Ballad Of The Press-Gang At Shihao Village
One evening I found lodging in a village where
A press-gang stole by night to seize my aging host,
Who, hearing them, scaled the wall and hid nearby.
Furious, the bailiff bellowed at the gate
Until the woman of the house unbarred the door,
Stepped out, and offered up this pitiful reply:
“Three boys I nursed and raised and, on the selfsame day,
Saw them sent off to the garrison at Yeh.
My oldest boy, he sent a letter by and by
To say the other two were lying in their graves
And he himself was living but a stolen life—
‘O Mother dear, how short we live, how long we die!’
And now there’s not another male under my roof
Besides this man-child nursing at his mother’s breast.
That you could find some use for her I’ll not deny,
But as you see she hardly has a stitch to wear,
And there’s the child to think of—so why not think on this?
Granted I am old and gray yet I am spry
Enough to keep up with the other conscripts, and
I know I’ve strength to serve the men their morning meals.”
With that the voices died, though now and then a cry
Or plaintive sob choked off the silence of the night.
At break of day, when I continued on my way,
No one was left but that old man to say goodbye.
Related quotes
Child
Child,
God knows
how much I love you.
Child,
I may not be
the kind of mother
that you want,
I may not have given you
the kind of life
that you want,
but I'm your mother
and no one can change that.
Child,
you are so dear to me,
and all through my life
I wish nothing
but your happiness.
Child,
forgive this mother
for not having the strength
to protect you from sadness
of being apart
from your loved one.
But child,
I am more sad
when you cry for a man
whom I think
not worthy of you.
So child,
please bear the pain
because I believe
that somewhere
there is someone
worthy of your love.
Child,
trust me
you will find that man,
if you just set yourself free
from your wrong love.
Child,
I'm your mother...
I have raised you,
and I know
what is best for you.
poem by Marites C. Cayetano
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The Tears of Masho
She gave her child away
She had AIDS, they say
Her children should have
Parents to care of them
when she by death
should say goodbye to life.
And her dear own child was
sent to adoption
to a far away land, to a land
she had never been before-
A strange paradise
for her child and which
She as mother could not reach
by her bare feet or sandals.
She did not get the
address of the new parents
She could not write
them in her own tongue
She was not even allowed
to see the last glimpse
of her dear own child,
to give her last embrace
and words of goodbye.
And this child, Masho, who
used to be cuddled by her
own dear mother,
cried day and night
in the new land thought to
be a new paradise.
She watered her pillow
with her own tears and longing.
And she could not understand
why she had to leave her
own mother and playmates
in her own village far away
just because her mother
is condemned to die
by AIDS, they say.
_________
Response to the debate of adoption of children in Denmark, to a particular case of the Ethiopian child, Masho. November 27,2012
poem by Elizabeth Padillo Olesen
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Song: XI
Mother, mother, do you not hear?
Mother, they come; there is news to tell!
– Give me your hands, my daughter dear:
'Tis but a ship that saileth well.
Mother dear, have a care, give heed!
–They go, my daughter, away they speed.
Mother, the danger is sore, alas!
– Child, my child, it will quickly pass.
Mother, mother, She draweth near!
– It is down in the harbour, daughter dear.
Mother, mother, She opens the door!
– Child, they go, to return no more.
Mother, She enters! I am afraid!
– Child, they now have the anchor weighed.
Mother, I hear Her speaking low.
– Child, my child, it is they that go.
Mother, She makes the stars go dark!
– Child, 'tis the sails of a shadowy bark.
Mother, She knocks at the casement still!
– Child, maybe it is fastened ill. . . .
Mother, mother, my sight grows dim. . . .
– Child, they sail for the open sea.
On every hand I can hear but Him. . . .
– O child, what is it, and who is He?
poem by Maurice Polydore-Marie-Bernard Maeterlinck
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Grandma's Old Piano Was Sold
grandma's piano is old.
she died ten years ago
being the second wife of grandpa.
my mother is her second child
that she sent to piano school
but father found her and married
her when she was still 18.
and i was born as their fourth
child. Mother knows how to play
the moonlight sonata which father
loves to listen at night when
i learn how to smile and laugh.
One day Papa found another woman
whom he said made him new again
and he left Mama.
One day Mama died and Papa married
that woman.
One day i left home.
One day the piano was sold
One day the piano was taken to another
town so far away from us.
One day, all these things, the piano, Papa
and my step mother are forgotten.
But then the Moonlight Sonata comes again
One night
From another piano nearby.
The keys are no longer made
From elephant tusks like grandma's old piano.
Not the off white of ivory.
So white and smooth like a well brushed teeth
of a very young boy.
I like to hear it when he learns
how to gnash.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Come Home, Father!
'Tis The
SONG OF LITTLE MARY,
Standing at the bar-room door
While the shameful midnight revel
Rages wildly as before.
Father, dear father, come home with me now!
The clock in the steeple strikes one;
You said you were coming right home from the shop,
As soon as your day's work was done.
Our fire has gone out our house is all dark
And mother's been watching since tea, --
With poor brother Benny so sick in her arms,
And no one to help her but me. --
Come home! come home! come home! --
Please, father, dear father, come home. --
Hear the sweet voice of the child
Which the night winds repeat as they roam!
Oh who could resist this most plaintive of prayers?
"Please, father, dear father, come home."
Father, dear father, come home with me now!
The clock in the steeple strikes two;
The night has grown colder, and Benny is worse
But he has been calling for you.
Indeed he is worse Ma says he will die,
Perhaps before morning shall dawn; --
And this is the message she sent me to bring
"Come quickly, or he will be gone." --
Come home! come home! come home! --
Please, father, dear father, come home. --
Hear the sweet voice of the child
Which the night winds repeat as they roam!
Oh who could resist this most plaintive of prayers?
"Please, father, dear father, come home."
Father, dear father, come home with me now!
The clock in the steeple strikes three;
The house is so lonely the hours are so long
For poor weeping mother and me.
Yes, we are alone poor Benny is dead,
And gone with the angels of light; --
And these were the very last words that he said
"I want to kiss Papa good night." --
Come home! come home! come home! --
Please, father, dear father, come home. --
Hear the sweet voice of the child
Which the night winds repeat as they roam!
Oh who could resist this most plaintive of prayers?
"Please, father, dear father, come home."
poem by Henry Clay Work
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A Mother
How can a mother forget her child,
the child who is conceived nine months in the womb
the child that is cradled at daytime,
night time until dawn?
How can a mother forget her child?
How can a mother forget her child
the child who after the flow of months
has learned to stand and run?
How can a mother forget her child,
the child whose mouth imitates her mother`s tongue,
the child who after a year or two can say,
'Mama, I love you'?
How can a mother forget her child,
the child who is so dear in her own heart and mind,
the child that reveals the mystery of creation,
the beauty of growth and human interaction.
the infinity of our own universe
within its finite linear time?
poem by Elizabeth Padillo Olesen
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R. Gang
Written by John Mellencamp
oow, hahaha ha
Well now to live in this world
Sometimes you gotta get touch
I got me a bunch of boys when the going gets rough
Someone to lean on when their calling my bluff
Someone to .....
Talking about R. Gang, R. Gang, R. Gang, R. Gang, R. Gang, R. Gang
There were only your friends who died ??
Well now the boy wanna run out with the boys tonight
And the girls are on the corner in a fashion show all right
I got their allmoter dead on my right
You better get great protect on this cool old night
Talking about R. Gang, R. Gang, R. Gang, R. Gang, R. Gang, R. Gang
There were only your friends who died ??
Well now, if there's a moral to be told
Its just that, growin' up is to growin' old
And when the asses say yeah, I'm doing all right
Well I got my bunch of boys, its Saturday night
Talking about R. Gang, R. Gang, R. Gang, R. Gang, R. Gang, R. Gang
There were only your friends who died, yeah ??
song performed by by John Mellencamp
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Poem for a mother whose lost her son
I held him safe within my womb
And kissed him in the birthing room
I held his hand in sickness too
And now I don't know what to do
My son, my child, my flesh and bone
Has died and left me all alone
And in the night when no one sees
I cry and end up on my knees
I cry to God and ask Him why
My precious son he had to die
And when the morning light appears
That's one more night I've spent in tears
And as the years they slip away
I learn to live just day by day
I turn to God who was so far
I look to where the answers are
I put my hand into His hand
He pulls me up and now I stand
I hear my Father say to me
'My Son He died upon a tree
I know the pain that mothers feel
When life turns black and robs and steals
And takes a portion of your heart
And tears your very soul apart'
Oh Lord I pray, please make me whole
Replace the joy that life has stole
This pain, this loss, is part of me
But still I'm longing to be free
I choose to walk out through the door
And melancholy reigns no more
I leave behind the shades of grey
To walk in light, to kneel and pray
' Come to me child, I've heard your cry
I saw your tears when your child died
Rest in me and find your peace
Replace your pain and find release'
Despite the fact we had to part
You still live on within my heart
There'll never be a day go by
A tear wont fall from your mother's eye
poem by Frank McEleny
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One Of The Holy Object
Woman has been named as one of the holy object
She may have nothing on hand except one project
Fulfillment in life with or with heavy struggle
Life must flow on without any trouble
I see in picture a well defined woman
Not that she has nice company of man
Not well placed in life but as happiest female
That she might have got from male counterpart
She has every reason to look heaven in child
Rare occasion and all happiness to find
Woman can't be a full woman until have child
A beautiful world to live in and build
Whenever I find good couple on screen
I just slip in memory as if something divine thing is seen
Mother with child is rarest occasion to observe
A selfless duty and that too mother only can serve
What is there in world to see other than this?
We have nothing pay something like fix fees
You see it daily around but get no real glimpse
It gives lot of relief when you see feel no tense
The child may pick her mothers pulse
Even if said gently with no need to converse
I regard such phenomena as divine gift
Where you will never find in mother any shift
Roses have appeal and fragrance may be spread
It is felt by person but can never be read
Like wise motherly feeling is seen and felt
So is the fragrance in air is simply smelt
poem by Hasmukh Amathalal
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He want to be married
My youngest brother want to be married,
we his older brother all confused.
He was not yet the work.
From long before he more liked chating
with his friends in the village
that in general also not the work.
If the night arrived they gathered in our house,
stayed up all night long til the morning,
chatted did not have the special focus.
The habit had been carried out
for years since the mother was still living,
to currently, three years after the mother died,
the habit continued to be carried out.
Was not thought about by them
from where they received the source of life.
they still believed on the good day and the bad day.
In fact the Lord created all the good days,
depended his humankind,
the work of humankind for the peer.
poem by Prasetya Utama
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Hattie House
Air -- "Lily Dale"
Come all kind friends, wherever you may be,
Come listen to what I say,
It's of a little girl that was pleasant to see,
And she died while out doors at play.
CHORUS:
Oh! Hattie, dear Hattie,
Sweet little Hattie House --
May the flowers ever bloom o'er the little tomb,
Of our loved one, Hattie House.
She had blue eyes and light flaxen hair,
Her little heart was light and gay,
She said to her mother, that morning fair,
"Mother, can I go out and play?"
Her mother tied her bonnet on,
Not thinking it would be the last
She would ever see her dear little one
In this world, little Hattie House.
She left the house, this dear little girl,
On that bright and pleasant day --
She went to play with two little girls
That were near about her age.
She was not gone but a little while
When they heard her playmates call --
Her friends hastened there to save the child,
Alas, she was dead and gone.
Those little girls will not forget
The day little Hattie died,
For she was with them when she fell in a fit,
While playing by their side.
She was her parents' only child,
And her age was near six years,
And now she has left them for a while --
Left all her friends in tears.
She has left this world of grief and woe,
Dear friends, she has left behind --
She is waiting on the other shore,
To meet them bye and bye.
One fine morning, the fifth of July,
The summer flowers were in bloom,
Eighteen seventy-one, little Hattie died,
And is sleeping in her tomb.
poem by Julia A Moore
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Mothers Are Wonderful
mother you so wonderful
you fade me in your stomach for 9manth
you nursed me well until now i love you mother
mother you wonderful in nursing you are like nurse
when i cried to you one night you loved me so much
you endured sleepless night when was sick
you showed me you care so much
there nothing am going to give you mother
because i can't pay until you are satisfied
but i will try so much in presence to help you
in each task you want, mother i love so much
when my father chased you out his home, you went with me
when my father died you took so much care to me
mother you deserve blessing from GOD
poem by Ahmed Kakembo
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At The Time When Mother Left For Ozamis
i remember now
it was at that time when mother packed her clothes
and left my father for good
back in the little village where mother
was raised by grandmother
as a naive girl
keeping things to herself.
she dwells in a house of silence.
it was at that time when father said
that he loves her very much
that losing her would mean his death
but mother was no longer in the house
where we grew.
and of course, mother did not really believe him.
she died ahead of him, and he got drunk everyday, and
he put her picture on top of his chest and he cried all night long
staring at her face, black and white, her hair her mouth.
he died a year after and he was buried just beside her pantheon.
i still wonder if mother would believe him.
the silence is overwhelming. no one sweeps the heaps of leaves
and no wind is strong enough to clean the mounds filled with thick grass.
come summer time, i see white daisies blooming, and a black butterfly
hovers to stop a while. I watch closely this new turn of events.
it is like poetry. Some metaphors. Symbols, and hints. Love's mouth
wanting to say all over again, what the heart has constantly hidden.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Father's Denial
If you have a child that you conceived
Do not hide it from your family.
It may come back to you in your later years
And the truth you will have to share.
At the time “ we deny it”
And we try to hide it
For whatever reason that it’s done
It will hurt everyone.
The child like us, go through
The aches and pains
And we hide our heads in shame.
At some time in our life
We go into denial
And it will last for quite a while.
We may deny that we are “ addicts”
Just to avoid the family static.
But when we deny a child
That GOD has given
Then life does not become worth living.
If you look into your child’s eyes
You will know
that you can’t deny
That this child is part of you
And it’s mother knows it too.
Don’t live a life of regret
For it can get much worse yet.
ACCEPT
poem by Louis Rams
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Lucy Gray
Oft I had heard of Lucy Gray:
And, when I crossed the wild,
I chanced to see at break of day
The solitary child.
No mate, no comrade Lucy knew;
She dwelt on a wide moor,
--The sweetest thing that ever grew
Beside a human door!
You yet may spy the fawn at play,
The hare upon the green;
But the sweet face of Lucy Gray
Will never more be seen.
"To-night will be a stormy night--
You to the town must go;
And take a lantern, Child, to light
Your mother through the snow."
"That, Father! will I gladly do:
'Tis scarcely afternoon--
The minster-clock has just struck two,
And yonder is the moon!"
At this the Father raised his hook,
And snapped a faggot-band;
He plied his work;--and Lucy took
The lantern in her hand.
Not blither is the mountain roe:
With many a wanton stroke
Her feet disperse the powdery snow,
That rises up like smoke.
The storm came on before its time:
She wandered up and down;
And many a hill did Lucy climb:
But never reached the town.
The wretched parents all that night
Went shouting far and wide;
But there was neither sound nor sight
To serve them for a guide.
At day-break on a hill they stood
That overlooked the moor;
And thence they saw the bridge of wood,
A furlong from their door.
They wept--and, turning homeward, cried,
"In heaven we all shall meet;"
--When in the snow the mother spied
The print of Lucy's feet.
Then downwards from the steep hill's edge
They tracked the footmarks small;
And through the broken hawthorn hedge,
And by the long stone-wall;
And then an open field they crossed:
The marks were still the same;
They tracked them on, nor ever lost;
And to the bridge they came.
They followed from the snowy bank
Those footmarks, one by one,
Into the middle of the plank;
And further there were none!
--Yet some maintain that to this day
She is a living child;
That you may see sweet Lucy Gray
Upon the lonesome wild.
O'er rough and smooth she trips along,
And never looks behind;
And sings a solitary song
That whistles in the wind.
poem by William Wordsworth
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A Childs Cry
laying in bed looking up at the ceiling
my eyes got blurry, and my head started reeling.
i saw a vision start to take form
of a child who was unborn.
this child was in the womb of its mother
being fed by the tube to give it life.
he turned and looked straight at me
and its eyes were as big as can be.
he raised his small little hand
and signaled me to look inside.
it was something that he could not hide.
the vision came closer to me
just so that i could see.
i saw the pain that this child was in
because his mother was
thinking to abort
and for the last two months he had fought.
all the features that GOD was creating
was thought by the mother
of becoming belated.
this young mother was under peer pressure
to take this childs life
and it did not matter if it was wrong or right.
this young child was screaming at me
'how could they let this be'
i am life given by the lord
why would she want to abort.
tell her to give me a chance
so that i could live in the warmth
of her arms, and fill her heart with joy.
it would matter not, if i'm a girl or a boy.
can't she feel me, and see me
in her dreams at night
and that i'm in a perilous fight.
i want to live just like she
there is nothing wrong with me.
the vision started to fade away
and in my heart, i started to pray
let this child live another day
and from this woman the pain to go away.
LIFE IS SACRED, DON'T THROW IT AWAY
IF YOUR MOTHER THOUGHT LIKE YOU
YOU WOULD'NT BE HERE TODAY.
poem by Louis Rams
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A Mother Does Not
A mother does not raise her child for to fight and die in war
Or to kill another Human Being in a Country from home far
That her son or her daughter should at someone else shoot to kill
A person they have never known or who have never bore them ill.
Picasso's 'Screaming Woman' is for all woman kind
The mother weeps for her dead child with grief 'out of her mind'
Mothers do not raise their children for to be remembered on War Memorial Day
For to fight in war for war mongering non combatants and throw their lives away
A mother raises her son or daughter so her seed of life will live on
That her genes will still be around when she herself has gone
From the World of the living to be numbered amongst the dead
I wish for my children to outlive me that's what the mother said.
A mother does not raise her child for to meet with an early death
Not for her War Memorial Day or the words 'Lest we forget'
She wants her son and daughter for to grow old and gray
And she does not wish to hear of War and War Memorial Day.
poem by Francis Duggan
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A Mother
A mother shows the child the world
A mother is its world when small
A mother shows the child what's love
A mother loves her child like a doll!
A mother makes the home and bed
A mother cares for all at home
A mother trains the child to walk
And stand on own, perfectly talk.
A mother is the teacher prime
A mother moulds the character
A mother shows the child to pray
And trust the unseen God all life.
A mother is the child's best friend
A mother knows its needs and wants
A mother cares for child when sick
And feels so proud, when child achieves.
Children, thank God for a good mother
On ‘Mother's day! '
Copyright by Dr John Celes 13-05-12
poem by John Celes
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The Women
This world is, because of the woman
this universe is, because of the woman
nothing exists without the woman
our existence is, because of the woman.
Why being a woman then
should be humiliation?
Why a woman then
should face indignation?
always the woman becomes the prey...?
always the woman has no say.....?
The woman is a mother, also a mother–in-law
the woman is a sister, also a sister-in-law
the woman has many roles to play
a daughter-in-law perfects that night & day.
Why then a woman does
torture another woman?
Why does a ma-in-law
torches a daughter in-law?
Why does a woman destroy another’s world?
Why does jealousy overcomes a sister-in-law?
In the woman, power is manifest,
yet she is unaware and that is a jest.
she becomes Durga when in rage
telling everyone, she is no sage
the woman is where, awakening is there
her absence creates crematoriums everywhere.
Why do then a woman abhor the birth of a female?
Wants a child, whose gender is male?
the male is indebted to her for the courage and life
yet no rewards for the woman, her entire life.
This is the story of the woman, full of anguish
Plight of a woman is because of another’s wish
Exploitation of the woman could not have taken place
Had a woman given the other a little more space.
poem by Tribhawan Kaul
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The Mother's Soul
When the moon was horned the mother died,
And the child pulled at her hand and knee,
And he rubbed her cheek and loudly cried:
'O mother, arise, give bread to me!'
But the pine tree bent its head,
And the wind at the door-post said:
'O child, thy mother is dead !'
The sun set his loom to weave the day;
The frost bit sharp like a silent cur;
The child by her pillow paused in his play:
'Mother, build up the sweet fire of fir !'
But the fir tree shook its cones,
And loud cried the pitiful stones:
'Wolf Death has thy mother's bones!'
They bore the mother out on her bier;
Their tears made warm her breast and shroud;
The smiling child at her head stood near;
And the long, white tapers shook and bowed,
And said with their tongues of gold,
To the ice lumps of the grave mold:
'How heavy are ye and cold!'
They buried the mother; to the feast
They flocked with the beaks of unclean crows.
The wind came up from the red-eyed east
And bore in its arms the chill, soft snows.
They said to each other: 'Sere
Are the hearts the mother held dear;
Forgotten, her babe plays here!'
The child with the tender snowflakes played,
And the wind on its fingers twined his hair;
And still by the tall, brown grave he stayed,
Alone in the churchyard lean and bare.
The sods on the high grave cried
To the mother's white breast inside:
'Lie still; in thy deep rest bide!'
Her breast lay still like a long-chilled stone,
Her soul was out on the bleak, grey day;
She saw her child by the grave alone,
With the sods and snow and wind at play.
Said the sharp lips of the rush,
'Red as thy roses,O bush,
With anger the dead can blush !'
A butterfly to the child's breast flew,*
Fluttered its wings on his sweet, round cheek,
Danced by his fingers, small, cold and blue.
The sun strode down past the mountain peak.
The butterfly whispered low
To the child: 'Babe, follow me; know,
Cold is the earth here below.'
The butterfly flew; followed the child,
Lured by the snowy torch of its wings;
The wind sighed after them soft and wild
Till the stars wedded night with golden rings
Till the frost upreared its head,
And the ground to it groaned and said:
'The feet of the child are lead!'
The child's head drooped to the brown, sere mold,
On the crackling cones his white breast lay;
The butterfly touched the locks of gold,
The soul of the child sprang from its clay.
The moon to the pine tree stole,
And silver-lipped, said to its bole:
'How strong is the mother's soul !'
The wings of the butterfly grew out
To the mother's arms, long, soft and white;
She folded them warm her babe about,
She kissed his lips into berries bright,
She warmed his soul on her breast;
And the east called out to the west:
'Now the mother's soul will rest!'
Under the roof where the burial feast
Was heavy with meat and red with wine,
Each crossed himself as out of the east
A strange wind swept over oak and pine.
The trees to the home-roof said:
' 'Tis but the airy rush and tread
Of angels greeting thy dead.'
poem by Isabella Valancy Crawford
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