Funnel
The family story tells, and it was told true,
of my great-grandfather who begat eight
genius children and bought twelve almost-new
grand pianos. He left a considerable estate
when he died. The children honored their
separate arts; two became moderately famous,
three married and fattened their delicate share
of wealth and brilliance. The sixth one was
a concert pianist. She had a notable career
and wore cropped hair and walked like a man,
or so I heard when prying a childhood car
into the hushed talk of the straight Maine clan.
One died a pinafore child, she stays her five
years forever. And here is one that wrote-
I sort his odd books and wonder his once alive
words and scratch out my short marginal notes
and finger my accounts.
back from that great-grandfather I have come
to tidy a country graveyard for his sake,
to chat with the custodian under a yearly sun
and touch a ghost sound where it lies awake.
I like best to think of that Bunyan man
slapping his thighs and trading the yankee sale
for one dozen grand pianos. it fit his plan
of culture to do it big. On this same scale
he built seven arking houses and they still stand.
One, five stories up, straight up like a square
box, still dominates its coastal edge of land.
It is rented cheap in the summer musted air
to sneaker-footed families who pad through
its rooms and sometimes finger the yellow keys
of an old piano that wheezes bells of mildew.
Like a shoe factory amid the spruce trees
it squats; flat roof and rows of windows spying
through the mist. Where those eight children danced
their starfished summers, the thirty-six pines sighing,
that bearded man walked giant steps and chanced
his gifts in numbers.
Back from that great-grandfather I have come
to puzzle a bending gravestone for his sake,
to question this diminishing and feed a minimum
of children their careful slice of suburban cake.
poem by Anne Sexton
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Related quotes
From pools of blood
From pools of blood bushes, trees
and aloes grow in the veldt
where British soldiers
fired on my countrymen
and some bayoneted them.
Concentration camps where twenty thousand
women and children died without dignity
at the hand of foreigners,
who claimed to be fellow Christians
are now covered with grass
and that past are being blotted out
as if the misery, the indignity,
the mass murder
never happened
and great Queen Victoria
is still dignified
and still I hold Great Britain responsible
for the murder of my great grand mother,
for the destruction
of my great grand father’s farm,
for the seizure
of my other great grand father’s property,
for sending him to St. Helena
as a prisoner of war,
for invading my country
for making profit from the minerals
and the quarter Scotsman in me
together with my three quarters Afrikaner parts
forever wants to be free
from the enslavement
which that foreign nation brought.
[Note: My own great grandmother died in a British concentration camp and my great grandfather was sent by the British to St. Helena as a prisoner of war and as a result of this, my grandfather(Gert Strydom) grew up in a orphanage.]
poem by Gert Strydom
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Improbable wishes
No remembrance of my great
grandfather,
Who bequeathed us a mansion.
No gratitude to my grandfather,
Who fed us with sweets and coins.
No goodwill to my grandmother,
Who left us with cash and vessels.
No gratefulness to my mother,
Whose jewels and things we shared.
No love and passion for my father
Who lives somewhere.
I would join their caravan
But with memories of
Being remembered by
My children and their children
For what I will have left.
31.05.2004
poem by Rm. Shanmugam Chettiar
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Blockhouses had been erected right over the country
Blockhouses had been erected right over the country,
farms had been entered and burnt to the ground,
Livestock and animals had been slaughtered
and women and children were rounded up
and interned into death camps.
Young boys
were set against white walls
and firing squads
was set against them
and a super power
clenched its fist around this country
and stood gigantic
against every Boer farmer.
l’Envoi
That time will be forever black
in history
with the misdeeds of the British
that is well known
and the ruination of a nation, arousing from it
where women and children perished as targets
at the commands of Horatio Herbert Kitchener.
[Note: My own great grandmother died in a British concentration camp and my great grandfather was sent by the British to St. Helena as a prisoner of war and as a result of this, my grandfather(Gert Strydom) grew up in a orphanage.]
poem by Gert Strydom
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The Seven Sages
The First. My great-grandfather spoke to Edmund Burke
In Grattan's house.
The Second. My great-grandfather shared
A pot-house bench with Oliver Goldsmith once.
The Third. My great-grandfather's father talked of music,
Drank tar-water with the Bishop of Cloyne.
The Fourth. But mine saw Stella once.
The Fifth. Whence came our thought?
The Sixth. From four great minds that hated Whiggery.
The Fifth. Burke was a Whig.
The Sixth. Whether they knew or not,
Goldsmith and Burke, Swift and the Bishop of Cloyne
All hated Whiggery; but what is Whiggery?
A levelling, rancorous, rational sort of mind
That never looked out of the eye of a saint
Or out of drunkard's eye.
The Seventh. All's Whiggery now,
But we old men are massed against the world.
The First. American colonies, Ireland, France and India
Harried, and Burke's great melody against it.
The Second. Oliver Goldsmith sang what he had seen,
Roads full of beggars, cattle in the fields,
But never saw the trefoil stained with blood,
The avenging leaf those fields raised up against it.
The Fourth. The tomb of Swift wears it away.
The Third. A voice
Soft as the rustle of a reed from Cloyne
That gathers volume; now a thunder-clap.
The Sixtb. What schooling had these four?
The Seventh. They walked the roads
Mimicking what they heard, as children mimic;
They understood that wisdom comes of beggary.
poem by William Butler Yeats
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An Old Man With His Hat
There Little Robbie found him in an old yellow album
A blurred picture of a half old man with his hat
Standing in front of the coffin
He smiles shy but wide with his teeth gone making a hole like Little Robbie when he lose his baby teeth
Little Robbie doesn’t recognize him and he wonder where he is now
Maybe he is one of his grandfathers, one of his great uncles, one of his old families
So he asks to his big sister
But his sister doesn’t recognize him and she wonder who he is
Maybe he is one of his grandfathers, one of his great uncles, one of his old families
So he asks to his mother
But his mother doesn’t recognize him and she wonder how he was there
Maybe he is one of his grandfathers, one of his great uncles, one of his old families
So he asks to his father
But his father doesn’t recognize him and he wonder what he did there
Maybe he is one of his grandfathers, one of his great uncles, one of his old families
So he asks to his uncle
But his uncle doesn’t recognize him and he wonder when the picture taken
Maybe he is one of his grandfathers, one of his great uncles, one of his old families
So he asks hopelessly to his grandfather
His grandfather takes a deep look to that picture and wonders why Little Robbie asks
Little Robbie says, “I want to meet him! I want to know about him! I want to play with him! ”
Maybe he is one of his grandfathers, one of his great uncles, one of his old families
But his grandfather shakes his head, “No, he is not.”
He is not one of his grandfathers, one of his great uncles, one of his old families
He is just an old man with his hat
“He accompanied your great grandfather when he sick until his death. This picture is taken in a burial of your great grandfather.”
His grandfather stares at little Robbie
“Now, are you disappointed? ”
He is not one of his grandfathers, one of his great uncles, one of his old families
He is just an old man with his hat
Little Robbie shakes his head, “No, I am not.”
Though he is not one of his grandfathers, one of his great uncles, one of his old families
Though he is just an old man with his hat
“But I still want to meet him, I want to know about him, and I want to play with him! ”
And then he could be one of his grandfathers, one of his great uncles, one of his old families
poem by Maria Sudibyo
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We're All God's Children
Album: Peace In The Valley
Here comes a Baptist, here comes a Jew
There goes a Mormon and a Muslim too
I see a Buddist and a Hindu
I see a Catholic and I see you
We're all god's children
We're all god's children
We're all god's children
Why can't we be
One big happy family
You like the day, and I like the night
He's into country and he's isn't quit
There's folks on the left and the far right
But that doesn't mean that we have to fight
We're all god's children
All god's children
Yeah, We're all god's children
Why can't we be
One big happy family
White folks, yellow folks, black and tan
On the same planet in the same plan
A feminist woman and a he man
We're all playin' the magic hand
We're all god's children
We're all god's children
Oh, We're all god's children
Why can't we be
One big happy family
We're all god's children
All god's children
Yeah, We're all god's children
Why can't we be
One big happy family
We're all god's children
All god's children
We're all god's children
Why can't we be
One big happy family
We're all god's children
We're all god's children
Yeah, We're all god's children
Why can't we be
One big happy family
We're all god's children
We're all god's children
We're all god's children
We're all black and white
We're all precious in his sight
We're all god's children
We're all god's children
We're all god's children
Why can't we all be
One big happy family...
song performed by by Alan Jackson
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Grandfather, Grandfather
Grandfather, Grandfather,
what do pandas say?
Grandfather, Grandfather,
as among the rocks they roll
and rather sadly play
a game that seems
to do with dreams
of places far away.
Grandfather, Grandfather,
what do pandas say?
Grand-daughter, Grand-daughter,
when the pandas play
rather sadly in the rocks
this is what they say
to one another as they seem
to remember in a dream
those places far away:
'Let us tell no one
the word that we say
softly to one another
as we roll and play.
For if they ever heard it,
the tall two-legged Understanders
who always want to know what pandas
like us love to say,
yes, if they ever heard it
they would take it away.'
poem by George Barker
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Children's Day in India,2012
Being a child is what all love to be;
And when adult, we know we can never;
Childhood was best and everyone agrees;
But do children have freedom they deserve?
The smaller family norm has done great harm;
The child is neglected right from its birth;
It wallops in its faeces and urine!
It has to study when 'tis age to play!
What selfishness fills hearts of most adults!
They spare no time to watch the bud blossom;
World's children pine for love and yearn for care;
They are denied their rights when still in womb!
The crimes against children are on the rise;
Children are used, abused and not amused;
No nation thrives if children stay enslaved;
Let parents love their children sincerely!
Children are living wealth of nations prime;
Children are priceless gifts from God above;
Children are future parents and leaders;
Children need to be kept healthy, unharmed!
Copyright by Dr John Celes 13-11-12
poem by John Celes
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Father Freak (1) (Took Son's Wife And Killed Son's Daughter)
A 4-year-old daughter was murdered,
by a 45-year-old grandfather,
who had a love affair with his daughter-in-law,
who is a 23-year-old woman whose husband's heart got gnawed.
The husband found out the affair and had their marriage got undone.
The grandfather did'nt have any consideration for his son.
He admitted beating the grand-daughter to death,
stuffing his body into a suitcase and throwing into the river bed.
Murder occured in May, about 3 months ago.
3 weeks ago, her great grandmother contacted Authority for her no-
show.
Then the disappearance brought to police attention.
How could they commit a crime full of sins?
They have children of their own,
but about parental love they have never known.
The father not only robbed his son of his wife,
but also put an end to his grand-daughter's life.
There are actually some bad fathers,
who could be compared to freak Monster.
The Old Family Picture
In the old
black-and-white
family picture,
I see
great grandfather
dead drunk
with his hat
slightly skewed.
In the same old
black-and-white
family picture,
I see
grandfather
as drunk as
his father is
with his hat
also slightly skewed.
Father fools
great grandfather
and grandfather
with his rice-washed-water
as the good old home-made
Makoli.
They all believe him.
1996
poem by Sangnam Nam
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Jack
Jack was a swarthy, swaggering son-of-a-gun.
He worked thirty years on the railroad, ten hours a day, and his hands were tougher than sole leather.
He married a tough woman and they had eight children and the woman died and the children grew up and went away and wrote the old man every two years.
He died in the poorhouse sitting on a bench in the sun telling reminiscences to other old men whose women were dead and children scattered.
There was joy on his face when he died as there was joy on his face when he lived—he was a swarthy, swaggering son-of-a-gun.
poem by Carl Sandburg
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Question Me Now, My Children
Question Me Now, My children
Ask questions of me, my children
For time has a way…
Of slipping through fingers
Like reapers through hay
Your heritage is a treasure
That one day you’ll have need
Questions in need of answers
And no answers to heed
Was your great grandfather
A brown-eyed lad
Was your great grandmother
Perhaps a little bit mad
Ask about your ancestry
So interesting and rich
Was great aunt Sarah just an ol’ maid…
Or was she really a witch
How did they live the course of their day
And how the difference from yours
You live in a city, in a modern way
Perhaps they lived in the moors
How did your father meet your mother
What was their courtship like
And did grandmaw, elope with grandpaw
Did cousin Jenny marry up with uncle Mike
Did great-great grandmaw come from Ireland
Was her name “Whalen” changed from “Whelan”
By careless and lazy immigration officials
At a bustling and confusing, Ellis Island
Did these people bite their fingernails
Have a wart on their nose
Have children die prematurely
Enjoy happiness, suffer woe
Question me now, my children
For I get older, soon will come my time to go
And ‘twill be too late and ‘sadly twill be your fate
Of your rich heritage to ne’er know
Ask questions of me, my children
Before time takes me to task
Else when and what you wish to know
There will no one to ask
poem by David Whalen
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Truth And Lies
Honesty flying around
The stories inconsistent
You tell me one thing
Another tells me different
Is there any truth left?
Are your words true words?
I know a lie's alive
I've been assured and reassured
Truth and lies
Fake or real
Messin' with my mind
Just take and steal
I'm not seeing straight
Literally, no lie
My eye for truth
Has been shot down, died
No mistakes and yet regret
Comes here and there and then
But when I step back
The situations a win-win
If your story is but true
I will believe it so
I will have made up my mind
Eyesight no longer blind
If only your mouth speaks truth
And your words are lies
I will pay attention & mention
And your story, you will revise
Ill mention your flawed words
Ill bring to notice:
Your story, you told it
My poem, I wrote this
Never in an ever
Fall for a clear lie
I see much much more
There's truth in my eye
poem by Jared Bradford
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She Gave Birth in a Fox-Hole
Victoria Elizabeth Borg
Born June 22,1920 in Agana, Guam
Died Pearl Harbor Day 2009
Victoria sang many lullabies
to her
5 children
5 step-children
26 grandchildren
36 great grandchildren
2 great-great grandchildren
and a host of heavenly nieces and nephews.
She was married to Tomas T. Calvaron and his 5 children
on the island of Guam in 1943.
After giving birth to her daughter Rosalita
in a fox-hole during World War II
she made it through
to have 4 more children.
In 1950
she was widowed and remarried to her
brother-in-law.
She passed on to be with the Lord
surrounded by her children and granchildren.
We
her many friends and family members
will keep her memory in our minds
and her love in our hearts
until we meet again.
poem by Bob Genevro
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The Tough Old Bird
She was up in her years and her hair was completely gray
All she had was her memories which was quickly fading away.
Life had taken its toll on her, and the years made her hunched backed.
But she was a tough old woman, even after her heart attack.
Children would gather around her, and she’d tell the
Stories of days gone by-she would always get you
To laugh, she didn’t even have to try.
Memories of the 1920 s when gangsters ruled the streets
Where people were afraid to walk, if there
Wasn’t a cop on the beat.
Yet with all the violence they had a grand old time.
Speak easy clubs hidden in the dark alleys
Where most would not dare to go
But you could always find any type of gambling
Drinking, or musical show.
She had seen the great depression and every type of recession.
Clothing styles changing all the time
Food by the pound sold for a dime.
Ice cream and fruit carts being pulled down the streets
MY OH MY -what a wonderful treat.
Then the 1st world war came, and she
Wondered who was to blame.
American men running to volunteer to fight
for freedom- their lives they would share.
She was around for every conflict and war
And could write stories and books
Of everything that she saw.
But she was just happy to share her stories
And jokes with the children who would gather around.
They would listen to her and not make a sound.
She loved to see the children s faces all aglow
Every time she put on her show.
She knew her life was close to the end
And these children were her dearest friends.
So she left a story for each one to tell
And to this day, they do it very well.
poem by Louis Rams
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21st Century Job
There you are. Haunting my mirror, watching me
Making small talk with myself. So what do you think of the weather today?
Oh it’s never been better, I say as I strain to imitate your female voice.
Which doesn’t really work out because I’m still not in touch with my feminine side enough.
But even if I was, I still couldn’t counterfeit the love we shared.
And even if I was, I couldn’t recreate a beauty no longer there.
But I still try to
Because I can’t forget you.
And the hail rains down outside tonight like so many stones
Thrown at me by god. But why would he want to stone me, dammit?
Am I Job's great great great great great great great great grandson?
Or something?
Maybe, he answers silently through your gravestone
Which I will have a one-sided chat with today
Despite the weather.
Maybe, god tells me. But maybe is an answer I don’t want to hear
As I stand near this rock marking a victim of chance.
Because the fear of tragedy has steered me into a sad apathy
I never knew was in me before you died.
But you are not gone.
Nothing is wrong! I will keep you alive!
I will make you live on as a spirit which visits me:
There. You. Are. Dancing with me under the stars as they rain stones
Down on me and the monument to your life. But I will weather the weather
Like the gravestone staring me down just to dance with you.
And here. We. Are. Together again, expressing love
Through awkward steps and turns like we used to do:
You, dodging my awful coordination, which makes me trip on your foot
Smilingly
While your ghost smiles too.
poem by Thomas Lyons
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My Version Of T'was The Night Before Christmas
So...
While the children were sleeping,
Snug in their beds...
A fat man dressed in a red suit,
Trimmed in white fur...
Began to sneak around the house.
And your very protective grandfather,
Got his favorite baseball bat...
And began to beating that fat man in the head.
The policemen arrived,
And took your grandfather away.
When the children awakened,
Not a toy was in sight.
And all the children living in the ghetto,
Got a reality check.
Learning to go to sleep...
Without believing they will hear reindeer,
On the roof...
The night before Christmas.
'Honey?
Why are our grandchildren crying? '
~I read them my version,
Of T'was The Night Before Christmas.
They are too old to be thinking,
They will be getting something for free.
When we have spent our retirement money,
To keep them fantasized.~
'Couldn't you have found a better way,
To break the news to them? '
~No! ~
poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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I too, have got shoes
Have you seen shoes on children here
No shoes for other children
No shoes for your children
My uncle said to my dad
I lost my shoes—small shoes
from then on
My feet crushed the thorns
from then on
The city was taken from me
But not me from the city
from then on
Many years later my shoe remover died
And I got back my shoes
Bigger shoes—for crushing thorns
from then on
I cat walked in them
And went to bed in them
from then on
I got the city back
Even when I stayed there
from then on
Believe me I too have got shoes
And I slip my feet in them
But not for sleep anymore
Yes I too have got shoes
Other children wear shoes
My children wear shoes
Wear shoes why not
Why not why not why not why not
Shoes in the cot
Shoes to school
Shoes to the market
Shoes to the office
Why not wear shoes
poem by Moses Kainwo
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Queen Victoria
When little Victoria played
at the lake in Claremont Gardens
as a child long before she became queen,
did she capture a large swallowtail butterfly
from a reed and then pulled off its golden
and black veined wings
or was she then, innocent of such a thing?
When little Victoria played
at the lake in Claremont Gardens
as a child long before she became queen,
did she trample the flowers
pulling the white and yellow water lilies
out of the lake
or was she then, innocent of such a thing?
When little Victoria became a powerful queen
did her government go to war
against the Orange Free State
and Transvaal Republics?
Did her soldiers force women and children
into concentration camps
where twenty thousand died?
Did her soldiers kill three thousand
Christian farmers after demolishing their farms?
And did her government loose
twenty eight thousand soldiers
of its own?
Or was she then, innocent of such things?
[Note: My own great grandmother died in a British concentration camp and my great grandfather was sent by the British to St. Helena as a prisoner of war and as a result of this, my grandfather(Gert Strydom) grew up in a orphanage.]
poem by Gert Strydom
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Hello September!
You came sooner that expected?
I was still saying bye to Augustine
But September you look sad today?
Sorry! I can't hear you properly, your tone is low
Why are you blushing and looking down?
I know about the death of your sister
Be strong September
Your presents here bought bad news, i know
Its normal for you to feel that way, you are a human being too
Its fine you will be fine
By the way you look uncertain today
Where is your brother October?
Ooh! I see him right behind you, weaving a hand for me
Hi October too, no i wasn't talking to you
I was talking to you friend September here
And I have just said bye to Augustine
Is not your friend? Is your brother! Ok
September here is telling me about the death of his sister
Who was laid to rest previous weekend?
Its sad news is in it?
Before you came I asked him about my birthday
He smiled and said is not the 23rd yet
I told him that there are bad times and Good times
Let's wait for my birthday and see what it has in store for him
To easy away his mourning
But gifts I can't buy gifts for him on my birthday
I told him to forget it, he must buy gifts for me
By the way September, what is you birthday?
Don't laugh I am asking you
You don't have one? Or you mother
Don't remember the day in which you where born?
Every body has birthday? Is it?
Can I borrow you my birthday
But it wouldn't fit you?
You have big hand, big head and long legs September
When you were born people where playing with water?
Do they know that water is life?
So you don't have clothes too
Ok you, December, November and January you are tall
You don't have a size
But it is not good for you to walk naked
People see things on you
You should cover your self with rain or clouds
Sorry if I sound rude to you.
But tell me why your mother has so many kids
You are twelve at home is in it?
And you have four children of you own
They have seven children of their own.
You family is big 12 brothers and sisters
Their children including yours are 52
And great grand children are 365
Don't ask me how did I know, I know your family members
They all like to come at home
I like you and your brothers and sisters
You come at home once in a year but you overstay, why?
I mostly like your elder brother, when ever he visits people give us gifts
And we spent the whole month not going to school or work
To relax until he is gone,
Why he likes rain and snow, he was born on rainy day or something?
But you great grand children they come at home everyday!
And you father is worse,
When he comes he wait for 12 of you to go first be fore he goes
When I come here to met you, September?
I left Monday at home and he said
Tuesday was on her way coming.
I have you to go now? September?
Ok you can go, I will have a little talk with October?
It's always a pleasure talking to you
And having you around September?
Please visit again some time soon
poem by Jacques Sprenkie Mateya
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