Related quotes: I. Prologue: Four days of...

They were only doing their duty (Two ballades with a prologue)

I. Prologue: Four days of terror

The arrest was just before five o’clock
on a Thursday afternoon,
with one white and one black constable
waiting at his work
and when he returned from business
cuffing him and searching his body
and taking him into custody.

The employer notified his relatives,
seeing the incident
as a blot on the company’s name
and then his job was hanging in balance
and the charges was
based on a false affidavit
made by stepson
on persuasion of the mother in law

and where his car had been stolen,
criminals had broken into his rented house
and robbed him of the TV, DVD-player,
hifi and everything valuable
no arrest was ever made
and the police was only doing their job
and will tell you
that another unit
is responsible for robberies
and hijackings
passing the buck endlessly.

Three days elapsed before a bail hearing
as the black state attorney
was that Friday busy
with another case
in another town
while he was innocently locked up.

It is no joke being innocent and locked up
in a police cell with eighteen other people
with one toilet,
in the middle of the room,
no shower,
no bathing facilities, dirt everywhere
and lice jumping into your hair,

not being able to close your eyes
and knowing if you will be safe
from a attack from any of them

being prohibited to receive any cigarettes
or food from the outside,
being served with three dry pieces of bread
and coffee without sugar for dinner,
an iron bowl as big as you hand
with brown porridge, without a spoon
and any sugar or salt in it
without any eating utensils for breakfast
and having to eat it with your bare hands
like a barbarian

receiving a small bowl of porridge
with mince in it as lunch
and having to eat it
in the same way

and after four days of this treatment
having to appear before a magistrate
on a Monday morning
without clean clothes, a shave
or a comb through his hair
he had been stripped
from being treated humanely
by the South African Police
and have been treated
like just another third world citizen
being made equal to a culture
where living like a animal
is regarded as being humane

and then after his release
he had to get rid of all his hair
to get rid of the lice,
had to take a hot bath in antiseptic
and another shower after that
and had to throw his clothes
and shoes
into the rubbish bin.

II. Honour your father and mother

As a society Afrikaners had respect
for older people,
addressing older people
who were not even related as uncle and aunt.

I have been raised with the bible commandments
and one of them
is to honour your father and mother.

At South African schools
naughty children are not anymore disciplined
by caning, children’s rights, human rights
these days even take precedence
above the teachings of the Bible
and caning is viewed as assault.

I have been raised with the bible commandments
and one of them
is to honour your father and mother.

An eleven-year-old boy
one afternoon while his stepfather
was working at the mortuary,
played with a ten year old girl
from next door
and both stripped naked.

I have been raised with the bible commandments
and one of them
is to honour your father and mother.

That evening the girl told her mother
that the boy had sexually harassed her,
the government welfare was contacted,
the boy was taken to a kid’s clinic for evaluation
where that boy stated that his step father
had sexually assaulted him.

I have been raised with the bible commandments
and one of them
is to honour your father and mother.

III. Only doing their duty

During the trial of the mass murderers
in the Second World War,
some people on trial stated
that they were only doing their duty.

Children’s rights is the in thing,
and on insistence of the boy’s grandmother,
and a declaration of the boy,
the police
went to arrest the stepfather at his work,
which he almost lost
as that company does not want to be associated
with people who sexually harass children.

They were only doing their duty.

The police grabbed him with their hands
going into the back of his pants,
locked him up on a Thursday
at the cells at the police station.

They were only doing their duty.

The stepfather is dyslectic, works as a mortician,
and earns a very small salary,
could not afford a proper lawyer
and it was clear that the state lawyer
wasn’t really up to it.

He was only doing his duty.

The mother of the stepfather,
(an eighty three year old pensioner)
had to get an advocate (a supreme court barrister)
for the bail defence
as her son was seen as a danger to society
and being locked up
in a proper jail was being considered.

They were only doing their duty.

The court decided that the boy should for a time
live with his grandmother
and she went with the story
to the local newspaper
and claimed that she and the boy
have got to live behind burglar bars
in her flat and are too scared
to even go shopping
with the stepfather out on bail

but the grandmother and the boy,
was seen in a local pub,
where she was drinking
and the child was playing pool.

The newspaper and the grandmother
were only doing their duty.

At the court while the boy’s mother
was waiting in the passage way
(as the court case was being held in camera)
a police detective asked her
why she was still living with the stepfather?

The police detective with a pistol on his belt,
was only doing his duty.

During the trial that proceeded for days upon days
under cross examination
from the defending attorney it came out
that the boy’s own father had molested him,
that the stepfather was totally innocent
and the stepfather’s mother (a pensioner)
had to pay more than sixteen thousand rand
in legal fees
and the court felt sorry for the poor boy

and the legal system was only doing its duty.

poem by Gert Strydom
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Related quotes

Baby Daddy

[Wyclef]
Right now if you raising some children that don't belong to you
But you know you're taking care of them
Please report on the dancefloor, let's go now
Do the stepfather dance (to the right)
Do the stepfather dance (to the left)
Do the stepfather dance
Baby mama don't hurt nobody, come on
[Wyclef]
I ain't that baby's daddy, I treat him like he's my own
But sometimes sit and wonder how can I father another man's son (oh)
When ? breaks in the pad
Shorty wanna scream 'I ain't his real dad' now
I may not be your father
But I'm the closest thing to him
[Wyclef]
Girl I love you
And ain't a thing that I wouldn't do for you
You my boo and we be sticking just like glue
But your kid's got me losing my mind
Wanna know if I want you
And if I do then you just gotta come to
Now the family be fighting through hard times
But I'm gon' treat them like they're mine
[Wyclef]
I ain't that baby's daddy, I treat him like he's my own
But sometimes sit and wonder how can I father another man's son (oh)
When ? breaks in the pad
Shorty wanna scream 'I ain't his real dad' now
I may not be your father
But I'm the closest thing to him
[Wyclef]
Fresh pair of Jordan's you had it
When you want a Playstation you had it (Vendetta)
First day of school you had it
Even when I didn't have it
Once upon a time, not long ago
Before the dreads, when I had the afro
When in school I used to pass the love notes
If you like me check yes if not check no
Flip the page now everything changed
The kid don't even have my last name
Sometime I feel like I'm paying child support
Someone please call people's court
[Wyclef]
I ain't that baby's daddy, I treat him like he's my own
But sometimes sit and wonder how can I father another man's son (oh)
When ? breaks in the pad
Shorty wanna scream 'I ain't his real dad' now
I may not be your father
But I'm the closest thing to him
[Wyclef (Redman)]
No, (come on) I can't seem to take this pressure no more (come on)
And ? told me young man that life's too short
So leave ya kids at home, meet me on the dancefloor
[Redman]
Yo Wyclef you a wild boy, check it out
[Wyclef (Redman)]
Do the stepfather dance, to the right
Do the stepfather dance, to the left
Do the stepfather dance (yeah)
Jersey's in the house
[Redman (Wyclef)]
We go, Redman, ganjah the smoke
Listen to the sounds of my nigga funk doc, oh
Wyclef, you know you rule hip-hop, oh
Yo let me handle my bidness (go ahead)
If you love your sons like I do, dress like you and
Air's on his feet, and shinin' his jewels
Brag when he get back to school
Saying my daddy bought me Vendetta 2 for Gamecube
You know kids that try to get fast
That's when I open up a can of whoop ass
Listen, I'm the boss, if you do what I say
Like Nas, the world is yours, let's go
[Wyclef]
I ain't that baby's daddy (Redman)
I treat him like he's my own (we in the house)
But sometimes sit and wonder how can I father another man's son (oh)
When ? breaks in the pad (aha)
Shorty wanna scream 'I ain't his real dad' now (aha)
I may not be your father (ey)
But I'm the closest thing to him (come on)
[Wyclef]
I ain't that baby's daddy (I ain't that baby's daddy)
I treat him like he's my own (like he's my own)
But sometimes sit and wonder how can I father another man's son (oh)
When ? breaks in the pad (breaks in the pad)
Shorty wanna scream 'I ain't his real dad' now (you ain't my dad)
I may not be your father (aha)
But I'm the closest thing to him (yeah)
[Wyclef]
Do the stepfather dance
Do the stepfather dance (eh)
Do the stepfather dance

song performed by by Wyclef Jean
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Baby Daddy

song performed by by Wyclef Jean
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The military police

One afternoon
just after returning from work
there was a knock on the front door

and three military policemen
with flat orange hats,
and orange arm flashes

demanded to come in
and wanted to search my place
as somebody had told them
that I was a friend of someone

for whom they had an arrest warrant
for not turning up to camp
and the simpletons thought
that I was hiding him.

Being in the citizens force,
I intensely disliked the military police
and knew that he was quite safe from them
and showed them the gate
which made them really angry,

but they were furious
when I told them that I knew
where to find him

and that they could go
to the local police station
where he was on duty.

poem by Gert Strydom
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The Wrong Question

this morning
you cry and with sobbing you report about
a child being mauled by the police
at the dead end
of Del Pilar street near the
municipal cemetery

the child was running away from
five policemen who kept on chasing him

and they caught him
and asked his age, his name, his father, his mother

and he said he is 19, Kiko, his father is Pepo, and his mother Karing
his father a fisherman and his mother a vendor
and he is from the far mountain
and just arrived to the city

and since he is frail and pale and looks like a sick child
he reaped the suspicion that he is a drug addict
and they mauled him almost to death
and he was hospitalized and charged

resisting arrest

Someone asks, not bothered at all by an imagination
of blood and broken bones and abuse of authority

'But why did he run away, in the first place? '

poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Half my father

Half my father
Half my mother
My mother white as a ghost
My father black as coal
In my face the mixture glows
My skin is white
Still I am a black man
By the make of my nose
My hair is curly
My eyes are gray
Within me both if them lives
My mother’s race
Did enslave
My father’s race
Was never paid.
Still within I bare the two
Am O the new American?
My father is white
My mother is Korean
They met during the war
And I was born
Their only son
By my tone of skin
And by my eyes
You can tell
That there is a divide
And by my blonde hair
It is there for you to spy
Am I the new American?
My mother is German
My father polish
I learned three languages
As I grew older
Both of them
Did love me well
And of each country did tell
That I could draw
From each well
Am I the new American?
My father is Chinese
My mother Spanish
Both crossed over the Rio Grand
I am in the make of my father
But I have my mother’s brown skin
Am I the new American?

poem by David E. Patton
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Daddy Please Don't Hurt Mommy

A little girl stood crying as the father beat the mother,
next to the girl stood her older sister, and older brother.
Alcohol was the demon that drove the beating hand,
the mother bruised, and sobbing cowards from the man.
Why does daddy do that thought the little girl?
Oh how I hate my father, he's the worst person in the world.
The mother now alone in the bedroom with a razor above her wrist.
'Please mommy don't do it, ' the youngest child did persist.
The father starves the mother, three days in a row,
the little girl hates her father, yet the father is too drunk to know.
Is alcohol the problem or does there exist more?
The little girl's answer comes from her sobbing mother lying hurt on the cold, hard floor.

poem by Velmar Pewee Hale Johnson
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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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Unseen

something's wrong with mother always cleaning the house
and father complains for she does nothing but sweep and scrub
and dust and wipe and rub,
the floors are shiny and father does not like it
he may slide and the children too
and each may hurt the body, but mother cannot be stopped
and we complain like what father does, but mother does not
really mind, for she has become so hardheaded because father
slaps her and we make her deaf with our grumblings

until then when mother died and father cried and we felt we had all our
lives wasted, but there was one in the family who smiled
someone who thought that mother simply did what she liked best
clean the dirt, mop the floors, get all the spider's cobwebs

someone sees the beauty of mother, she's doing her chores still
but now unseen

poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Missing Link

A sickly child lie
frail on the sofa in the living room.
A knock on the door,
His mother opened.
The man who entered the child knew it was his father.
Whose child is this?
“It is your youngest son” his mother said.
The children in the street
all had a father; the child had waited for him.
But his father ignored him,
gave chocolate to his sister and brother,
then he drank from a bottle,
his mother threw him out.
Next day asked his mother, ” are you sure he is my father? ”
She slapped her son’s face and cried.

poem by Oskar Hansen
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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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Baby Daddy (feat. Redman)

(feat. Redman)
[Wyclef]
Right now if you raising some children that don't belong to you
But you know you're taking care of them
Please report on the dancefloor, let's go now
Do the stepfather dance (to the right)
Do the stepfather dance (to the left)
Do the stepfather dance
Baby mama don't hurt nobody, come on
[Wyclef]
I ain't that baby's daddy, I treat him like he's my own
But sometimes sit and wonder how can I father another man's son (oh)
When ? breaks in the pad
Shorty wanna scream 'I ain't his real dad' now
I may not be your father
But I'm the closest thing to him
[Wyclef]
Girl I love you
And ain't a thing that I wouldn't do for you
You my boo and we be sticking just like glue
But your kid's got me losing my mind
Wanna know if I want you
And if I do then you just gotta come to
Now the family be fighting through hard times
But I'm gon' treat them like they're mine
[Wyclef]
I ain't that baby's daddy, I treat him like he's my own
But sometimes sit and wonder how can I father another man's son (oh)
When ? breaks in the pad
Shorty wanna scream 'I ain't his real dad' now
I may not be your father
But I'm the closest thing to him
[Wyclef]
Fresh pair of Jordan's you had it
When you want a Playstation you had it (Vendetta)
First day of school you had it
Even when I didn't have it
Once upon a time, not long ago
Before the dreads, when I had the afro
When in school I used to pass the love notes
If you like me check yes if not check no
Flip the page now everything changed
The kid don't even have my last n

song performed by by Wyclef Jean
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Thanks Father

You treated us all so differently
Yet all the same
Family dinners were strained
Fake smiles accross the table

Thank you for letting me see the real you
Thanks for allowing me to be the one that felt I had to do something
Thanks for leaving me as the one to pick up the pieces
Thanks its just what I needed

For christmas when you gave me a broken family and a dad on the run
I never got the chance to thank you
So accept this as my apology
Let me express my graditude

All I ever wanted was a broken childhood
And I got it
Complete with a crying mother and a father who was barely there
I really loved the time we spent together

You know when we used to have those father daughter moments
Like when my sister had to call the police to pry you off our screaming mother
That was better than any birthday gift

Finally, I just want to say thank you for always being around when I needed my mother to be beaten
When I wanted our lives to be shifted
Thanks for being there with a new reason we had to move

Thanks for leaving us all to fend for oursleves
Thanks for taking my educated lawyer of a mother into the slums with you
Bringing her back dirty and exposed to your world
Now she can never get out

Thank you daddy

poem by Ashley Stone
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The Mother

Every criminal has a Mother!
And this Mother goes to the *Supreme Court
And begs for his Son!
Then the Magistrate tells her;
'I am sorry Mother, your son has killed another son.'
Then Mom says; 'In Your honourable Court every criminal hangs? '
'That depends on the Witness.' The Judge said politely.
'O.K. Sir, You hang me and send my son home because he wants to be a Judge one day! '
You see, only a Mother can sing that sad song!

[*This special Supreme Court even the Magistrates could practice.]

* To Maxim Gorky for his superb novel 'Mother'.

Quoted from 'get on the bus' (Uniting children with their mothers and fathers in prison.) 'I noticed things about my mother: She was pretty and she looked like me.I found something in common with all the children on the bus.They have a Mother in prison too. -a little girl-

poem by Nimal Dunuhinga
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Random things about my Mother

My mother whose eyes were strained
By a sadness that stained her eyes
With grey and blue hue

My mother who never blew
Out candles on a birthday cake

My mother who never knew
The thrills of flying in an airplane

My mother who forever threw
Her pearls to swine

My mother who knew
No contentment in living

My who mother never lived
To be even seventy two

My mother who it is true
Stopped living long before she died

My mother from whose mouth flew
Words of disappointment and fury

My mother whose lips
Tasted bitter tears

My mother sat impatiently
In sorrow through her years

My mother who like Kunta Kinte
Was tamed by Diabets

My mother who was tamed
By my father

My mother who was captured by my father

My mother who fought with my father
The two them struggling false teeth piercing each others flesh

My mother who my father told to go and cook the mint

My mother who would beat us and cause wounds and bruises to our skin

My mother who love to walk about

My mother who gave a toe
A day away

My mother who kiked with her stump of a leg after she lost her foot

My mother who was a great dresser

My mother who could sing
Sang on the church choir

My mother who would be at the front of the church earliest every Saturday
My mother who insisted I be baptized and save by the holy ghost

My mother had beautiful handwriting
My mother who had nine children for five different men

My mother who tried to settle down with my father

My mother who could never swim

My mother who loved to sing

My mother who would tie us up on leashes and take us for long walks through the town

My mother who sought out hand me-downs – for our clothing

My mother who was active in the Welfare Society at church so she could cream the crop for her family

My mother who instigated many a conflicts with her numerous friend was left with only a few in the end.

My mother whom I so wanted to help evolve

My mother who I helped to live

My mother who I had to let die

My mother who lives in me

poem by Fleurette Elaine Harris
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She Sinful Or Wild

All or nothing at all
her father had said
and it seemed right

until she met Harpoon
and he seemed her
Mr Right the one she

had been waiting for
the one she'd dreamed
about but then it all

went wrong and he
became Mr Wrong
and oh yes that was

the downfall that was
the way to her deep
depression and that

episode in the bath
when she tried to
drown herself as her

mother had before her
and she discovered her
as a child coming home

from school and the
door was ajar and when
she went in there was

her mother with her
wrists slit and blood
and her mother drowned

and dead and now sitting
there in her mother's
chair her father some

place her husband poking
some other and all or
nothing at all seemed all

there was left apart from
the few books on the shelf
the Bill Burroughs her mother

had read and left and that
Bukowski book she'd found
in some second shop and the

battered Bible which her
father had beat her about
the head and backside with

as a child when her father
had been boozing or she
had been sinful or wild.

poem by Terry Collett
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Widows

My mother's playing cards with my aunt,
Spite and Malice, the family pastime, the game
my grandmother taught all her daughters.

Midsummer: too hot to go out.
Today, my aunt's ahead; she's getting the good cards.
My mother's dragging, having trouble with her concentration.
She can't get used to her own bed this summer.
She had no trouble last summer,
getting used to the floor. She learned to sleep there
to be near my father.
He was dying; he got a special bed.

My aunt doesn't give an inch, doesn't make
allowance for my mother's weariness.
It's how they were raised: you show respect by fighting.
To let up insults the opponent.

Each player has one pile to the left, five cards in the hand.
It's good to stay inside on days like this,
to stay where it's cool.
And this is better than other games, better than solitaire.

My grandmother thought ahead; she prepared her daughters.
They have cards; they have each other.
They don't need any more companionship.

All afternoon the game goes on but the sun doesn't move.
It just keeps beating down, turning the grass yellow.
That's how it must seem to my mother.
And then, suddenly, something is over.

My aunt's been at it longer; maybe that's why she's playing better.
Her cards evaporate: that's what you want, that's the object: in the end,
the one who has nothing wins.

poem by Louise Gluck
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No Martyrs in Nigeria

To my grandmother,
She is late
And waiting at Heaven's gate
When you get there mother
Tell this to my father
He was there before you mother
Let Him talk to my father for my sake
I mean the father's father
The Almighty father who
Brought us here
Let Him take us there
Me and my comrades
I mean the one's He made
The one's He shouldn't forsake
For sinners we are
But His love and mercy keeps us alive
I mean His son;
The one who died for us
On calvary
Tell Him to come to our aid again
Ask Him when is the second coming taking place
Tell Him we have waited too long
Tell Him to come tomorrow
Before the human race extinct of sorrow.
When He decides to come,
Tell Him to come to Nigeria first
Tell Him there are no more martyrs
In this country
The thousand and one Churches
Have been corrupted
Pastors now rule the billboards
Pastors now own empires of business
Pastors now own private jets
And cares not for the sufferings
Of the poor and needy
Christ had nothing
But he fed thousands
They had forgotten the scripture
Young girls and spinsters
Now go to Church half naked
Tell Him grandmother also
That this poem is not finished.

poem by Efe Benjamin
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My Parents

Oh my mother Oh my father
Oh my mother Oh my father
Where are you where are you wher are you?
Ilove you i love you

I looking for you
to talk about my heart
which still ill
untill i will see you

Oh my mother Oh my father
Oh my mother Oh my father
Where are you where are you wher are you?
I love you i love you

You are the third one
In my small heart
After ALLAH and
And my prophet MOHAMED

Oh my mother Oh my father
Oh my mother Oh my father
Where are you where are you wher are you?
I love you i love you

Oh ALLAH is ordering us
Not to make them angry
Never to tell them
the smallest word ouufff

Oh my mother Oh my father
Oh my mother Oh my father
Where are you where are you wher are you?
I love you i love you

Oh ALLAH loves who
Makes his parents happy
And forgives those
Who have a lot of mistakes

Oh my mother Oh my father
Oh my mother Oh my father
Where are you where are you wher are you?
Ilove you i love you

Oh ALLAH enter me
To the higher Firdaous
With my parents and
every single MUSLIM

Oh my mother Oh my father
Oh my mother Oh my father
Where are you where are you wher are you?
I love you i love you

poem by Abderaouf Laoud
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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For Fathers On Father's Day

Seeing as Father's Day is drawing near
Prepare good fathers for the high chairs
Where to receive some genuine cheers
For how much they've truly cared
And for the time that they've shared
Doing the duties of sensitive fathers
Not like those men who are careless
Living their lives tough and heartless
Standing together let's not be scared
Of saying what should've been declared
Truth is there are some who are called fathers
Although they aren't doing the duty of fathers
Even though by name they are known to be
So far their fatherly duty is still yet to be seen
Father, if yesterday you were going your own ways
But today you become a father change your ways
Prepare to start taking on the duty of a father
Be aware this could mean it's time to work harder
With the woman whose child you are the father
Given that God has been the very first father
He has exemplified us of how to take care
In every way that we should live and share
Similar to how He does it for all
Even as ‘He maketh His sun to rise
On the evil and on the good,
And sendeth the rain on the just
And on the unjust (Matt5: 45) '
I will say three cheers due
Unto all the caring fathers
Though I wish every father
Good, bad or unlikable
Happy Father's Day!

poem by Clarence Prince
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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It's All Relative: : Humour

My mother’s brother’s sister’s name is Grace
She’s my aunt and likes to go from place to place
My mother’s sister’s brother’s name is Brad
He’s my uncle and he is my cousin’s Dad

My grandmother on my mother’s side
Is my maternal gran, she is my grandfather’s bride
She also is my father’s mother-in-law
And not surprisingly they often go to war

My cousin is the nephew of my mother
His father happens to be my mother’s brother
My aunty’s niece is in fact myself
If you're confused please don't look at me for help

(Sydney, Australia - 2005)

poem by Alessandra Liverani
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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En.Citatepedia®.ro

They were only doing their duty (Two ballades with a prologue)

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