En.Citatepedia^®.ro

That Old Man....

that old man who lives down the street,
who just shared a can of Alpo with his blind dog.
who owned the corner grocery when i was a kid,
who helped me out when i was short.
whose father passed it down to him,
whose son was killed in a car wreck.
whose daughter lives somewhere in California,
whose wife died ten years ago.
who was a deacon in the church for years,
who quit going when his wife died.
who put his life savings with 'trusted investors',
who lost it all when everything fell.
who the county's hounding for back taxes,
whose porch is falling down.
who prays that if there is a god...
he'll die and take the dog with him!

poem by Eric Cockrell
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The Non Swimming Man Of The Sea

He had his own fishing boat for many years though he never ventured far out to sea
And from fishing he made a good living enough to upkeep his family
He was born and he still lives near the ocean and the ocean holds no fears for him
But to many it may seem a bit strange that he's never learned how to swim.

Though he left school young for to fish with his father he's a bright man and nobody's fool
And his son and daughter live in the big city their children in Primary school
Two years ago his wife she died suddenly they had been married for thirty five years
And though for her his grieving is over thoughts of her still move him to tears.

A year younger than him she felt quite well till a massive heart attack struck her down
And one day he too will go to join her in the grave yard in the sea side Town
He had a wish to be cremated and his ashes spread on the sea shore
But to his wife he must remain true and with her he will lay forever more.

He sold his fishing boat when his wife died his great zest for life with her died
He now lives on the old age pension and from his cottage he can hear the tide
Rage against the rocks on the fore shore the huge waves they rumble and roll
The immortal voice of the ocean is ever soothing to his soul.

Last February he turned seventy and the years have left him gray and slow
Still he finds comfort in his good memories of his better days decades ago
Of his beautiful wife and their children but life part of mortality
And the Reaper is now quietly waiting for the non swimming man of the sea.

poem by Francis Duggan
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A letter to My Dad

Dad it's been twenty years,
since you have been gone now
when ever I think of you
the thought, brings tears

There's so much to tell
you, I don't know where to begin
two months, after you died
we had a son, he's so big now, I'm in a spell

I wanted for you, to meet my wife,
in a way you did, only at your funeral,
by then, it was to late
strangers were we, but never any strife

Between us, there was no hate or any love
many wasted words had we
I would like to mention, we have a daughter,
and she's sweet as a dove

Remeber the day, that you gave me old shep
he was a very fine dog
for a long time, I had him
for many years, he had a lot of pep

After nine years, he died too,
seems like ever thing I love
dies sooner or later
and that makes me feel, very blue

You don't realize, how much you love
some one, until their gone,
and then they
fly away like a dove

Toward the end, we had some good talks
you told me many things i didn't know
at your farm, on our many walks

You told me how you played ball,
it must have been something,
to have played back then
my son, dad like you is very tall

I have a very happy life
dad, I wish you could meet
my son and daughter,
also my wife

Dad, it's to bad, I didn't know you better,
too many years were wasted
and I should have told you, I love you,
so that's the reason, for this letter

written June 18,1990 In Memory of my dad Elmer W. Foulk
Born September 13,1904 Died October 10,1970

poem by Jim Foulk
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The Thirteenth Street Bus

god died...
nothing else unusual about the day.
the Thirteenth Street bus was late again,
people passed each other walking heads down.
when the bus finally arrived,
no one was there.
old Mr. Peterson and his crippled wife,
were nowhere to be seen.

three hours earlier...
an angry young man sat alone,
hugging his knees and shaking,
in an empty room neath a bare light bulb.
unable to focus or think,
peeling back the layers of hell...
consumed by the rage of need.

old Mr. Peterson made the coffee,
and boiled water for oatmeal.
two creams and a sugar,
and he took a cup,
to his wife still lying in bed.
he felt the faint smile of the wrinkled face,
birds just outside the window were singing..
45 years, or maybe yesterday,
he didnt know or care anymore.

the enraged young man
caught Mr. Peterson in the kitchen,
and cracked his skull with a lead pipe.
he rifled his pockets for what he could get,
and started slamming through drawers.
Mrs. Peterson hobbled in on her walker,
he stabbed her with a kitchen knife...
and left her dying on the floor,
as he pillaged the house....
the birds were silent as he ran.

when the police burst through the door,
it was already too late.
his body hung in an empty closet,
while the radio blared in stark despair.
crumpled clothes in the corner,
a mattress unmade in the center of the room.
a food stamp card and a dirty needle,
an unopened letter from the unemployment office.
a lone picture on a stack of boxes,
taken three years earlier...
the young man in his military uniform,
the day he came home from Iraq.

three funerals on the same day,
no one attended either.
a borrowed preacher in a coffee stained suit,
a few words and a worn out prayer.
it began to rain, and it was over,
three lives that never were.
three short paragraphs in the newspaper,
the county picked up the tab.

god died...
or maybe we died,
passing behind blacked out windows.
standing behind indifferent curtains,
lips moving but never speaking.
the Thirteenth Street bus was on time that day,
but it didnt even bother to stop!

poem by Eric Cockrell
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Real Life Tale Of An Ungrateful Daughter

an ungrateful poor daughter blames her father
her mother sad died thirty-two long years ago
her mother did not choose to suffer illness die
was not mother’s fault choice to daughter leave
daughter in bitterness hate life torments father

her father worked two three jobs her education to pay
her poor father said study succeed attend university
she wanted to spend money work in Texas chicken
she married a shiftless dreamer saying play party angles
her father helped raise their two children in his home

she appreciates nothing saved not never to buy her home
she appreciates not years her family lived with her father
she appreciates not her eldest daughter her father raised
this daughter her husband accept no responsibility blame
daughter says if mother were alive life would be different

poem by Terence George Craddock
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A pious man

A pious man had gone to Burma
From where he came as a destitute,
Ran a petty shop on borrowed money,
Made to marry in late thirties to go
bankrupt,
Bore two sons and a daughter
From his equally poor but virulent
wife,
Became invalid in money and mind,
Lost his wife to his brother in celibacy,
Added one more daughter from him,
Lost the second son in electric shock,
Wandered and laboured for food,
Reaped every kind of humiliation,
And then died, later to be followed
By his wife, leaving the children
To be grown by the remaining father,
Who too died with children spreading
Under different shelters to live
And get married.
I shed my tears thinking that pious man,
Who gave me sweets when I was
Twelve, who begged of me with his Eyes
For money when I started earning.
04.10.2004

poem by Rm. Shanmugam Chettiar
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love Died Young

They met at the local library
One cold wintry day
They had nice conversation
And later met again at
A local party

He had hair of black
Blue eyes and a lovely smile
He was so handsome in her eyes

Her hair was golden like wheat
Her eyes were emerald green
Her beauty was rare
He adored her

They dated for 2 years
Then one day he fell to his
Knees all pride pushed aside
And he asked her to become his wife

She gratefully accepted his proposal
With God as the witness that day

Three years have passed
Two children came to them
A blessing from God
A boy and a girl-twins they were

Then three years later
The wife falls to the floor
She weakly said: “I am ok now” as
A hand was extended to help her to her feet

After the doctor’s exam
She was told she had a short
Time to live for she could not be healed

Love so young how could this be?
Her husband and two small children struggled
Wondering how could God let such a terrible thing
Happen to such a good family

Love died so young the husband
And children found strength to carry on
The mother lives on through them all
But how they long to find out in the end
Why love had to die so young?
©Copyright 2006 Becky LaPrarie

poem by Becky LaPrarie
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My Father Died

In the middle of the summer,
when I was twenty-two
and wore sneakers with no socks
and was growing my first beard,
my father died.

In the middle of the summer,
when my son was one years old
and lay in his playpen
in the hardscrabble grass of the backyard,
making living sounds
and grabbing for fistfuls of air,
my father died.

In the middle of the summer,
days before somebody walked on the moon,
days after the bright-colored beginnings
of my daughter's life,
my father died.

In the middle of the summer,
when, as a father,
I first sat out on the porch past midnight
listening to the haunting, faraway comfort
of late-night, west coast ball games,
and the tender wisps of breathing of my own two babes,

in the middle of the summer
when I first had trouble sleeping,
and before we had the luxury to know
each others' hurts and hollows,
hopes and heartaches,

in the summer of 1969
(several sad and sorry seasons
beyond the end of his living) ,
my father died.

As did,
as did a part of his boy.

poem by Will Thomas
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Louis

He speaks with a very strong accent though his English seems quite good to me
The man from the fishing Village in Malta by the Mediterranean sea
He likes to go rod and line fishing and cast his line from rocks on the shore
In the low tide in the early evening he fishes for two hours or more.

Louis is a likeable old fellow he looks quite well for eighty two
Though his life has never been easy and his sorrows he has been through
He does his best for to keep active he tends his garden every day
And nothing in life to him has come easy his gray hair he has earned one might say.

His wife Rina died in her mid sixties going back some fifteen years ago
She was suffering from stomach cancer her end it was painful and slow
For four decades they were together and he loved her his devoted wife
The final parting for him was heartbreaking though he still got on with his life.

Their only child Paul died in Vietnam in the sixties their cross of grief heavy to bear
A handsome young man in his early twenties with brown eyes and wavy brown hair
His comrades tell of how he died bravely but that of little comfort to them
Their son's loss to them was heartbreaking and for many years they grieved for him.

Louis lives in his seaside cottage with Blue his dog a Kelpie x Heeler cross
And though the death of his son and then his wife to him was a heartbreaking loss
He still gets on with life and with living and he goes fishing every second day
And it can be truly said of him that he has earned his hair of gray.

poem by Francis Duggan
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Evil On Foot

For ten years
Evil stood on the hills
Of Afghanistan
Evil on foot
Moved in and out of Pakistan

When he hit the West
Lives erupted in dust and smoke
Concrete and glass icons fell
Tears flooded the street of nations
All this
As Evil
Stroked his beard in victory

For ten years
Blood stuck to human corps
Evil reigned triumphant
Delighted in the carnage
And Justice waits

As Evil walked
And years passed
Desire for revenge boils
More lives taken
In the name of Allah
And Justice waits

Suddenly
On Sunday
A morning in Spring
Justice dressed in green
Struck
And Evil without a gasp died

poem by Buxton Shippy
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Grand-Father's Clock

My grand-father's clock was too large for the shelf,
So it stood ninety years on the floor;
It was taller by half than the old man himself,
Though it weighed not a penny weight more.
It was bought on the morn of the day that he was born,
And was always his treasure and pride;
But it stopp'd short never to go again
When the old man died.

Ninety years, without slumbering (tick, tick, tick, tick)
His life seconds numbering (tick, tick, tick, tick)
It stopp'd short never to go again
When the old man died.

In watching its pendulum swing to and fro,
Many hours had he spent while a boy;
And in childhood and manhood the clock seemed to know
And to share both his grief and his joy.
For it struck twenty-four when he entered at the door,
With a blooming and beautiful bride;
But it stopp'd short never to go again
When the old man died.

Ninety years, without slumbering (tick, tick, tick, tick)
His life seconds numbering (tick, tick, tick, tick)
It stopp'd short never to go again
When the old man died.

My grandfather said that of those he could hire,
Not a servant so faithful he found;
For it wasted no time, and had but one desire --
At the close of each week to be wound.
And it kept in its place -- not a frown upon its face,
And its hands never hung by its side;
But it stopp'd short never to go again
When the old man died.

Ninety years, without slumbering (tick, tick, tick, tick)
His life seconds numbering (tick, tick, tick, tick)
It stopp'd short never to go again
When the old man died.

It rang an alarm in the dead of the night --
An alarm that for years had been dumb;
And we knew that his spirit was pluming for flight --
That his hour of departure had come.
Still the clock kept the time, with a soft and muffled chime,
As we silently stood by his side;
But it stopp'd short never to go again
When the old man died.

Ninety years, without slumbering (tick, tick, tick, tick)
His life seconds numbering (tick, tick, tick, tick)
It stopp'd short never to go again
When the old man died.

poem by Henry Clay Work
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I'm My Own Grandpa

It was many many years ago when I was twenty-three,
I was married to a widow, she's as pretty as can be.
This widow had a grown-up daughter who had hair of red,
my father fell in lover with her, and soon these two were wed.

I'm my own grandpa, I'm my own grandpa.
It sounds silly, I know, but it really is so, oh
I'm my own grandpa.

This made my dad my son-in-law and changed my very life:
My daughter was my mother 'cause she was my father's wife.
And then to complicate the matter, though it brought me joy,
I soon became the father of a bouncing baby boy.

This bouncing baby then became a brother-in-law to dad,
and so became my uncle, though it made me very sad,
for if he was my uncle then he also was the brother
of the widow's grown-up daughter, who, of course, was my step-mother.

I'm my own grandpa, I'm my own grandpa.
It sounds silly, I know, but it really is so, oh
I'm my own grandpa.

Father's wife then had a son who kept them on the run.
And he became my grandchild, for he was my daughter's son.
My wife is now my mother's mother, and it makes me blue,
because although she is my wife, she's my grandmother, too.

Now if my wife is my grandmother, then I am her grandchild.
And every time I think of it, it nearly drives me wild.
For now I have become the strangest case you ever saw.
Husband of my grandmother, I am my own grandpa.

I'm my own grandpa, I'm my own grandpa.
It sounds silly, I know, but it really is so, oh
I'm my own grandpa.

poem by Sheldon Allan Silverstein
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The Price Of Dead Love

His marriage is over but he has no tears
For the woman he was married to for just over two years
Though he miss his baby daughter when he comes home from work at night
In his marriage she was his one source of delight.

She is with his ex wife her mother who lives with her new man
And for him in her life his ex has only one plan
That he pay his alimony to her on Friday of every week
They no longer have common ground on which to speak.

On their wedding day he thought 'twould be for life
He was so in love with his beautiful wife
But just after two years of marriage love between them is dead
That the ways of love can be fickle no truer words said.

That his ex wife has left him for another he finds that as okay
But he misses his baby daughter when he comes home from work every day
That life has it's ups and downs it's always been this way
And the price of dead love it can be high to pay.

poem by Francis Duggan
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Father –in-law’s and mother-in- law’s daughter is a daughter-in-law

Father –in-law’s and mother-in- law’s daughter is a daughter-in-law
In the long and short journey of life one has to read the same law,
Even the daughter-in-law should not treat with them just like a saw,
She must think that her husband’s parents are like her own parents,
Action and reaction we can see soon infront of our eyes and mind,
And every one has his or her law and so let us always live by a law,
A good son-in-law does not deserve for any kind of dowry to find,
He too considers that his wife’s parents are just like his own parents,
A daughter is born in her own family and lives in the another family,
All will weep to see the changes of her life from the starting to an end,
If that new family members are good for her she lives very happily,
Otherwise in every walk of her life she suffers and herself will tend,
All daughters have to face and face to cross the same path of life,
The Nature itself will pity on them to see their difficulty of life’s strife.

poem by INDIA Mazid S Kazi
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Feathers Like Chad

We had some real great years
We laughed and joked
Drank and smoked
Passed the nights away
The girls we chased
The stories we laced
On graduation day
Those years the best
Our youth did crest
We moved towards seperate ways
The days would pass
The years did mass
All the sudden the skies turned gray
To hear that my freind had died
To know that his newborn cried
His fiancee falling to her knees
She raises her arms and shakes her fist
Screaming 'Bring him back to me! '
In the night two cars met
Drunken kid at play
Not one but two lives lost
Not to see the light of day
He is someone I will always miss
And this is deffinately true
Knowing that he smiles above me
Among the white and blue.

poem by C.R. Blazo
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The Day Old Shep Died

it's been thirty years,
that he's been gone,
the day he died, brought tears,
all day, i played his song.

for nine long years,
i loved him and he loved me,
the day he died, broght tears,
toward the end, he could barely see.

when he died, i was seventeen years,
my child hood died that day,
the day he died, brought tears,
during his youth, we were always at play.

him and i was, so close in years,
when i got shep he was five and i eight,
the day he died brought tears,
he always ate his meals, off our plate.

he died at eighty-four in human years,
he lived to a ripe old age,
the day he died brought tears,
for this poem, he set the stage.

i can't believe, its been so many years,
i think about him, all the time,
the day he died, brought tears,
but old shep, was all mind.

of all these many years,
no dog has taken the place of old shep,
the day he died, brought tears,
i'll always remember, that dog with pep

in memory of old shep 1946-1960 written june 21,1990

poem by Jim Foulk
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Max Rosenthau

Father Cleary sat at table with Max many a day
But I don't think he rated a bounteous gift when Max came to visit
Both were guests in the great house acrosss the street of youth
Father for years and Max for yearly one week stints.
The last time Max came was when his wife died
A man so profoundly broken
Even a fourteen year old could start to understand
That the desperation of his giref was the force that drove Max to Mass
Where Father from his view could not give communion to a Jew
And snapped the neck of something deep within me
That despite Father's great friendship
Never came back though I never said a word to Father Cleary.

poem by Bill Grace
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Narrative of Death

As the patriot rounds the corner he sees a man, and there lies a sturdy rusted object in the gentleman’s hand. The man stabs the heroin in the back, object held in his fist. The hero’s body starts to relax, unable to resist. As the martyr’s blood flows over the unsheathed blade, the murderer lets out a laugh. The man in a puddle, a victim of raid, pleaded with a gasp, Please sir don’t kill me I have a wife! I have two sons and a daughter. Please, I do want my sad life, I wish not be a prey of your slaughter.

There in a puddle they found him the next day, the knife in his back and the blood in his face. The world never noticed the crime happened to pass. He could have died calmly, died in the grass, but he died horribly died gory as the original mass. His family did mourn for he died for no cause. He was murdered in coldness, and it was all for his loss.

poem by Axiom Wheeler
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I Am Not Sorry No She Said

I am not sorry no she said
That my ex son in law is dead
He gave to my daughter a hard life
And she to him was a good wife.

It may seem a callous thing of me to say
That I'm not sorry he's out of the way
For without him my daughter will survive
And in fact I'd like to think she'll thrive.

And though I feel her years with him were wasted years
My daughter sheds her grief in tears
To him she was a good wife and a good friend
And she stayed with him right to the end.

Whatever in him did she see
I find it way far beyond me
For to understand the workings of humanity
For they were different as can be.

She said as for myself I've been lucky in life
Lucky to be a good man's wife
But our daughter good of heart and kind
In love and marriage happiness failed to find.

Her feelings she is not afraid to own
When she said the rudest man that I've ever known
And I am not sorry no she said
That my ex son in law is dead.

poem by Francis Duggan
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A Little Cottage

A little cottage nestled in the hills,
its roof is thatched
and it windows carry Georgian squares.
In its garden pretty flowers grow;
while in the fields,
seeds of corn are sown.
Snug within its stonewalls
lives a family,
husband, wife and their two sons.
Sadness filled the cottage one day
when the sons were called to war.
Candles were lit; prayers were said
for their safe return.
Years rolled by, paintwork peeled,
but the little cottage was still a home
with its fire warm.
Day after day, year after year
they waited for their sons return.
Then came what they dreaded most,
letters laced with black
to say that their sons had fallen
in fields far away
and would not be coming back.
A wreath of black hangs on the door
for their soldier boys
who will come home no more.
Sorrow again gripped the walls.
As years followed,
the little cottage fell into disrepair.
Within this once happy home
only sadness rang.
The husband and wife
grew old in their years,
but always held the memory
of two young lost lives.
Slowly they too faded away.
Now the little cottage
stands silent for all to see.
Falling down from lack of repair,
but always holding memories
of happiness once there.

poem by David Harris
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He Already Took The Cat

we live our lives in sudden ashtrays...
always running over, needing to be emptied.
the old man on the corner
who drove that ancient Chevy,
died somewhere between sleep,
and the back door.
it rained for days,
and his cat hid neath the house...
then it too was gone.
they write pretty things in newpapers,
that end up resembling no one.
life goes on, the neighbor
across the street was evicted.
he left boxes of god knows what,
stacked on the porch.
the woman down the street
got her lights cut off...
she sits in the darkness with her dog.
while the man on the tv says it's getting better...
wonder how much they paid him for that lie?
and i sit quietly in my chair,
peeling potatoes and reading,
waiting on a bolt of lightning,
or a knock on the door.
wondering if god's coming back
for that old Chevy...
seems he already took the cat!

poem by Eric Cockrell
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