En.Citatepedia^®.ro

Twin Towers

When I was but a tiny child
Back when the world was new
My parents like twin towers stood
And everything was true

My father died at Eighty one
Peacefully asleep
My mother lived ten years alone
In the house up from main Street

The Century turned over then
In the new millennium
When Mother in the nursing home
reached her journey’s end.

Your first impulse must be to cry
When towers fall, when people die
If Brick and stone- you build anew
If of flesh- the monument is you.

poem by John F. McCullagh
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A Bad Day In September

People woke up on a September day
Not knowing what price they would pay
The Twin Towers stood so tall
Who ever knew they would fall
Reaching high, up to the sky
People lived and people died
There was smoke, people screaming
What the heck, was I dreaming?
Planes hit the towers
In the early morning dawn
Everyone knew something was wrong
Chaos, confusion, aghast, looks of fright
Running screaming terror in sight
Where were you on the day?
Where you there?
Did you stop and stare?
Stare in shock?
Stare and scream?
People were fighting to get free
Families calling on the phone
Hoping to hear “I’ll be home”
Instead they heard
“I love you and goodbye”
Give my kids a kiss
And tell them they will be missed
Once twin towers
Now ground zero
We’d like to say
“Your our hero”
To all the hero’s
How brave you are
Risking your life
For one for all
We want to say
Thank you god bless!
You’re the best
People woke up on that September day
Not knowing what price they would pay
Our lives are forever changed
But are faith and freedom
Will stay the same

poem by Emmy Huffman
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Lost and Found

In a southern city lived a wealthy family;
In a southern city was the happy home
Of a father and mother and a little daughter.
In peace and contentment they lived alone.

But one summer evening there happened a misfortune,
Which caused the parents to weep and mourn,
For this little daughter, a loving little treasure,
Was a poor little wanderer far, far from home.

It happened thus, -- the mother went out calling
On a widow friend, who lived all alone;
She left her little daughter in the care of her father,
And through his neglect she wandered from home.

The father rocked his child, till her eyes closed in slumber;
Thought he to himself, I'll go over across the way,
And see a neighbor friend; he'll be there this evening,
And I must see him before he goes away.

He left his little one, he supposed, sweetly sleeping
In her little cradle, in the house alone,
And in his great hurry he left the gate ajar;
This thoughtlessness caused destruction to his home.

Soon after he was gone she awoke from her slumber,
Poor child, she then found herself all alone,
For no one was there, no one heard her weeping
As she wandered away far, far from home.

She wandered along on the busy thoroughbare,
No one seemed to notice this little one alone;
She wandered down Broadway till the little feet were tired,
This poor little wanderer far away from home.

At last, getting weary, she sat down on the pavement,
And soon fell asleep, so tired had she grown;
In her troubled sleep she would softly murmur, papa;
This poor little lost one so far away from home.

A policeman came along and saw her sweetly sleeping,
On the pavement at midnight alone.
He gently picked her up and took her to the station,
This poor little wanderer far away from home.

He advertised, but could not find her parents;
At last he took her to the orphan home,
Where she lived till a farmer in the country
Took her to live with him, this wanderer alone.

The father died o'er the loss of his daughter,
The mother sought for her three years alone;
At last she found her with kind people in the country,
Her poor little wanderer far away from home.

Kind people can imagine the joy of the mother,
When she found her little loving one.
"Oh God," exclaimed the mother, "I have found my little Alice,
My poor little wanderer far away from home.

poem by Julia A Moore
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Mother In Law

(a. toussaint)
Mother in law, mother in law
Mother in law, mother in law
The worst person I know
Mother in law, mother in law
She worries me so
Mother in law, mother in law
If she leaves us alone
We could have a happy home
Sent from down below
Mother in law, mother in law
Mother in law, mother in law
Satan should be her name
Mother in law, mother in law
To me theyre about the same
Mother in law, mother in law
Everytime I open my mouth
Steps in trying to put me out
How could you stood so low
Mother in law, mother in law
Mother in law, mother in law
Come home with my pay
Mother in law, mother in law
She asks me what I made
Mother in law, mother in law
She thinks her advice is a contribution
If she would leave that would be the solution
Dont come back no more
Mother in law, mother in law
Mother in law, mother in law....

song performed by by Huey Lewis And The News
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Nursing Home Blue

Nursing Home Blues

I sent mother to a nursing home, she didn´t want
to go but I ignored her wishes, we often do that
when concerning old people, we say it is for their
own good, but the truth is I didn´t know what
else to do. Mother became quite rebellious they
called me from the home she was throwing food
about and demanded, when she evacuated, that
an assistant come and dry her bum.

Wanted to go home, there was no home she had
lived in a rented flat and someone else lived there.
When she knew she she felt betrayed, her silence
was damning. She stopped eating, gaunt, a skeleton
before death came as a relief. Now that I´m old too
families telling me I should not ride on my scooter
in case I might fall off…like should I care.

poem by Oskar Hansen
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William Upson

Air -- "The Major's Only Son"

Come all good people, far and near,
Oh, come and see what you can hear,
It's of a young man, true and brave,
Who is now sleeping in his grave.

Now, William Upson was his name --
If it's not that it's all the same --
He did enlist in the cruel strife,
And it caused him to lose his life.

He was Jesse Upson's eldest son,
His father loved his noble son;
This son was nineteen years of age,
In the rebellion he engaged.

His father said that he might go,
But his dear mother she said no.
"Stay at home, dear Billy," she said,
But oh, she could not turn his head.

For go he would, and go he did --
He would not do as his mother bid,
For he went away down South, there
Where he could not have his mother's care.

He went to Nashville, Tennessee,
There his kind friends he could not see;
He died among strangers, far away,
They knew not where his body lay.

He was taken sick and lived four weeks,
And oh, how his parents weep,
But now they must in sorrow mourn,
Billy has gone to his heaven home.

If his mother could have seen her son,
For she loved him, her darling one,
If she could heard his dying prayer,
It would ease her heart till she met him there.

It would relieved his mother's heart,
To have seen her son from this world depart,
And hear his noble words of love,
As he left this world for that above.

It will relieve his mother's heart,
That her son is laid in our grave yard;
Now she knows that his grave is near,
She will not shed so many tears.

She knows not that it was her son,
His coffin could not be opened --
It might be some one in his place,
For she could not see his noble face.

He enrolled in eighteen sixty-three,
The next day after Christmas eve;
He died in eighteen sixty-four,
Twenty-third of March, as I was told.

poem by Julia A Moore
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Mothers Are Wonderful

mother you so wonderful
you fade me in your stomach for 9manth
you nursed me well until now i love you mother
mother you wonderful in nursing you are like nurse
when i cried to you one night you loved me so much
you endured sleepless night when was sick
you showed me you care so much
there nothing am going to give you mother
because i can't pay until you are satisfied
but i will try so much in presence to help you
in each task you want, mother i love so much
when my father chased you out his home, you went with me
when my father died you took so much care to me
mother you deserve blessing from GOD

poem by Ahmed Kakembo
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A Mother

A mother shows the child the world
A mother is its world when small
A mother shows the child what's love
A mother loves her child like a doll!

A mother makes the home and bed
A mother cares for all at home
A mother trains the child to walk
And stand on own, perfectly talk.

A mother is the teacher prime
A mother moulds the character
A mother shows the child to pray
And trust the unseen God all life.

A mother is the child's best friend
A mother knows its needs and wants
A mother cares for child when sick
And feels so proud, when child achieves.

Children, thank God for a good mother
On ‘Mother's day! '
Copyright by Dr John Celes 13-05-12

poem by John Celes
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The Awful God

Richard Bryce was a mystery,
He lived on a back street lot,
The house was the old half-timbered sort,
Paint peeled on the old wainscot,
The blinds were drawn through the day and night
And the garden a neighbourhood moan,
Full of the bodies of rusting cars
And creepers, all overgrown.

We rarely saw him out in the street
But he'd peep from the side of blinds,
And stories were told in the neighbourhood
That were often more harsh than kind,
There'd been a wife and a daughter once
But they hadn't been seen in years,
Since the echoing raft of arguments,
Doors slammed, and a flood of tears.

Old Grandpa Bryce had lived in the house
Since thirty odd years before,
He'd worked in the woollen fulling mill
‘Til it closed, just after the War,
His son had drowned in the old mill stream,
Was caught in the paddle wheel,
And Grandpa Bryce was left with the child,
To raise, and be brought to heel.

For Grandpa Bryce was a steely man
Who lived his life by the book,
More like a Prophet, this Abraham
Believed, whatever it took,
That ‘spare the rod and spoil the child'
Would be how that his Grandson learned,
As he laid the rod across Richard's back
‘Til the flesh turned red, and burned.

There was never a ministering angel there
To offer the boy relief,
Only the hard-edged wooden pew
In the church, on a Sunday eve,
And Abraham led the final prayer
In a voice that would damn and blight,
‘Beware you sinners, the Awful God
Will come unseen in the night! '

Richard's mother had died in pain
In the blood of the afterbirth,
She never returned to her home again
But was placed, six foot in the earth,
He never knew of a mother's love,
But only a Grandpa's pain,
And Bryce had ruled the daughter and wife
‘Til they fled one night, in the rain.

The house was suddenly silent then
Just two of them, left alone,
Grandpa suddenly old and frail,
He never went out on his own,
And Richard boarded the windows up
So you couldn't see in from the street,
It looked like an old abandoned place
‘Til the police called round, last week.

We all stood out in the street and watched
As Richard came out of the house,
His hands were cuffed and his hair stood up
And he looked quite down in the mouth,
There must have been twenty cops in there,
All milling around the place,
And one threw up in a paper cup
As we strained to look at his face.

It all came out in a day or two
Just what they had found in there,
The place was sparse, but a giant cross
Stood gaunt in the putrid air,
The skeleton of old Grandpa Bryce
Had been crucified, up tight,
And nailed to his skull: ‘The Awful God
Will come unseen in the night! '

16 September 2012

poem by David Lewis Paget
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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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At only 9 years old

At only 9 years old

At age you see your father as a hero
Reads you bedtimes stories and sings lullaby even in your dreams
Your night and shinning amour of a fortress in which you sleep
A friend when you have your mind to speak
But at nine years old, you learn life is cold
He is your pimp so as to feed his alcoholic need
When you are born your soul is of renaissance
But how abusive he is, it took no rocket science
A mother who was suppose to have a heart of paradise
And yet she stood aside as you where raped and vandalized
At only nine years old you tiny flesh ripped apart and sold
Filled with dirt and dressed with mold

By your own father you learnt how to hate a man
By your own mother you never really had a friend
As day in day out elderly man had a feast upon you breasts
With tears in your eyes you felt his thrust and heavy bosoms upon you chest
Only for a couple of rands, like rent to be met for his appetite
At only nine years you saw your hole life deteriorate
The school you learnt was that of life
Education syllabus was how to survive
They sat in the living like nothing had happened
And when one was done another would approach like a pattern in segment
Did they not father their own children?
Or was the greed of lust more devilish then satan

That these molesters and rappers confined to without remorse
And a mother and father who perceived you as their biggest resource
At age nine the real reason you lived was because you where afraid to die
But the real you was dead keeping you alive
I cry the tears you cry even if I not know you
Having your own father rape you because your mother allows him to
She says that’s the way of learning life
Maybe in her death she will realize you are just a child
Locked in your room butler windows for now escape
And yet everyday you prayed and still had faith
At age nine you never had a doll to play
Reality had forced you to a sex slave
How can a father upon his own child prey?
How can a father upon his own child prey?
How can a father upon his own child prey?

poem by Kgagamatso Chimelwane
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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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Mothers’ Day ‘08

North or south; east or west;
A mother’s love is always best!
Throughout its childhood, cleaned and dressed,
A mother gives baby, good rest.

A mother is the love-pillar;
A father is the source of strength;
A child is like caterpillar,
Metamorphosing in its length!

A mother keeps the home happy;
A mother cleans the babe’s nappy;
A mother tends to dear daddy;
A mom-less home cannot be sweet!

The angel in the house is mom!
The toiler of the home is mom;
The cleaner in the house is mom;
She knows all problems but keeps mum!

The chief-cook in the house is mom;
The teacher in the house is mom;
The care-taker is also mom;
She knowingly is sometimes dumb!

A spoilt-kid’s mom had spared the rod;
As children’s friend, mother looks odd;
For most things, mothers give the nod;
A mother is a demi-god!

Copyright by Dr John Celes 5-11-2008

poem by John Celes
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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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Broken Home

she came from a broken home
where the parents at each other
would throw stones.

every day they would argue, bicker
and fight, all the way til the night.
not realizing their childs plight.

the child to them in turn would scream
but in the battle she was not seen.
from her father she had sexual abuse
fighting with him, was of no use.

he forced himself upon her at a very young age
from there on, her life would never be the same.

living in fear of what he would do
and who she could turn to.
where could she go
the judicial system moves very slow.

when she had told her mother.
her mother said it could never be
why would he go with you
when he has me?

she knew then, that she would have to leave
and with her being gone, no one would grieve.
she would pack her bags, with everything
she owned, and on the road she would go.

with tears in her eyes, she walked out
the door, to return never more.
and as she got to the swinging gate
her mother screamed to her
but it was too late.

on her dresser bureau, her mother found this note.

you gave birth to me, and brought me
into this world, and you had always said
that i was your little girl.

but when i told you what had happened to me
you laughed and turned your back on me.
so now i am leaving, because i can not
continue this abuse,
don't look for me, it will be of no use.

i love you mom, for you are my mother
just watch out for my little brother.
i am a child from a broken home
and i know that i'm not alone.

poem by Louis Rams
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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
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From the moment of birth, when the stone-age baby confronts the twentieth-century mother, the baby is subjected to these forces of violence, called love, as its mother and father have been, and their parents and their parents before them. These forces are mainly concerned with destroying most of its potentialities. This enterprise is on the whole successful.

quote by R.D. Laing
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Dilema Of Going Home

Two decades now
Have I lived in America
And my mother
Calling from far away Africa,
Also my little sister
She propably was told of America
They all weap in my
dreams these days,
They want me back in Africa
To build the threshold of my father
That is far gone in decadence.
.
Home, I am coming home
To see my mothers face again
And my little sister Franscisca
She must be a woman by now.
But tell me brothers;
How could I ever go back to Africa
When I yet do not have wings for flight?
.
What would I say to the hungry
eyes of my mother, my sister?
What would I say to friends I left
behind my Africa ten years ago?
What would I say when they asked:
What have you brought for old
buddies you left behind ten years ago.
.
Ten years is long enough time
to be away from home,
And yet have nothing to show
for the labours.

poem by Efe Benjamin
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Edward, Edward

'Why does your sword so drip with blood,
Edward, Edward?
Why does your sword so drip with blood?
And why so sad are ye, O?'
'O, I have killed my hawk so good,
Mother, mother:
O I have killed my hawk so good:
And I had no more but he, O.'

'Your hawk's blood was never so red,
Edward, Edward:
Your hawk’s blood was never so red,
My dear son I tell thee, O.'
'O, I have killed my red-roan steed,
Mother, mother:
O, I have killed my red-roan steed,
That once was so fair and free, O.'

'Your steed was old, and we have got more,
Edward, Edward:
Your steed was old, and we have got more,
Some other evil ye fear, O.'
'O, I have killed my father dear,
Mother, mother:
O, I have killed my father dear,
Alas! and woe is me, O!'

'And what penance will ye suffer for that,
Edward, Edward?
And what penance will ye suffer for that?
My dear son, now tell me, O.'
'I'll set my feet in yonder boat,
Mother, mother:
I’ll set my feet in yonder boat,
And I’ll fare over the sea, O.'

'And what will ye do with your towers and your halls,
Edward, Edward?
And what will ye do with your towers and your halls,
That were sae fair to see, O?'
'I’ll let them stand till they down fall,
Mother, mother:
I’ll let them stand till they down fall,
For here never more may I be, O.'

'And what will ye leave to your children and your wife,
Edward, Edward?
And what will ye leave to your children and your wife
When ye go over the sea, O?'
'The world is large, let them beg through life,
Mother, mother:
The world is large, let them beg throw life,
For them never more will I see, O.'

'And what will ye leave to your own mother dear,
Edward, Edward?
And what will ye leave to your own mother dear?
My dear son, now tell me, O.'
'The curse of hell from me shall you bear,
Mother, mother:
The curse of hell from me shall you bear,
Such counsels you gave to me, O.'

poem by by unknown author
Submitted by Veronica Serbanoiu
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Lilian Stewart

I was the daughter of Lambert Hutchins,
Born in a cottage near the grist-mill,
Reared in the mansion there on the hill,
With its spires, bay-windows, and roof of slate.
How proud my mother was of the mansion!
How proud of father's rise in the world!
And how my father loved and watched us,
And guarded our happiness.
But I believe the house was a curse,
For father's fortune was little beside it;
And when my husband found he had married
A girl who was really poor,
He taunted me with the spires,
And called the house a fraud on the world,
A treacherous lure to young men, raising hopes
Of a dowry not to be had;
And a man while selling his vote
Should get enough from the people's betrayal
To wall the whole of his family in.
He vexed my life till I went back home
And lived like an old maid till I died,
Keeping house for father.

poem by Edgar Lee Masters
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My Brother Bill

This is the sad true story about my brother Bill
who was four years older than me.
He was born and then tossed aside by his mother
who left him to his father’s parents to raise,
then promptly disappeared out of his life forever.
My grandparents brought him up
hoping his father would take care of him
when he returned from the war.
His father also my dad returned from the war
married with another son and didn’t want to know.
They gave him a nickname in private
so no one else would know.
In private, they always called him Dopey.
My sister and I were told
our grandparents had adopted him
and he was nothing to do with us.
When my dad’s parents died in 1958 and 59
plans were made to come back to England
where my mother’s parents were still alive
and leave Bill far behind.
Then as his mother had done eighteen years before
his father abandoned him as well.
For a while, he had to live on the streets
taking handout from where ever he could.
He was arrested for vagrancy and sent to jail.
Getting out he got himself a job and began to build a life.
He got married and started a family,
until one night he came home
and found his wife in bed with another man,
and a divorce followed and he was alone again.
Then after 25 years, his job vanished
and he had to find another.
One day in 2000, he got a telephone call
and did not know whether to believe it or not.
It was a call he never thought he would ever get,
a call from his younger brother - me.
As we talked on the phone, some truths came to pass
his brother and his sister did not know about him.
They were told he had been adopted
and were nothing to do with them.
However, I had found the truth,
which incensed my mother enough to disown me.
We met one another for the first time
after forty-two years in 2001 and again in 2002.
In 2003, this sad story ends,
in the March of that year
Bill succumbed to a heart attack.
His final words were a testament to his life.
No one loved me enough to care.
The sad truth is someone did
and that someone was me.
We never had enough time together,
circumstances kept us apart,
but he was my brother
and will remain in my heart.

2 November 2009

Authors Note:

The facts are as Bill told them to me. A sad refrain to a wonderful guy who was tainted by my parents as being bad and no good. If the truth were known he was probably better than the both of them. He was a guy who would give you the shirt of his back if you needed it. My brother Bill, may he now rest in peace.

DVH - 2009

poem by David Harris
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