Simona Enache
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Dont Judge!
Hey have you ever thought
Look at her she’s so fake
Well maybe that’s why she’s distraught
Maybe she is trying to hide her mistake
The next time you look and say
Look at him he is pathetic, so mild
See his bruises, the ones they gave today
Tell me then that he is like a useless child
Well you see that girl with killer heels
The one that acts so loose
Well she hasn’t got a good deal
She goes home to her mother’s abuse
You know nothing about the kid
But see only the acts he commits
Don’t see the father from which he hid
Nor the scar from his father’s drunken fits
So don’t tell me you don’t judge
When you see the young girl with a bump
You think she’s a fool, and hold a grudge
But there is a reason she tried to jump
There is more to a book than a cover
There is pain cause from others
There are crimes committed by a lover
There are different reasons why people suffer
poem by Rebecca Pepper
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Lost Innocence
The small boy sits in the corner
waiting for his father into return.
He is afraid to move about,
He might be punished for that also.
He believes his father
will bring him something good.
But when his dad walks through the door,
all he has is the bottle in his hand.
He runs to embrace his father
and receives a blow to the head.
When the fragile child awakens,
He is in much pain.
His drunken father lies on the couch,
without a care in the world.
He returns slowly and quietly
To his darkened corner,
And says to himself
'Wouldn't it be great if my father loved me,
More than the bottle in his hand.'
(Views Taken from a short story in hindi.)
poem by Mahfooz Ali
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The Blind Girl
Kind Christians, pray list to me,
And I'll relate a sad story,
Concerning a little blind girl, only nine years of age,
Who lived with her father in a lonely cottage.
Poor girl, she had never seen the blessed light of day,
Nor the beautiful fields of corn and hay,
Nor the sparrows, that lifted their heads at early morn
To bright Sol that does the hills adorn.
And near the cottage door there was an elm tree;
But that stunted elm tree she never did see,
Yet her little heart sometimes felt gay
As she listened to the thrushes that warbled the live-long day.
And she would talk to the wren when alone,
And to the wren she would her loneliness bemoan,
And say, "Dear little wren, come again to-morrow;
Now be sure and come, your singing will chase away my sorrow."
She was motherless, but she had a drunken father,
Who in his savage moods drank all he could gather,
And would often cruelly beat her until she would cry,
"Dear father, if you beat me I will surely die."
She spent the days in getting ready her father's food,
Which was truly for her drunken father's good;
But one night he came home, reeling drunk,
And the poor child's heart with fear sunk;
And he cried, "You were at the door when I came up the lane;
Take that, you good-for-nothing slut; you're to blame
For not having my supper ready; you will find
That's no excuse, Sarah, because you are blind."
And with a stick he struck her as he spoke
Across the shoulders, until the stick almost broke;
Crying aloud, "I'll teach you better, you little sneak;"
And with the beating, Sarah's heart was like to break.
Poor little Sarah had never seen the snow;
She knew it was beautiful white, some children told her so;
And in December, when the snow began to fall,
She would go to the door and make a snowball.
One day she'd been very cheerless and alone,
Poor child, and so cold, almost chilled to the bone;
For her father had spent his wages in drink,
And for want of fire she was almost at death's brink.
Her face was pinched with hunger but she never complained,
And her little feet with cold were chilblained,
And her father that day had not come home for dinner,
And the dull grey sky was all of a shimmer.
So poor Sarah was very sick when her father came home;
So bad, little dear, that she did sigh and moan,
And when her father saw her in bed
He was heart-stricken with fear and dread.
So within a few days poor Sarah did die,
And for the loss of Sarah the drunken father did cry,
So the loss of his child soon converted him
From drinking either whiskey, rum or gin.
poem by William Topaz McGonagall
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Saturday Mournings
Saturday
Mournings
Those Saturday mornings
I pushed my bed
Away from the wall
Hoping my sister would not hear
Hoping my foster
Momma
Would not hear
Hoping the old wood would
Not squeak or crackle
Too loud
And tell of my desire
Tell of my weakness
Tell of a
Little Girl’s dream
To see her
Mother
Tell of a Black Girl’s longing
for White arms to be
Intertwined with
Black ones
Tell of brown eyes’
Need to see hazel Irish ones
Tell of the truth
Of how I could
Love You Mother
Still Need You Mother
Even after
The Give-away
The living away
The way irony played
In your manic rage
On a Berkeley Street
The day you said you needed
To find her
She, Not me
Offering in my palm my whole
Black heart
But SHE, the daughter you never saw
But needed, no less...
The words still echo in my head
Replay each day
Who?
Wants this Little
Girl?
Drunken Toes
Tap, Tap, Tapping
Desperado’s cadence
on Run over thongs
Who?
Who?
Who want’s this Little
Girl?
Wrist burns
Under drunken grip
“The trick, ” my sister said
“Is to stand the pain”
Twisting my wrist skin
In a game of
Indian Chief
“When you can’t stand no more, you lose!
So you gotta howl like
an Indian... Cuuuuzzz You Lost! ”
Child games
Flashing in my mind
But there is no time
To be a child again
And anymore
But maybe not forever....
And there is no howl
Escaping my lips
Only the train’s
Screamiiiing for me
And I want to be
on that caboose and go aaaaawayyyy
A lone Panthress
Like the poster picture
fuzzy beneath my finger
on the basement wall
at foster home
Opens Black bosom to me
“I’ll take her... I’ll take your Little Girl”
No howl escapes
My lips
The fire of
Your red hair burns my eyes
As you slip into a sea
Of people and traffic
and your
Battle dress jacket
Slips into loud
Stares of onlookers
The train howls our pain
Saturday mornings
I loved
The loving
To see you
Mother
Cried dry tears
When you did not show
Pushed my bed
Back to the window....
My sister and I played
Indian Chief
Till Pain was
Only
A Game...
I could be a child again
by Jessica Holter
poem by Jessica Holter
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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The Ballad Of Ira Hayes
Gather round you people and a story I will tell
About a brave young indian you should remember well
From the tribe of pima indians, a proud and a peaceful band
They farmed the phoenix valley in arizona land
Down their ditches for a thousand years the sparkling water rushed
Till their white man stole their water rights and the running water hushed
Now iras folks were hungry and their farms wene crops of weeds
But when war came he volunteers and forgot, the white mans greed
Call him, drunken ira hayes, he wont answer anymore
Not the whiskey-drinking indian or the marine who went to war
Yes, call him, drunken ira hayes, he wont answer anymore
Not the whiskey-drinking indian or the marine who went to war.
They started up iwo jima hill, 250 men
But only 27 lived to walk back down that hill again
And when the fight was over and the old glory raised
One of the men who held it high was the indian ira hayes
Call him, drunken ira hayes, he wont answer anymore
Not the whiskey-drinking indian or the marine who went to war
Call him, drunken ira hayes, he wont answer anymore
Not the whiskey-drinking indian or the marine who went to war.
Now ira returned a hero, celebrated throughout the land
He was wined and speeched and honored, everybody shook his hand
But he was just a pima indian, no money crops, no chance
And at home nobody cared what ira had done and the wind did the indians
Dance
Call him, drunken ira hayes, he wont answer anymore
Not the whiskey-drinking indian or the marine who went to war
Call him, drunken ira hayes, he wont answer anymore
Not the whiskey-drinking indian or the marine who went to war.
And ira started drinking hard, jail was often his home
They let him raise the flag there and lower it like youd throw a dog a bone
He died drunk early one morning, alone in the land he had fought to save
Two inches of water in a lonely ditch was the grave for ira hayes
Call him, drunken ira hayes, he wont answer anymore
Not the whiskey-drinking indian or the marine who went to war
Yes, call him, drunken ira hayes, he wont answer anymore
Not the whiskey-drinking indian or the marine who went to war.
Yes, call him, drunken ira hayes, but his land is still as dry
And his ghost is lying thirsty in the ditch where ira died
Call him, drunken ira hayes, he wont answer anymore
Not the whiskey-drinking indian or the marine who went to war
Yes, call him, drunken ira hayes, he wont answer anymore
Not the whiskey-drinking indian or the marine who went to war.
song performed by by Bob Dylan
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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When Gaia Reclaims
Satan rules Earth with fear ‘n terror
By seducing men with gold ‘n power
Drunken fools, care not they error
When Gaia reclaims they will cower
ROTMS
poem by Ray Lucero
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Keep crushing...
How can a crash and a crush happen here in the carpark
i'm supposed to clench my fists in the dark
But now i'm intrepid, ever as much
Holding hands are safer, something between lovers
Inside the private car sitting a human and a shadow
When they're drunken,
a crash happens in an instant moment, involving only one car
When they're drunken,
a crush happens all of a sudden;
even
i haven't even start the engine.
poem by Garland Jodie Jeen
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A Drunken Cow Hand
A Drunken Cow Hand
a drunken cow hand
is going home
in a pickup truck
with no shock absorbers
or whatever is left of them
he likes it that way
bouncing up and down
on the lone country road
as if riding
a demented horse
as if riding
an old demented horse
farting
backfiring
boom
bang
-Epiphany Magazine-
poem by Suchoon Mo_
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Fundamental Of Liar Chapter CXVIII: I’m Just Talking To Myself
I’m not talking to you
I’m not talking to anyone
I’m just talking to myself
I’m not grumbling
I’m not cursing
I’m just talking to myself
I’m not insane
I’m not in trance
I’m just talking to myself
I’m not mocking
I’m not threatening
I’m just talking to myself
I’m not sharing secret
I’m not hiding something
I’m just talking to myself
I’m not mad
I’m not in rage
I’m just talking to myself
I’m not jealous
I’m not envious
I’m just talking to myself
I’m not afraid
I’m not in pessimism thought
I’m just talking to myself
I’m not whining
I’m not complaining
I’m just talking to myself
I’m not depressed
I’m not in foul mood
I’m just talking to myself
I’m not blaming
I’m not accusing
I’m just talking to myself
I’m not in denial
I’m not in confusion
I’m just talking to myself
I’m not informing
I’m not warning
I’m just talking to myself
I’m not against you
I’m not rebelling
I’m just talking to myself
I’m not help you
I’m not assist you
I’m just talking to myself
I’m not running some plot
I’m not in a mischief plan
I’m just talking to myself
I’m not in great grudge
I’m not in revenge mind
I’m just talking to myself
I’m not suspicious
I’m not curious
I’m just talking to myself
I’m not saying sorry
I’m not saying thank you
I’m just talking to myself
poem by Maria Sudibyo
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Drunken Lullabies
Must it take a life for hatful eyes
To glisten once again
Five hundred years like Gelignite
Have blown us all to hell
What savior rests while on his cross we die
Has the Shepard led his lambs astray
to the bigot and the gun
Must it take a life for hateful eyes
To glisten once again
Cause we find ourselves in the same old mess
Singin' drunken lullabies
I watch and stare as Rosin's eyes
Turn a darker shade of red
And the bullet with this sniper lie
In their bloody gutless cell
Must we starve on crumbs from long ago
Through these bars of men made steel
Is it a great or little thing we fought
Knelt the conscience blessed to kill
Must it take a life for hateful eyes
To glisten once again
Cause we find ourselves in the same old mess
Singin' drunken lullabies
Ah
song performed by by Flogging Molly from Drunken Lullabies
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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My burning desire to create
MY BURNING DESIRE TO CREATE
So intense and so powerful
Like a furious burning fire
My desire to create is so powerful
So painful and so throbbing
Like a hungry child crying for food
My desire to create is so hopeful
So rigid and so consistent
Like a passionate entrepreneur
My passion to create is so unshakeable
Every hour that passes by I want to create
Every moment I spend I long to create
I have a living urge and desire to create
A living passion to express myself
A burning desire to live my true life
Sometimes I hide myself in the midst of business
At times I deliberately cloud my space with my busy life
Sometimes I try to hide away from my passion to create
Sometimes I try to narrow down the size of my passion
But regardless of all my efforts my desire always finds me
I am so transparent inside, my passion to create
Has invaded all my privacy inside
So strong and so powerful
Like a helpless child looking for love and security
My desire to create is so seeking and so burning.
poem by Tsholofelo Mooketsi
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Inspired by Issa - Spring Butterfly
spring butterfly
that drunken dance
spring too much for you?
spring butterfly
the only time that matches up
to your colours
spring butterly
this party, such a colourful spread
i would too be drunken
spring butterfly
every colourful cup
a drink from heaven
poem by John Tiong Chunghoo
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Dear sister
Sister is
Not only
Sister...
MY
Truley girl friend...
Sister
Not only sister...
My child's...
Teacher....
Also my child hood
Teacher...
With a loving servent...
Playing partner...
Sister is
Not only sister...
Guide + Advoicer
With my life...
Sister not only
A sister
My dear mom
A youthFull mom...!
Sister not only
Sister...
My dear and dear...
Of family V.i.P
At one of
My life heart...
Dear my dear
Sister...
Your sister's
how are you...?
poem by Otteri Selvakumar
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