The Family Urn
In the corner of a white marbled hall
stood the most beautiful urn.
For years it was handily polished
and oh how it did yearn
to give forth the stories of all its years
to all those whose eyes did turn
to marvel at the sight of it
and how it had been made.
But the stillness of all things inanimate
kept its stories untold and staid.
It remembered how it had been the receptacle
of long stemmed roses and fern,
tended to by members of the family,
each of them taking their turn
to collect them from their gardens
and arrange them with great pride.
It felt all eyes looking its way
to see what it held inside.
Surely it would always stay this way,
forever and a day.
But no, 'twas not to be, you see.
For one in the family said,
'It's held enough flowers through the years.
Let us use it for our dead.'
And so one by one as the souls moved on
their ashes were placed in the urn.
And the resting place for all who had tended it
would no longer have concern
for the white marble hall or the polish they used.
And the urn became confused.
Was it not my place to be admired
on every single day?
If I could tell my stories
oh what I could say.
Some who I'm holding were pleasant folks,
others were quite mean.
Some were lax with their duty
to always keep me clean.
Some were old when they came to me
and some did not live long.
And my purpose has changed drastically
which to me seems wrong.
For I long to hold red roses again
and once again learn
what it feels like to be beautiful
and dignify an urn.
poem by Edwina Reizer
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Sheltered Memories
I did some traveling
A few years ago
I wanted to meet family
That I really didn’t know
Some lived in the same
Family home for years
Full of precious memories
From happiness to tears
I listened to stories
These folks had to tell
Treasured sweet memories
I saw my notebook swell
For these were the stories
That needed to pass
Down through generations
So questions were asked
I saw how they lived
A different life from mine
Heard tales of today
Many from another time
I smile as I see photos
Of family from the past
Photos shelter memories
That will forever last!
poem by Marilyn Lott
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Faded Pages
Recently I started retyping
a manuscript of short stories
I had written twenty years ago.
The pages were faded;
too much time being opened to the sun.
As I typed, I smiled
at the things I had written
and the dialogue I had created.
The stories are about a cat
and looking at the world
through his eyes and thoughts.
I had even created him a language
that I had to write a glossary
at the back of the book to explain
what some of the phrases meant.
There is a vast array of characters
and most have a funny turn.
I also remember what prompted me
to write the stories long ago.
My original intention was to write
one story and one story only,
but a friend of mine at the time
persuaded me to write another and another.
Before long, a volume was finished
with enough stories to start another.
From a one off story I have written over sixty now
about the cat and all his friends.
Now as I flick through these faded pages,
which I haven’t read in years,
I find myself being reunited
with many long lost friends.
26 January 2009
poem by David Harris
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Stories About Home
I lived once in the North
And for a while, way in the South
I have some stories... that'll
Tear a man's heart out
These are the one's
I numbered ten... eleven...and twelve...
They moved so fast...
I ended living... in living Hell
But those that I numbered one thru nine...
They let the world see...why... my eyes..
My heart...
Will never again shine
I know It's hard sometimes to live
Where you can't see the sun...
Because of all that... endless rain...
I look to see.. how too... help others
Because I have lived...every kind of pain
So I write the stories...
Some are good
But often... some are very bad
They often leave hearts torn....
Spilling eyes... so sad...
And sometimes... I'll talk about the incredibly bad
But can you see the purpose...of writing
These stories... these poems...
Through the tears.... the weeping... and crying...
It's just my heart....
Trying to find a way...to move back home...
So to anyone whom read these stories. They're what I write.
They're the words of what I feel. They're the stories about wounds,
about that life, my family, about souls that never seem to heal.
They're the words of truth, they help with what I feel. For these stories
are the cause of tears...that just wont end...they're the stories that are
impossibe to bear.
They are the stoires of my family, abuse, of damage
and how love was not spared....
So many stories that'll never disappear
A soul covered with scars
Of sadness that fills a heart
That burns each time those hate words...
And abuse that breaks it apart
Clyde Grant Bryson
poem by Clyde Bryson
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Roses On White Lace
I saw you in your wedding gown
The prettiest dress
I came into the room that night
And made such a mess
In my own way, I lovingly kiss the bride
With your ring in your hand
Your eyes and your mouth open wide
In my eyes
Blood drops look like roses on white lace
They won't wash away
In my mind they're roses on white lace
Straight from the heart
So dead upon the bed
You hurt me in the deepest way
I'm crippled inside
I took your evil skin away
It's all cut and dried
I saw you tonight and carefully took your hand
With some smears on my cheeks
I knew that you would understand
In my eyes
Blood drops look like roses on white lace
They won't wash away
In my mind they're roses on white lace
Straight from the heart
So dead upon the bed, still searching for your head
They're never gonna find your face
It's hidden away
I found a very special place where you used to play
In my own way, I lovingly kiss the bride
With your ring in your hand
Your eyes and your mouth open wide
In my eyes
Blood drops look like roses on white lace
They won't wash away
In my mind they're roses on white lace
Straight from the heart
Blood drops look like roses on white lace
Crimson and sweet, stained on the sheet
Roses on white lace, pretty in red, dripping and wet
Roses on white lace, spilled on the walls, dark in the hall
song performed by by Alice Cooper
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Old Man and Rose
Old man
Tends his roses
In the magic of his years
Gray road is
Spackled in pink and white
You lovers of machine and mirror
See! ! Here is true poetry in his hand
Not the poems of a tube.
Not the truth of moment
In the magic of his years
Roses are tended
Old man
poem by Guillermo Veloso
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A Single Stemmed Rose
The soft petals of a rose
Its hue’s of colours it grows
Each one unique
In its splendor of galore
But favorite by far
A single long stemmed rose
Red, blue, white or gold
You give her a rose
She sighs with delight
Her heart beats fast
At a beautiful sight
To savoir the moment
In between the pages of time
She incases its beauty
With love divine
Years goes pass
She looks back
At the past
At the beauty of giving
From her lover sublime
Years again pass once more
She feels life ebb
Into astral form
But still she holds
Clasped in her hands
The single red rose
Her lover’s gift of old
Slowly she crumbles
And falls to the floor
The long stemmed rose
Clasped close to her heart
The petals they fall
And drift in the wind
And float to the heavens
A memory no more
poem by Kaila George
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As If I Hadn't Slept
It's always 3am in your world
So I'm drinking this as if I hadn't slept
Telling stories which tell their stories themselves
You didn't even hear them
I thought to somewhere else
As long as I go somewhere, you'll still be trying to see
As long as I go somewhere, you'll still be trying
As long as I go somewhere, you'll still by lying to me
As long as I go somewhere
If you're so sure that you don't need love
Only this is if I hadn't slept
As laughter smiles back in your direction
But you're protected by the smoke from your cigarette
Then you tried
To hold my hand
Under the table
But it's far too vague
To be meaningful
As long as I go somewhere, you'll still be trying to see
As long as I go somewhere, every night has a hold over me
As long as I go somewhere, you'll still by lying to me
As long as I go somewhere
And you held me like I was a shadow
But completely without any mystery
And you compared me to a shadow
Which in itself is some kind of victory
song performed by by Idlewild
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The Same Place
The
same place where the sun is still embracing her memory,
in the same place where the stories seems pure magic,
in the same place where the sky is still kissing the perfume of her hair, in the same place where the moon is still holdin...g her hand,
in the same place where the night is still missing her,
...in the same place where magic and love the same symphony all over again it's the same, but still the same seems like the first time,
first time when your eyes were dancing with her eyes,
first time when u were listening that song all over again,
first time when u were reading the same poem all over again,
first time when u met the magic and u decide to dance, a last magic dance, u were lost without her perfume,
u wanted to dream again, to laugh again, 'cause only her eyes could make u smile, in that last petal of rose that she gave u, u felt the magic, and u embrace her memory, in that sweet box called 'love' that u always take with u....
there are your heart, your soul and your love,
memories, that there always gonna stay there...
pictured in that beautiful and touching symphony called 'her soul',
i name it magic, u named it passion,
u wanted to stay, she wanted to go,
u wanted to miss, she wanted to forget,
u wanted to love, she wanted to forgive,
u wanted to wish, she wanted to dream,
same feeling, but not played by the same symphony...
same memories, but not remembered by the same heart....
same old stories, but not remembered by the same eyes...
magic words, sweet memories, same old perfume of roses..
where did she go?
when the sun is calling 4 here?
when the sky is missing her?
when the moon is dreaming at her?
when the sea is waiting 4 her?
when the sand is whispering to come back?
where did she go, if the magic never dies?
where did she go, if the dreams never fall? '
poem by Abdelrahman MHussien
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I miss you...
I miss hearing you say 'Miss. Long Legs'
I miss you showing me how to make a cake
A cake that you would make from scratch
Decorate yourself
It would take all day long
But I would sit right next to you
I miss the advice you would give me
I miss hearing your stories
Oh My Darling...
I miss the jokes you would tell me
I miss being able to call you
I miss going to your house for sunday breakfast
I miss saying 'grandma can I have more toast'
I miss going for rides with you
I miss collecting cans with you and grandpa
I miss seeing you smile
I miss the hugs you use to give me
Most of all I miss you more than ever
The day you past
It felt like my whole world caved in
I don't think I ever cried so much
The family just wont be the same
You held everyone together
Now who's going to tell me stories?
Who's going to make sunday breakfast?
Who's going to give me advice now?
Know one could ever replace you
I love you so much
I wish you where still here
I need you more than ever right now
I know your in a better place
Hopefully I will be able to see you soon
I cant wait for the day
That I can see your smile again
I miss you grandma
poem by Ashley Olson
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Foss School Dedication
Banding together from the Indians
There was always a white-mans school
No matter what went on around them
Children were taught the golden rule
But of course as the time went on
More children were enrolled
In 1900 100 children attended
So many stories could be told
For now is the dedication
After all these years are past
So many folks gathered together
They are dedicated and steadfast
People have worked hard
To keep learning a priority
Throughout the difficult years at Foss
Even with white folks were a minority
Don’t you think it’s wonderful
When we gather for a cause
Tell stories of the past
Take time perhaps to pause?
poem by Marilyn Lott
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The door to Yesterday
I walked this campus in my youth,
forty years ago today.
The air is sweet from recent rain
here on the quad lawn where we played.
It's changed, of course,
that building is new.
Jefferson Hall is next, they say.
I graduated here in May.
I need not give the year away
I 'll only say it was a time,
like now, of great uncertainty.
I remember you like yesterday,
Your eyes a deep cerulean blue.
Your long and flowing auburn hair.
Those bee stung lips so sweet and true.
On impulse, just then
I tried the door.
Surprised I was when it gave way
I entered in the Bursars room
and heard your voice just down the hall.
For sure, twas you.
I'd know that voice
if all the world should pass away
I made my way towards your voice
anticipating ecstasy.
A joyful union there awaits
to hold you once more in my arms
life beyond death to be united
with you so many years since gone.
I entered then into the room
in hopes that she I loved was there.
This was the place where we first met
a place where, sadly, none appeared.
A wistful smile, a final glance
from your poor poet of Romance.
too much a dreamer, most would say,
as I closed the door to yesterday
poem by John F. McCullagh
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I Walked Last Night In A District I Lived In For Almost Twenty Years
I WALKED LAST NIGHT IN A DISTRICT I LIVED IN FOR ALMOST TWENTY YEARS
I walked last night in a district I lived in for almost twenty years
I came back after being away for a time
To visit an old and ailing friend
The streets were empty and lonely as they often were then-
I thought for the first time I understood how lonely the district itself is-
‘A lonely district’
I wondered how I managed to live there all those years
And how anyone still manages to live there-
I looked up at the sky and wrote in my mind a small poem of a kind I wrote many of in my years there
I remembered teachers and friends who had lived there
No longer of this district or any district on earth
I wondered how life goes and how from so many years so much life has been lived without having any place in my memory
I felt as empty inside as the district without
I did not have to wait long for the bus
And relieved inside it I put my heart to home
So many years had been lived there
I remembered taking my small children to the playground there
Now they thank G-d have children of their own
Oh the years go by and the life we have lived in them largely dies
Forever to be unknown again-
I put my heart and mind in a different direction
And began to do what I always do – not think of the district again
Life is this mystery and question we live through and never wholly possess even as we are experiencing it
How long before all will be gone for me
Including the district I live in now?
poem by Shalom Freedman
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She Remembered
She looked at the rolling hills
and valley below,
at a place she once called her home
as she waited at a bus stop
to take her away anywhere
and she remembered how it started
all those long years ago.
How loved had captured her heart
and would never let her go.
She remembered with a tear
how he had got down on one knee
and proposed to her,
and how she had accepted
so freely to share his life.
Then she remembered that wonderful day
in spring when the scent of apple blossom
drifted through the air.
The day she walked up the isle
a beautiful bride that day
and all the smiles
that everyone sent her way.
She remembered those first years,
all the struggles they had
and how alive and happy
both of them had been.
She remembered the first dark cloud
that circled overhead
and all the questions that swirled around her head.
How she had accused him
of being untrue to her.
He de-neighed every word,
said she had spoken out of haste
and never let him explain.
A dark cloud of suspicions
whether they were right or wrong
clouded her true vision of what was going on.
She became quick tempered,
snapping at everything he said.
The dark clouds grew ever more darker,
until she was blinded to the truth in front of her.
He was not doing anything
that was wrong,
only working long hours
to keep his family fed.
Then she got the call everyone dread to hear,
there had been an accident
in which he was involved.
They didn’t know how serious,
only she should get to the hospital quick.
The dark clouds evaporated
as she rushed to the hospital
only to find that he was dead.
She remembered all the things
she had accused him of
and how he had strongly de-neighed
and remembered all the hurtful things
she said to him each day.
How she hadn’t even said goodbye
on the day he died.
At the inquest it came out
it was a lack of concentration
that had lead to the accident.
She could never forgive herself
for what she had done to him.
She tried to stay in the house,
the house they called their home.
Every room held a memory
of how cruel she had been to him.
How the green-eyed monster
of jealousy had crossed her path.
Day after day, she tried to cope
with all the wrong she had done.
All the walls seem to point a finger of shame at her.
No longer could she stand it,
she had to get away.
She packed everything she needed,
locked the door and walked away.
She took a long last look across the valley
at what her anger and shame
was about to take away.
As she remembered all the good times,
more tears fell from her eyes.
She turned away as the bus
came to a halt at the stop.
She paused for a moment
as she climbed aboard
and wondered if one day
she might ever return.
21 January 2008
poem by David Harris
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We Are Defended By Those We Do Not Know The Names Of
WE ARE DEFENDED BY THOSE WE DO NOT KNOW THE NAMES OF
We are defended by those we do not know the names of -
And when one is killed
We know the name for a moment,
Before leaving the long memory to the family-
A few it is true – special heroes-
Have stories and names that remain through the years.
But mostly the dead are anonymous
And the wounded and the injured too.
And a country and a people goes on in freedom-
While in this family or that
Which we will always pray we will not be among
Pain and Loss Forever.
poem by Shalom Freedman
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His Old Dog
His old dog now in her long rest her lot will be ours one day
In her grave by the apple tree in his backyard her bones forever lay
She passed on a few years ago with sadness he recall
The clock of life keeps ticking on and time takes care of us all.
His old dog a black and white border collie to him was a true friend
Far more devoted than his ex wife she loved him till her end
He found her dead in her kennel from a heart attack over-night
Though twelve years old she had not shown signs that her end was in sight.
Although he always kept a dog in years and decades past
No canine now in his backyard his old bitch was the last
Dog for to bark in his back-yard he too feels the weight of time
It has been five decades or more since he was in his prime.
On the rose tree on the old dog's grave red roses are in bloom
And the Summer air scents sweetly of Nature's own perfume
And no more beautiful place to rest in peace than beside an
apple tree
In the backyard where you lived your life in your Hometown by the sea.
poem by Francis Duggan
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There Are No Returns
As children, we shared each other’s games,
and grew up thinking we would never change.
At eighteen duty called to go to a far off place,
we said we’d always wait for each other,
no matter how long, we would have to wait.
The year turned into five, before I came home.
Things had changed, someone else you had found,
while my life was moulded to, and I saw a different you.
The carefree life we both had,
disappeared as the years came round,
our goals were now different bound,
and too many things had passed before our eyes.
I smiled sweetly when I saw you;
your smile back was just as sweet.
He stood at your arm to let the world know,
you were spoken for, not free anymore.
I just nodded as I passed on by,
and you could not see the tears leak from my eyes.
War is not a beautiful thing,
with heroes in a Hollywood show.
It makes men age each day,
their eyes will testify, how I know.
The youthful zest no longer smiles,
only the old man’s sorrowing soul.
They come back a broken person,
whose lives have been altered so.
They come home only to find,
the old life has been robbed as well,
that old torches they used to carry,
are gone from them as well.
I moved on hoping never to return,
saying I’ll keep in touch, but will never do.
Like a nomad, I begin my endless trek,
as I want to get away from here and you.
More years pass on the way;
I find someone and settle down.
Then comes a letter to say you are free,
will I come and see,
but I look around at all I’ve got,
my life that on a solid rock stands,
but the calling is so great,
I have to go back to where I’ve been.
At the station, I see your face,
time has hurt you so,
worse that the war hurt me,
but I just had to know.
I smile, but it is only a courtesy call,
I’ve got a new life elsewhere.
We talk about the old times,
long before I went away.
You know it’s not the same between us,
that soon I’ll be on my way.
You’ve been hurt the way I was once,
but you also know, that I can’t stay.
The day goes on and we reminisce,
we smile and laugh about the days we miss.
Soon the train is in the station;
our hands linger to the touch.
I have a new life now; we will never be the same.
She stands there with our son,
with open beckoning arms;
we rush to meet each other,
our bodies held in an embrace.
She asks how things went;
I smile and simply say, there are no returns.
poem by David Harris
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As Years Go By
Tell me how the years go by
Its been a long long time
Tell me how your plans fell through
And how you changed your mind
Tell me bout the hearts you broke
How many have you known
Tell me how the years went by
And left you all alone
Tell me dear
I want to hear
bout the lost and wasted years
Tell me when now tell me why
Tell me how the years go by
Tell me how the years go by
Like borrowed dancing shoes
That gather dust beneath your ned
Mislaid and seldom used
Like a heart that haunts a phone booth
On a corner far from home
Tell me how the years went by and left you
All alone
Close your eyes
Tell me what do you see
Its an imperfect world
Still we dream perfect dreams
Its no big surprise when were down on our knees
Truth isnt always what we will believe.
Tell me how the years go by
In seasons at your door
And how the things you left me for
Dont matter anymore
Tell me how the more we learn
The more we leave unknown
Tell me how the years went by and left you
All alone
Alone
Close your eyes (x3)
song performed by by Level 42
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Stories
Through every window, we look out
what we see on the other side
holds many stories waiting to unfold.
Stories of great achievements
within someone’s life.
Stories of gathering love
found with in open arms.
Stories of perusing heartaches
where someone has gone away.
Stories a million fold
that surround every living thing.
Stories we are not aware of,
but happen before our eyes.
Stories to share with all
from those who can see them unfold.
The next time you look out a window
try and see what is really there,
the stories that are everywhere.
26 July 2009
poem by David Harris
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The Holy Rosary (Roses to Mother Mary)
Roses that can never fade;
Roses white and red in shade;
Roses that are heaven-made;
Roses in Mary’s crown laid!
Roses from the hearts that pray;
Roses blossoming night, day;
Roses living all the way;
Roses fit for any Fay!
Roses that will always stay;
Roses brighter than sun’s ray;
Roses everlasting, Aye!
Roses that she can’t say, ’nay’!
The spiritual best weapon,
That brings favors from her son,
That serves to solve problems mundane,
And makes souls fit for life divine!
‘PRAYERS THAT YOU CAN SAY ALL LIFE
TO KEEP AWAY FROM EVERY STRIFE! ’
dedicated to the 'Holy Family Church Grotto' Perundurai
Copyright by Dr John Celes 2-12-10
poem by John Celes
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After All The Years In The Study Of Black And White
after all the years of studying black and white
two exclusive colors in the place where you live and thrive
for 48 years
you suddenly come accidentally to a place that your heart
had always known but had never been there
perhaps only in its wildest dream
it is the place of the leaf where it can become a river
the haven of the stars where they can turn into butterflies
the space of the fish where they wish to become dragons
and many more
the place of your imagination
where you can be anything in anywhere at anytime
all those white and black years have turned you into a stone
now you must start to recall how to grow a pair of eyes
to see the brighter shades of every color there
the place of your imagination
and be color blind no more
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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