En.Citatepedia^®.ro

The Great Grandfather

My father's grandfather lives still,
His age is fourscore years and ten;
He looks a monument of time,
The agedest of aged men.

Though years lie on him like a load,
A happier man you will not see
Than he, whenever he can get
His great grandchildren on his knee.

When we our parents have displeased,
He stands between us as a screen;
By him our good deeds in the sun,
Our bad ones in the shade are seen.

His love's a line that's long drawn out,
Yet lasteth firm unto the end;
His heart is oak, yet unto us
It like the gentlest reed can bend.

A fighting soldier he has been-
Yet by his manners you would guess,
That he his whole long life had spent
In scenes of country quietness.

His talk is all of things long past,
For modern facts no pleasure yield-
Of the famed year of forty-five,
Of William, and Culloden's field.

The deeds of this eventful age,
Which princes from their thrones have hurled,
Can no more interest wake in him
Than stories of another world.

When I his length of days revolve,
How like a strong tree he hath stood,
It brings into my mind almost
Those patriarchs old before the flood.

poem by Charles Lamb
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On The Death Of Dr. Benjamin Franklin

Thus, some tall tree that long hath stood
The glory of its native wood,
By storms destroyed, or length of years,
Demands the tribute of our tears.

The pile, that took long time to raise,
To dust returns by slow decays:
But, when its destined years are o'er,
We must regret the loss the more.

So long accustomed to your aid,
The world laments your exit made;
So long befriended by your art,
Philosopher, 'tis hard to part!--

When monarchs tumble to the ground,
Successors easily are found:
But, matchless FRANKLIN! what a few
Can hope to rival such as YOU,
Who seized from kings their sceptered pride,
And turned the lightning darts aside.

poem by Philip Freneau
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Yesterdays And Yesteryears

Yesterdays and yesteryears
are just memories now
But I would give almost anything
to relive them somehow
There were no money worries
that our parents shared
We may have been poor
but no one really cared
As long as we were healthy
to see each day through
wake every morning
to see the sunlight on the dew

It seems a millions years
have come and gone
since those carefree days
of the long, long ago
when summers seem to stretch
the whole year round
winter never came
in those long ago years
we were so carefree
with no trouble or pain
Oh how I wish now
we were those children again

7 March 1996

poem by David Harris
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The Lie

For William Verdun Harris
My late brother.

It started years before I was born,
but the lie came into being after.
I knew nothing of it, why should I?
You never question your parents,
what they tell you, you believe.

Therefore, the lie grew and grew
as years folded into one another.
The lie became accepted as the truth.
Its hurt would not be felt
before four score and more had passed.

A Christmas card with a note from an Aunt.
Your half brother Bill would love to hear from you.
Half brother? I have no half brother.
He is your adopted brother
and my adopted uncle, so I was told.

No, he is your half brother.
I investigated what was said.
Soon the truth of the lie was revealed.
The lie had split two brothers,
to the other sides of the world.

Through urgent phone calls, I found him.
I had to see him, too many years had passed.
Who knows how long we had?
Travel plans were made,
the journey was now set.

After forty-two years, we came face to face.
Hug, tears and a family get together.
Those lost faces from the other side of the world.
We talked and talked into the night,
so much to learn and so little time.

Two weeks went quick and we parted again.
The telephone a communication line,
but how do you make up so many years,
with such little time?
The answer is you don’t.

The next year we extended our visit,
but still it wasn’t long enough.
We would never get another year,
within months my brother was gone,
and for months, I missed his calls.

But the lie was never retracted,
and my sister never got to know,
the other brother that she had.
She still believes the lie,
and won’t accept the truth.

She does not talk to me,
not out of anything either of us has done.
The long distant lie is at fault,
the guilt no one could admit to,
because they felt it would bring great shame.

Now a family lies in tatters,
a sad story all that remains,
about a lie, which almost the truth became.
What will the future bring, that’s something we can never tell.
I for one, hold no one with any ill will.

poem by David Harris
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To Jim

I gaze upon my son once more,
With eyes and heart that tire,
As solemnly he stands before
The screen drawn round the fire;
With hands behind clasped hand in hand,
Now loosely and now fast—
Just as his fathers used to stand
For generations past.
A fair and slight and childish form,
And big brown thoughtful eyes—
God help him! for a life of storm
And stress before him lies:
A wanderer and a gipsy wild,
I’ve learnt the world and know,
For I was such another child—
Ah, many years ago!

But in those dreamy eyes of him
There is no hint of doubt—
I wish that you could tell me, Jim,
The things you dream about.
Dream on, my son, that all is true
And things not what they seem—
’Twill be a bitter day for you
When wakened from your dream.

You are a child of field and flood,
But with the gipsy strains
A strong Norwegian sailor’s blood
Is running through your veins.
Be true, and slander never stings,
Be straight, and all may frown—
You’ll have the strength to grapple things
That dragged your father down.

These lines I write with bitter tears
And failing heart and hand,
But you will read in after years,
And you will understand:
You’ll hear the slander of the crowd,
They’ll whisper tales of shame,
But days will come when you’ll be proud
To bear your father’s name.

But oh! beware of bitterness
When you are wronged, my lad—
I wish I had the faith in men
And women that I had!
’Tis better far (for I have felt
The sadness in my song)
To trust all men and still be wronged
Than to trust none and wrong.

Be generous and still do good
And banish while you live
The spectre of ingratitude
That haunts the ones who give.
But if the crisis comes at length
That your future might be marred,
Strike hard, my son, with all your strength!
For your own self’s sake, strike hard!

poem by Henry Lawson
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The Years

The years go by breeze on vine along
the long circles of time.The telling
of season gives and strips away.Makes
one look at the past reflectng days.
through the interior eye there will
be dreams.The reality of tears on field
and stream.The turning page of age sets
on brisk wings.Living joys and pains
stroke the violin strings.Things beginning
and ending cycle is universal.In our
tumbling existence there is good and
there is evil.So the stories flow with
the passing years.

poem by William Blackman
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The New Knowledge

Early September, days are getting shorter and evenings longer;
the breeze that blew had pockets of cold air, a reminder of
things to come. Dawn when I got up looked into the mirror
and saw my father’s aged face. Lucid now and for once fully
conscious I had been asleep for forty years and lost the time
between youth and old age. In a foreign country and I could
no longer remember how I got here, or how to leave.
I pressed fingers to my cheeks, in quiet despair, finger marks
on inelastic skin that only slowly faded. Father, why did you
let me sleep so long, how can I now recapture my adult years?
A rumbling through the house, a picture in the living room
fell off the wall; it was of my mother and she looked so young.
The intensity of my reawaken consciousness overwhelmed me,
walls fell and naked I stood in the ruins of my unlived life

poem by Oskar Hansen
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Aftermath

'The Tree Still Stands! '
Exclaimed the boy clasping his hands
To his Father who was walking the rear,
And to his Grandfather who was nowhere near.
For happy was He.
For standing there so straight and tall
Was the tree whose limbs He crawled
And the branches from which He played,
And the root where His head once laid.
And the many leaves.

Now the Father whom hearing His Son
Came to his side in a moment run
Then He stopped; for the tree He saw
Then the Father just stood in awe,
And uttered; 'my old friend'.
For standing there was His friend
From which before His youth was spent
By climbing and playing games,
And hiding under, from the cold and rain.
And the wind.

Then the Grandfather came strolling up
And He paused, in a moment hush
To reflect to a different year
When He was a Child, and He cried a tear.
And He clasped His hands.
For he was then again a Child
And then again He cried and smiled,
For He remembered His Father and He,
And how together they planted a tree.
And it still stands.
'Thank GOD the tree still stands! '
Cried the Grandfather clasping His hands.

Randy L. McClave

poem by Randy McClave
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Years From Now

As I see myself many years from now
I am relaxed and happy as I am retired
No longer tied to work or chained to a plow
Living my life and situation that I have long desired,
I most certainly will still be reflecting and writing
While remembering the adventures of my life
But I will not be arguing or even fighting
As I will be tired of that cumbersome strife,
I will also think of the good deeds I have done
Also I will smile remembering the joy I have brought
As GOD knows I was a good father and a good son
And never pain or dishonor from anyone had I sought,
I will probably also think about my past loves
And truly in my heart I wish them all well
Sadly we were unmatched like worn out gloves
But it wasn't I who discarded them, as I did not fail,
I will remember all the accomplishments that I achieved
When I look back at all those yesterdays
And I will also remember the tears I had grieved
But to my strength and determination I will give praise,
Many years from now I see myself as a happy man
I will had accomplished no more that what GOD would allow
Being happy and joyful though will be my greatest plan
As I see myself, many years from now.

RANDY L. McCLAVE

poem by Randy McClave
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Hope Dieth: Hope Liveth

Strong are thine arms, O love, & strong
Thine heart to live, and love, and long;
But thou art wed to grief and wrong:
Live, then, and long, though hope be dead!
Live on, & labour thro’ the years!
Make pictures through the mist of tears,
Of unforgotten happy fears,
That crossed the time ere hope was dead.
Draw near the place where once we stood
Amid delight’s swift-rushing flood,
And we and all the world seemed good
Nor needed hope now cold and dead.
Dream in the dawn I come to thee
Weeping for things that may not be!
Dream that thou layest lips on me!
Wake, wake to clasp hope’s body dead!
Count o’er and o’er, and one by one
The minutes of the happy sun
That while agone on kissed lips shone,
Count on, rest not, for hope is dead.
Weep, though no hair’s breadth thou shalt move
The living Earth, the heaven above
By all the bitterness of love!
Weep and cease not, now hope is dead!
Sighs rest thee not, tears bring no ease,
Life hath no joy, and Death no peace:
The years change not, though they decrease,
For hope is dead, for hope is dead.
Speak, love, I listen: far away
I bless the tremulous lips, that say,
“Mock not the afternoon of day,
Mock not the tide when hope is dead!”
I bless thee, O my love, who say’st:
“Mock not the thistle-cumbered waste;
I hold Love’s hand, and make no haste
Down the long way, now hope is dead.
With other names do we name pain,
The long years wear our hearts in vain.
Mock not our loss grown into gain,
Mock not our lost hope lying dead.
Our eyes gaze for no morning-star,
No glimmer of the dawn afar;
Full silent wayfarers we are
Since ere the noon-tide hope lay dead.
Behold with lack of happiness
The master, Love, our hearts did bless
Lest we should think of him the less:
Love dieth not, though hope is dead!”

poem by William Morris
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I Will Love You

I wanna be there when you go to sleep then again when you wake up
I wanna be more then just your girl
just not right now we have to wait til I'm 18
honey there is not a doubt in my mind that I wanna be yours forever
I wanna be in love with you for a life time

while you were with her I kept my feelings in that door that I don't open
I had no idea that the door would break when you were not with her
I couldn't let her see them even though she knew
you cant even imagine how much time I spent wishing you were mine

I know when we kiss for the first time
I'm going to go crazy within the sparks that will fly
I wanna be there when you wake up for the rest of my life
after a wild night of showing you just how much I love you
I wanna feel what it's like to lay by you after we make love
sweetheart there is no mistaken you’re the man for me
if this is as good as love gets then honey I'm good to go

never in a million years will I break your heart like she did
I swear with every breath I take I'll be there when you need me
I'll give you what ever I can
my life
my love
my devotion
the title of my husband, my kids dad and much much more
anything honey you want it I'll get it

I don't know where I'll be in 50 years
I know if it's up to me I'll be with you forever in your arms
that's where my heart longs to be
all day all night you've made me feel so much happier
the smile on my face will tell you that I'm not lying I love you
you don't have to worry we wont turn out like you and her
I love you she never did

I love the way you make me feel
I love the stary eyed feeling
the laughter and happiness you bring
the fear I have of losing you
the tears you bring to my eyes when I think I have I love being yours.
I will always love you honey as long as the moon and stars shine,
no matter how far apart we are,
as long my heart still beats and I still breath I will love you

poem by Mrs. Cynosure
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This Good Soldier

This good soldier’s in a war
A war that is not his to fight
And he don’t want to anymore.

This good soldier’s lost what’s right
Trapped in war, nowhere to go
Oh, listen to his painful plight!

This good soldier’s scars do show
Of past wounds that haunt his soul
From battlefields since unfit to sow.

This good soldier plays his role
From his fate he cannot run
But these long years did take their toll.

This good soldier’s finally done
No more of war, he closed the door,
On the field he buried his gun.

poem by Jason Daniels
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Paintings

colours, they bring back
scenes and scents

your painting, it brings
brings me back all the years

still i can sit in that chair of
that long lost cafe and
have the privilege of a
tete a tete with friends,
imagined and real
of things we all cherish
the love of art and all the things
that it brings - scenes,
scents, and the time
we thought is lost
forever in time

Second Version
--
colours, they bring back
scenes and scents

your painting, it brings
brings me back all the years

still i can sit in that chair of
that long lost cafe and
have the privilege of a
tete a tete with friends,
imagined and real
of things we all cherish
the love of art and all the things
that it brings - scenes,
scents and geniuses
overheated talents
that drove them lunatics,
madmen manoevring
with the coldness
of the arctics
volcanoes that explode
splotches, dashes
splashes, onto the
canvas of their dreams

colours, they bring back
scenes and scents
paintings, they bring back
all the years nature plods on
against adversities to help
the artist pour out its best onto canvas

poem by John Tiong Chunghoo
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Forty Hour Week

forty hour week (for a livin')
There are people in this country who work hard every day.
Not for fame or fortune do they strive.
But the fruits of their labor are worth more than their pay.
And it's time a few of them were recognized.
Hello detroit auto workers, let me thank you for your time.
You work a forty hour week for a livin', just to send it on down the line.
Hello pittsburgh steel mill workers, let me thank you for your time.
You work a forty hour week for a livin', just to send it on down the line.
This is for the one who swings the hammer, driving home the nail.
Or the one behind the counter, ringing up the sale.
Or the one who fights the fires, the one who brings the mail.
For everyone who works behind the scenes.
You can see them every morning in the factories and the fields.
In the city streets and the quiet country towns.
Working together like spokes inside a wheel.
They keep this country turning around.
Hello kansas wheat field farmer, let me thank you for your time.
You work a forty hour week for a livin', just to send it on down the line.
Hello west virginia coal miner, let me thank you for your time.
You work a forty hour week for a livin', just to send it on down the line.
This one is for the one who drives the big rig, up and down the road.
Or the one out in the warehouse, bringing in the load.
Or the waitress, the mechanic, the policeman on patrol.
For everyone who works behind the scenes.
With a spirit you can't replace with no machine.
Hello, america,
Let me thank you for your time.

song performed by by Alabama
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Fifty Cents A Day

I am an humble Soldier
far from my friends and home,
mid scenes of war and hardships
I constantly must roam,
with many officers over me,
and them I must obey,
and do just what they tell me,
for fifty cents a day.

I enlisted in the army
to help my country's cause,
because I loved it dearly,
and would sustain its laws,
I felt a free man's duty,
his country to obey,
I came not as a hireling,
for fifty cents a day

I enlisted as a soldier.
a free man and a man
To do a soldiers duty,
as best a soldier can.
hope to fight the rebels,
and hate this long delay.
I came to help my country,
for fifty cents a day.

I now must yield to hardships
in cold in storm and rain
perchance with scanty rations
not even then complain
the right of seeking comfort
long since I signed away
my life I am slowly losing
for fifty cents a day.

who send the soldiers to the field
to buy his willing hand,
with promises so plentiful,
of treatment like a man?
twas those who, in two days,
received a larger pay
than does the soldiers in a month
at fifty cents a day

who promised to the soldier,
his wrongs should be redressed
if tyanny or officers
should his right oppress?
alas! the sword may smight him,
or kicked around he may be,
he finds his only redress,
is fifty cents a day

who promised to the soldiers,
if sickness should appear,
good doctors and kind nurses
was ready and was near,
to aid him in his feebleness
as quick as though his pay
was ten times as much
as fifty cents a day.

twas those who wear the shoulder straps
with haughty air of grace,
who look upon the soldier
below the negro race,
who thinks a soldier's duty
is only to obey
his lordship, and be content
with fifty cents a day.

how oft I've seen the soldier,
near tottering to the ground,
seek vainly for some friendly aid,
when it could ne'er be found,
when told he was not ailing,
to go and take his way,
one week would end his suffering
and fifty cents a day.

now, how many of these officers
would be here where they are,
if forced to live like soldiers,
and take a soldier's fare?
how few would take the treatment
even with their liberal pay,
let alone the poor pittance
of fifty cents a day

cheer up my gallant soldiers,
be cheerful, gay, and smile,
we'll do the fighting now,
and the voting after awhile,
and then we'll show oppressors
that they may fell dismay,
who treated us as serviles,
at fifty cents a day.

This poem was written by my great, great, great, grandfather when he was a POW in the civil war. He wrote this during the month of December 1863. I wanted to share this with everyone in memory of him.

poem by Shauna Stoltz
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39

I only woke this morning
To find the world is fair—
I’m going on for forty,
With scarcely one grey hair;
I’m going on for forty,
Where man’s strong life begins,
With scarce a sign of crows’ feet,
In spite of all my sins.

Then here’s the living Forties!
The Forties! The Forties!
Then here’s the living Forties!
We’re good for ten years more.

The teens were black and bitter,
A smothered boyhood’s grave—
A farm-drudge in the drought-time,
A weary workshop slave.
But twenty years have laid them,
And all the world is fair—
We’ll find time in the Forties,
To have some boyhood there.

Then here’s the wide, free Forties—
The Forties! The Forties!
Then here’s the wide, free Forties!
We’re good for ten years more!

The twenties they were noble,
The bravest years, I think;
’Twas man to man in trouble,
In working and in drink;
’Twas man to man in fighting,
For money or for praise.
And we’ll find in the Forties
Some more Bohemian days.

Then here’s the wiser Forties!
The Forties! The Forties!
Then here’s the wiser Forties!
We’re good for ten years more.

The thirties were the fate years;
I fought behind the scenes.
The thirties were more cruel
And blacker than the teens;
I held them not but bore them—
They were no years of mine;
But they are going from me,
For I am thirty-nine.

So here’s the stronger Forties!
The Forties! The Forties!
And here’s the good old Forties!
We’re good for ten years more.

poem by Henry Lawson
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To Mrs. M. B. On Her Birthday

Oh be thou blest with all that Heav'n can send,
Long Health, long Youth, long Pleasure, and a Friend:
Not with those Toys the female world admire,
Riches that vex, and Vanities that tire.
With added years if Life bring nothing new,
But, like a Sieve, let ev'ry blessing thro',
Some joy still lost, as each vain year runs o'er,
And all we gain, some sad Reflection more;
Is that a Birth-Day? 'tis alas! too clear,
'Tis but the funeral of the former year.
Let Joy or Ease, let Affluence or Content,
And the gay Conscience of a life well spent,
Calm ev'ry thought, inspirit ev'ry grace.
Glow in thy heart, and smile upon thy face.
Let day improve on day, and year on year,
Without a Pain, a Trouble, or a Fear;
Till Death unfelt that tender frame destroy,
In some soft Dream, or Extasy of joy,
Peaceful sleep out the Sabbath of the Tomb,
And wake to Raptures in a Life to come.

poem by Alexander Pope
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Mary O

She went to Dublin in the late sixties off hand can't say what year
For to live with her only child her daughter Peg O Deere
And still her happy laughter comes to me from long ago
The heart and soul of Claraghatlea kindhearted Mary O.

The only daughter of Mary and Jack the Master her only brother Jack
Died in England many years ago of a major heart attack
And Mary O outlived them all and 'tis said she's still going strong
And may she live to be over one hundred years and may her life be long.

I've known her since I was young lad since I was knee high tall
A mentor of my childhood years and one I still recall
She must have been over forty years when I was a schoolgoing boy
And with her happy hearty laugh she spread the gifty of joy.

In my memory she is still quite young she never did grow old
In her mid life when I was a boy she has a heart of gold
And I still hear her hearty laugh across the miles away
And I'll remember Mary O till my own final day.

poem by Francis Duggan
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It takes three to make a family

(The Mistress or mother)
My son was a gift,
But his father didn't think so,
He left me alone,
With his son I mind you,
I was just a girl,
And he a man,
He did not care,
He left me bowed eyes and broken,
A Lord was he and I Mistress was I,
We were in two different worlds,
Seperated by our familes,
But our son not like us,
A son forced to see his parents like this,
I can still do te best for him,
His father is a monster not a man,
I am scared for my son,
What of his life?
No, I must do my best for him,
If I don't I'll let both of us down,
Years have past and now my son is a man,
I'm dying slowly,
I don't want my son to worry,
I know that I'm on my deathbed,
And I'm as king forJesus.
(Lord or father)
I did not leave her,
She left me,
I couldn't find her,
I wanted my son,
She didn't give him,
Now she's gone and my son with me,
My son's mother was my late wife,
I wanted them both,
But she sought me to be a demon,
Lies upon lies,
I was persuaded from my mother,
My wife listened to our converesation,
Many years later my son is married,
Now I'm going to meet my wife,
Together in heaven,
We have all eternity,
Jesus please keep our son.
(Son)
I am a man who loves,
Mom and dad didn't know,
I am the birth of their future,
They died without knowing me,
I am their son,
But all their time was fighting,
Mentally and emotional,
I spent my childhood afraid of them,
On a nevering chase against time,
My family will teach and give me love,
Years, many, many, years later,
I am a great grandfather,
Now and finally I am on my deathbed,
And I'm happy,
A tear has fallen out my eye,
I am now ready to reunite with,
Both my mother and father,
Jesus thank you for bringing,
The family together at last.

poem by Qeeony Luv
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I Do Not Know I Wake Where I Do

I DO NOT KNOW WHY I WAKE WHERE I DO

I do not know why I wake where I do -
But first light makes me hope again-
The sadnesses in my mind are many
But the love of life also great -
True we are all contradictions
But I seem more so
Even in my old age-

Yet happier now
Quieter inside now
I go on -
It has been a long road-
I do not know how much longer the road will be-
I feel blessed now thank G-d
Because of the children and grandchildren-
Oh in old age how one needs the young to love life still and stronger.

poem by Shalom Freedman
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Little Island

LITTLE ISLAND
Randy Newman
In two long wars, my country bled
To save the world for everyone
As through the years, the fight we've led
Too long, we stood alone, too long alone
And when at last, the battle won
We asked for no reward
An empire gone
Two generations turned to blood and dust
Only the best were lost
Only the best
And now the years have passed
The times have changed
The foe is risen up
He stands astride the world
His dreams of conquest all fulfilled
Little island, little island
Glory lost in the mists of time
They will pay for what was done
To those of us who died so young
They will pay for what was done
Little island, little island
Little island

song performed by by Randy Newman
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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