1977
The family around the table and a silence
so compact no words can break it.
Not even a pigeon swirling through the window
can nudge mother's poorly taped grin.
Her face has the euphoric glow of a mathematician
whispering a formula into the whorl of a rose.
Her eyes are tiny stones testing the black
silk bags she lugs them in.
Since father banned television the sons stare
at the marriage dangling from the ceiling.
Each month it sinks another couple inches
until it's in their food.
No wonder they don't eat.
poem by Jeffrey McDaniel
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The Other
I sit at this tiny table
and wait
as I have before
for you to make
excuses to get
away;
to steal the tiny time
you have with me.
I know I should go,
break away
and leave
but I don't.
I sip my coffee
swirling in the cup
mixing my milk
and your strong brew.
Perhaps one day
there will be a me and you
but today-right now
there is only me.
I feel you at my side
suddenly
your face
comes over me
and once again
there is the peace
you offer
each time we meet.
That is the drug
which overpowers
each time
I
the other woman;
and we
reach across
the tiny table
re-joined
in tiny time
the tiny space
we allow ourselves
to enjoy
rarely,
this other me
that other you.
poem by Lonnie Hicks
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Early Morning Poetry
a gray cat so gentle
sleeping beside my easy chair
soft wind enters the window
from the far mountain
the white silky curtains
by the window
sway to the direction of the wind
a red rose blooms on the side
of the limestone wall
horse grazing on the grassy plain
a white dog runs toward a wooden gate
a car stops on the yard near the veranda of this old house
a brother from far announces his arrival
hot coffee and pancakes on the table
fumes of white rice and smoke from the grilled fish
faint classical Mozart music plays on the cassette
light from the sun penetrating the screen of the dining window
a black and white family picture on top of the family piano
grandpa on his military uniform as mother carries father on her arms
memories flood the room and words keep creeping like worms
i want to say that there are no termites on this house but that would be a lie.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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The Idea of Ancestry
Taped to the wall of my cell are 47 pictures: 47 black
faces: my father, mother, grandmothers (1 dead), grand-
fathers (both dead), brothers, sisters, uncles, aunts,
cousins (1st and 2nd), nieces, and nephews.They stare
across the space at me sprawling on my bunk.I know
their dark eyes, they know mine.I know their style,
they know mine.I am all of them, they are all of me;
they are farmers, I am a thief, I am me, they are thee.
I have at one time or another been in love with my mother,
1 grandmother, 2 sisters, 2 aunts (1 went to the asylum),
and 5 cousins.I am now in love with a 7-yr-old niece
(she sends me letters in large block print, and
her picture is the only one that smiles at me).
I have the same name as 1 grandfather, 3 cousins, 3 nephews,
and 1 uncle. The uncle disappeared when he was 15, just took
off and caught a freight (they say).He's discussed each year
when the family has a reunion, he causes uneasiness in
the clan, he is an empty space.My father's mother, who is 93
and who keeps the Family Bible with everbody's birth dates
(and death dates) in it, always mentions him.There is no
place in her Bible for "whereabouts unknown."
poem by Etheridge Knight
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Cinderella
Her imaginary playmate was a grown-up
In sea-coal satin. The flame-blue glances,
The wings gauzy as the membrane that the ashes
Draw over an old ember --as the mother
In a jug of cider-- were a comfort to her.
They sat by the fire and told each other stories.
"What men want..." said the godmother softly--
How she went on it is hard for a man to say.
Their eyes, on their Father, were monumental marble.
Then they smiled like two old women, bussed each other,
Said, "Gossip, gossip"; and, lapped in each other's looks,
Mirror for Mirror, drank a cup of tea.
Of cambric tea. But there is a reality
Under the good silk of the good sisters'
Good ball gowns. She knew... Hard-breasted, naked-eyed,
She pushed her silk feet into glass, and rose within
A gown of imaginary gauze. The shy prince drank
A toast to her in champagne from her slipper
And breathed, "Bewitching!" Breathed, "I am bewitched!"
--She said to her godmother, "Men!"
And, later, looking down to see her flesh
Look back up from under lace, the ashy gauze
And pulsing marble of a bridal veil,
She wished it all a widow's coal-black weeds.
A sullen wife and a reluctant mother,
She sat all day in silence by the fire.
Better, later, to stare past her sons' sons,
Her daughters' daughter, and tell stories to the fire.
But best, dead, damned, to rock forever
Beside Hell's fireside-- to see within the flames
The Heaven to whosee gold-gauzed door there comes
A little dark old woman, the God's Mother,
And cries, "Come in, come in! My son's out now,
Out now, will be back soon, may be back never,
Who knows, eh? We know what they are--men, men!
But come, come in till then! Come in till then!
poem by Randall Jarrell
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I Don't Wish To Impose
I don't wish to impose
But can I join your family?
You see mine fell apart when my father died
I don't think anyone has noticed
But I have
We didn't meet at Christmas
Was I the only one distressed?
My mother with her new partner
No blame
She doesn't do on her own
But no family gathering?
You, my father's younger brother
I watch you laughing with your daughters
No jealousy
Just a longing for the way things were
Impossible I know
Maybe I could just share you.
You ring, you text, you e-mail
And I am so grateful for the crumbs from your table
The table where my father once sat
He would have loved that we keep in touch.
I look at you closely, looking for my father in your face
I cannot find him there
But you are his brother
The closest I can get
So I comfort myself with our friendship
Your sense of humour
Your memories, your family
Longing for the way things were
Before my family fell apart.
poem by Judith Evans
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A Father Image 11
Every time I ponder in solitude
re-evaluates my innermost attitude
no reason I can give to rationalize
every bit of me is sort personalize
surely a replica of my father dear
the genes all his and image I bear
of his physical attributes so clear
Care and love that my father shares
abound in me also through which I dare
bring joy to family of which father is good
really diligent he provides us staple food
every meal at the table he buys our family
rare the time when we have nothing to eat
all that my father do is work hard to get it
Best times I like to spend with my family
resting together at home and watching TV
and though my father is now old yet I try
to contact him every weekends to ask
on a date with mother becomes a task
poem by Marvin Brato Sr
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Water Tender
The river
has not entered the house yet.
I pack framed photographs:
weddings, babies,
dead uncles, and grandparents,
set aside ceramic eggs,
balanced on wooden stands,
to reach the wedding cake couple,
equidistant between two photographs.
My mother,
in her borrowed wedding dress,
holding a bouquet of artificial flowers,
whiter than Aunt Rose Mary's silk skirt.
My father,
in his Navy uniform, bearing
the insignia of a Water Tender,
his cap worn tilted to the right.
Standing midpoint,
the wedding cake couple
represents their union.
Flesh colored paint overlaps
the neckline of the bride,
executed too quickly.
The groom's black top-hat
is worn, a wedding ring shape
encircles the edge of the crown.
My mother is dead,
my father has remarried. He's left
behind the photographs, the eggs,
the wedding cake couple.
The river enters an open door.
I salvage what I can.
poem by Mary Agnes Dalrymple
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Ode To A Strict Lifestyle Of The Past
'twas the cruel time
with grandpa when dropping a grain
of rice on the table cloth is such a big crime
when you like to eat but you cannot swallow
the food
when you like to drink but the water tasted
as bitter as bile
when the conversations on the dining table
are shallow as affection is strange
as nothing becomes more important
than a future
not be be bound in the house anymore
when papa did not do anything
when mama simply sobbed
and stayed silence
and surrendered everything to God
all we waited is the blackness of the night
black because death is indifferent
because time is not a rescuer
of those who sank into
the bottom
of despair
i recall all these cruel times now
upon a grain of white rice
upon a coffee deprived of milk and sugar
upon a bread without the butter
upon a naked table
scratched with a knife
stained with tears
i look over the window
and stare at the black butterfly merely passing by
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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Song For Dad
Lately Ive been noticing
I say the same things he used to say
And I even find myself acting the very same way
I tap my fingers on the table
To the rhythm in my soul
And I jingle the car keys
When Im ready to go
When I look in the mirror
Hes right there in my eyes
Starin back at me and I realize
The older I get
The more I can see
How much he loved my mother and my brother and me
And he did the best that he could
And I only hope when I have my own family
That everyday I see
A little more of my father in me
There were times I thought he was bein
Just a little bit hard on me
But now I understand he was makin me
Become the man he knew that I could be
In everything he ever did
He always did with love
And Im proud today to say Im his son
When somebody says I hope I get to meet your dad
I just smile and say you already have
The older I get
The more I can see
How much he loved my mother and my brother and me
And he did the best that he could
And I only hope when I have my own family
That everyday I see
A little more of my father in me
Hes in my eyes
My heart, my soul
My hands, my pride
And when I feel alone
And I think I cant go on
I hear him sayin son youll be alright
Everythings gonna be alright
Yes it is
The older I get
The more I can see
That he loved my mother and my brother and me
And he did the best that he could
And I only hope when I have my own family
That everyday I see
Oh I hope I see
I hope everyday I see
A little more of my father in me
A little more of my father in me
I hope everyday I see in me
In me
In me
I hope everyday I see
A little more of my father in me
song performed by by Keith Urban
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Elegy For Jane
(My student, thrown by a horse)
I remember the neckcurls, limp and damp as tendrils;
And her quick look, a sidelong pickerel smile;
And how, once started into talk, the light syllables leaped for her.
And she balanced in the delight of her thought,
A wren, happy, tail into the wind,
Her song trembling the twigs and small branches.
The shade sang with her;
The leaves, their whispers turned to kissing,
And the mould sang in the bleached valleys under the rose.
Oh, when she was sad, she cast herself down into such a pure depth,
Even a father could not find her:
Scraping her cheek against straw,
Stirring the clearest water.
My sparrow, you are not here,
Waiting like a fern, making a spiney shadow.
The sides of wet stones cannot console me,
Nor the moss, wound with the last light.
If only I could nudge you from this sleep,
My maimed darling, my skittery pigeon.
Over this damp grave I speak the words of my love:
I, with no rights in this matter,
Neither father nor lover.
poem by Theodore Roethke
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From My Window To The Road Below
a brown boy
beside his pregnant mother
hand gripping
a bus stops
it is going to the mountain
loaded with
boxes and bags
and a crowd of
people
the boy sees his father
carrying
a net bag of fish
he gets away from
mother and
runs across the road
where father
is waiting
an over speeding
motorcycle is
coming
screeching sound
and screams
and then
silence, i, close my eyes
and walk away
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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(Meera) The Marriage Talk
Meera reached the proper age,
That proposed her marriage.
Her mother was worried,
It was time, she be married.
But Meera was unconcerned,
Since she herself had married
Krishna, her dream husband.
So, she wasn’t at all worried.
They sent messengers
To other Rajput kings
With their royal message,
Proposing Meera’s marriage.
None came forward
To take her hand,
But the King of Mewar
Was willing to marry her.
Kumbha Rana was his name.
To marry her, he came.
Meera was quite upset,
And first didn’t accept.
“I can’t break our tradition
By accepting another one,
Already when I’m married
To Krishna, my husband.”
Her mother cried and said,
“My life I would have laid
With your father in the pyre,
You know, why I’m here.”
“Because of you I’m alive.
If today your father is alive,
He would’ve had it done
To our utmost satisfaction.”
“What’s not possible now,
After it you run how?
Of what’s possible,
Why can’t you now avail? ”
”Our Rajput tradition says
A grown up girl, who marries
Should serve her husband,
And die with her husband.”
Meera gave deaf ears.
She cried and shed tears.
They came to the conclusion
That Meera had gone sick then.
Doctors came to check
But they went back
Without giving any treatment,
Not knowing her ailment.
Meera’s eyes became red
As she cried and cried.
Her mother was upset
O’er her pitiable sight.
Till the last moment
Poor Meera did expect
Krishna would save her
But He disappointed her.
Here and there people walked.
About the marriage they talked.
Kumbha Rana arrived in the scene.
It was her marriage day one.
As a bride, Meera was decorated.
In Rajput style, she was dressed.
But Meera was in tears.
Her face showed fears.
Her mother said, “Meera, listen
It’s our prestige, not a fun,
Our two kingdoms, it’ll strengthen.
Rajput clan will glow and shine.”
“A mother is the first Goddess.
Next only your Krishna comes.
I’m your mother saying this.
Be bold, happy and wise.”
Meera replied, “Yes, mother
Now I obey your order
As your way is Krishna’s way.
Your word is His word this day.”
She spoke no more words.
She stepped on the dais
To hold the second hand
And accept her new husband.
poem by Rajaram Ramachandran
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Sons And Daughters
There's a place in the city they call the Archway
Where we rented three rooms for a dollar a day
and I worked semi-skilled at the capstans for years
And my wife was a good woman but the love disappeared
Sons and Daughters, Daughters and Sons
When a marriage goes down they're the loneliest ones
Sons and Daughters, Daughters and Sons
How I hope they can cope with the damage I've done
I found me a band, I went out on tour
So the kids wouldn't know I was with them no more
When they said, "Where's me dad?" She'd say, "He's a star!"
Oh if only stars knew what fools they all are.
Sons and Daughters, Daughters and Sons
When a marriage goes down they're the loneliest ones
Sons and Daughters, Daughters and Sons
How I hope they can cope with the damage I've done
I got a new contract, I got a new life
No more capstans for me and I've got a new wife
Sometimes she gets angry, says she wants a family
Then that nightmare returns like a ghost haunting me
Sons and Daughters, Daughters and Sons
When a marriage breaks up you're the loneliest ones
Sons and Daughters, Daughters and Sons
How I hope you all cope with the damage we done
song performed by by Ian Hunter
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Family Man
Written by lindsey buckingham and richard dashut.
Walk down this road
When the road gets rough
I fall down
I get up
I am what I am...
A family man
I am what I am...
A family man
Mother... father... brother...
Mother... father... brother...
Walk down this road
In the cool of the night
Dont know whats wrong
But I do know whats right
I am what I am...
A family man
I am what I am...
A family man
Mother... father... brother...
Mother... father... brother...
I am what I am...
A family man
I am what I am...
A family man
Mother... father... brother...
Mother... father... brother...
song performed by by Fleetwood Mac
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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They Call This America, Dont They?
the cum stained prayers
written on tenement walls,
where brown eyed girls, head held high...
wear poverty's drench,
backs strong and straight,
amid the pale cries of babies birthing.
roaches scatter, bare feet skim the floors,
empty cupboards whispering moan.
food stamp dreams, two days away,
they call this America, dont they?
the trailer wrecked, paper thin walls,
duct taped tile by molded tubs.
the broke down truck, the mailbox spills,
unemployed and out of time.
box fans on stolen power,
dirt faced children, starving dogs.
an American flag, a worn out Bible...
they call this America, dont they?
the old couple melting, tiny apartment,
before a black and white tv.
half filled pills, empty Alpo cans,
yellow tinged pictures on the table.
a phone that didnt ring,
before it couldnt ring...
the sound of bones grinding to dust!
dont make much noise,
who gives a damn?
they call this America, dont they?
poem by Eric Cockrell
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Silence
Silence in the language
Is the absence of speech
Silence in the conversation
Can be so remarkable and rich.
Silence is an atmosphere you make
And it's the situation you break.
Sometimes it tells you more
Than thousand words told before.
Silence is a feeling
Which is very intensive
Poorly created
It can be very offensive.
Silence can be so different
It has a lot of meanings
It's an expression of yourself
It shows your feelings.
There is a silence
That brings you peace
And you feel yourself
Being at your ease.
There is a silence of mystery
Like being in a dark wood.
There is a silence of happiness
When you are loved and understood.
There is a silence that frightens
There is a silence of anniversary dates
This silence reminds you
Of those lost fates.
There is a silence in music
When you listen to it and dream
But...suddenly...it stops.
Then...the sounds come to their extreme.
The prayer in silence
Is your inner world
When you dream in silence
You are just not heard.
Silence is golden
Or so I've heard
But it sometimes hurts more
Than a single told word.
Silence is golden
Or so goes a lie.
This silence of fraud
Do not need a reply.
Silence when you are in love
You do not need words.
Silence when you are fooled
You don't know what to say afterwards.
But...the best moment of silence
When you take my hand
I know you do not pretend
You just look at my eyes and I realize:
It's love, it's happiness.
Larisa R (Odessa, Ukraine)
poem by Larisa Rzhepishevska
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Suicide Moon
Golden curls rest on her pillow
Tom Toad gets a kiss on the nose
Mother’s curls are kept away
With satin bows that glow
Mother sings her a bedtime song
A sweet and soothing tune
With crescent eyes she gazes up
She sees the suicide moon
Suicide moon is violet velvet
His skin, a shriveled prune
Her skin begins to mirror his
She feels the suicide moon
Mother starts towards the door
Leaves a whiff of her perfume
She screams for Mother’s comfort
But silence floods the room
Suicide moon adores her
Suicide moon does grin
He taps upon her window
But she’ll never let him in
poem by Carolyn Michael
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The Happy Family
playing the role of the happy family,
acting carefully like a perfect family,
putting a lie,
in everyone's eye,
making promises that can't be broken,
putting smiles that can't be taken,
feeling bad and not happy,
but being good at acting happy.
playing the role of the happy family,
father, mother, sister and brother,
but none of them bothers,
everyone is all alone.
talking in a different phone,
talking with a different language,
eating at the same table everyday,
acting happy by every way,
playing the role of the happy family
but there is always the quite,
for every single day and night.
wearing a faked smile,
letting between each one of them, a mile
watching together the television,
but each one is seeing it from his vision,
trying to love and care,
but they can't even share,
each one is in adifferent place.
wearing a big mask on his or her face
a mask of a big smile like a clown,
as all of them are living in a different town,
but still playing the role of the happy family,
still acting like a happy family
still wanting to make us believe that they are a family.
poem by Sarah Abu Zeid
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Salad is Incompatible with Life
Yes, my waist is fifty inches -
Big for me because I'm short.
And yes, I like my cheddar cheese
When partnered with a vintage port.
Okay, okay, that double cream
Is always served with pud,
And cake and biscuits with my tea
Are just no bloody good
For my poor hardened arteries,
But see my point of view,
Please dear wifey if you please,
A Salad makes me spew!
I'd rather eat a bowl of air
Than crunch away on greens;
Drink water from the toilet bowl
Or nibble on my jeans!
But salad! Are you there?
You know it makes me snappy -
So let me fill my face with grub,
Stay fat, and die young happy!
Copyright Mark R Slaughter 2009
food food food food food food food food food
food food food food food food food food food
food food food food food food food food food
food food food food food food food food food
poem by Mark R Slaughter
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