Curriculum Vitae
1992
1) I was born in a Free City, near the North Sea.
2) In the year of my birth, money was shredded into
confetti. A loaf of bread cost a million marks. Of
course I do not remember this.
3) Parents and grandparents hovered around me. The
world I lived in had a soft voice and no claws.
4) A cornucopia filled with treats took me into a building
with bells. A wide-bosomed teacher took me in.
5) At home the bookshelves connected heaven and earth.
6) On Sundays the city child waded through pinecones
and primrose marshes, a short train ride away.
7) My country was struck by history more deadly than
earthquakes or hurricanes.
8) My father was busy eluding the monsters. My mother
told me the walls had ears. I learned the burden of secrets.
9) I moved into the too bright days, the too dark nights
of adolescence.
10) Two parents, two daughters, we followed the sun
and the moon across the ocean. My grandparents stayed
behind in darkness.
11) In the new language everyone spoke too fast. Eventually
I caught up with them.
12) When I met you, the new language became the language
of love.
13) The death of the mother hurt the daughter into poetry.
The daughter became a mother of daughters.
14) Ordinary life: the plenty and thick of it. Knots tying
threads to everywhere. The past pushed away, the future left
unimagined for the sake of the glorious, difficult, passionate
present.
15) Years and years of this.
16) The children no longer children. An old man's pain, an
old man's loneliness.
17) And then my father too disappeared.
18) I tried to go home again. I stood at the door to my
childhood, but it was closed to the public.
19) One day, on a crowded elevator, everyone's face was younger
than mine.
20) So far, so good. The brilliant days and nights are
breathless in their hurry. We follow, you and I.
poem by Lisel Mueller
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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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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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Language from Womb to Tomb
It is heard from mother's womb,
taught and learned through the days
and years; repeated, remembered,
quoted, mimicked, twisted,
spoken to bless and to curse.
It is to make one
come across the border lines
It is to feel a part of the whole
It is to understand and be understood.
It is seed that grows through the years
It is a pen that records the scars and stars
It is present in the years of our life
the years lost and gone
and the years to come.
It is language
from mother's womb
to our own tomb
It is language of jubilation,
of judgment and adoration
It is law and order
It is history-
document and monument.
It is victory and defeat.
It is the language of love
It is the language of hate.
It is the language of life
and the language of death.
_____________
May 7,2010
poem by Elizabeth Padillo Olesen
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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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Male parental hierarchy.
My parents are two, grandparents four
And great grandparents, eight and so on.
I am known by my father, his father,
And his father and so on by male side.
My mother, her mother and father, their
Mother and father and so on are ignored.
My fathers’ mother and grandfather’s
Mother and so on go to oblivion.
I am known by my father, his father
And his father and so on as a family.
All women from whom I have drawn
Their genes have been shut out.
Parental hierarchy is represented
By male, women dislodged at every stage.
25.08.2009
poem by Rm. Shanmugam Chettiar
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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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This crazy country
I’m in this crazy country
If I could leave I would go tomorrow never to return
Oh Allah how can I go
From this crazy country
When I do what I do for the sake of Allah
My 1st Daughter
The strong & the brave
She was physically & emotionally abused
Some years ago
Taken from me brought up by another
No one knows why
But
Daughter no.2
She was allowed to stay
To be abused
Physically, emotionally & attempted sexually
With emotional problems
No fear of danger
Her father still free
To abuse another
1son & twin daughters the pain still goes on
He is still free
As free as can be
Daughter no 2 went to a special school
She learned to survive
Not wanting to become a woman
She was ready to come home
Her room was made nice
The sisters helped to decorate
Ready for her return
You made new friends
In your white community
They told you that you are British
Me myself I’m not proud to be half British
I’m ashamed you see at what they do to my family
I am a Muslim from Islam
That’s what maters to me
What happened to what I taught you to believe.
You come from a multi-cultural family
You decided to stay
Not come home how can this be
My child needs her mom
I’m told the law gives her the right to choose in this country
So you god fearing mom’s beware when your child goes to school
In this crazy country
As children suffer & even die
There parents free
Free as can be
Then there is my son child no.3
Taken from me
He is with his father you see
In this crazy country
My son runs to be with me
Now he needs therapy
Just for wanting me
I am a God fearing mom doing all I can for my family
In this crazy country
As I see with my eyes
Hear with my ears
What you do to my Brothers & Sisters in this country
I want to leave & go some place where I can be free
As free as can be
To give my all to people who need me
Oh Allah how can I leave this crazy country
When I do what I do for the sake of Allah
To be there for my family
People try to bring me down for I’m a God fearing mom
Before I go
Leave this crazy country
Remember this
You might be free as free as can be
In this crazy country
But when judgment day comes
Who will be free
As free as can be
Will it be you
Or will it be me?
poem by mariam khan Farah Abdulahi
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Prayers of parents make a peaceful heaven to a home
Prayers of parents make a peaceful heaven to a home
The children who neglect their parents will be cursed,
The Nature makes such children’s house a hellish dome,
They are lucky children who are blessed by their parents,
It is said that there is a heaven under the legs of mother,
The children love or not to their mother but she loves all,
She embraces good or bad children but she can’t smother,
Mother is habituated to pray to God for all their happiness,
A few children won’t love their parents but love their wives,
In old age parents are in need of only their children’s love,
Who devote God, adore parents will be happy in their lives,
Love of parents always comes to children from the sky above,
God bless those children who are blessed by their parents,
And God curse those children who are cursed by their parents.
poem by INDIA Mazid S Kazi
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Locked
Children tattooed, pierced and studded, dreadlocked;
parents panicked, indecisive, deadlocked.
Mother to daughter: live as you must, if you must;
for just a bit longer, keep the door to your bed locked.
Son to father: teach me what you know,
but I won't agree to keep the door to my head locked.
Mother to father: where have you been, and where
have you kept your thoughts and all you might have said locked?
They'd come so far, and then she saw, in him,
the door to their life, their home, their daily bread locked.
One night in a fiery panic dream he ran
and found the door toward which he'd wildly fled locked.
Aging, but at long last ripe and ready,
she found the on-ramp to the road ahead locked.
They learned too late the cost of keeping that cellar
full of truths that could not be gainsaid locked.
The young return. Too many find the way back
to lives in the country for which they fought and bled locked.
Eric, old friend, as you try each door in the mind,
will you wake one day to find the heart instead locked?
poem by Eric Torgersen
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Play Children Play
I came home late one night,
In my door stood my daughter-in-law,
Park your car, I have something to tell you,
As I entered the door, she said, "Mother left today."
Play children play, your mother left today.
There is no where for a writer to start,
When his wife leaves and breaks her children's heart,
When she walked out, she never said good by,
No one has ever known why.
Play children play, today your Mother went away.
Many things we planned to do that day,
For no reason she just walked away,
Twenty years has past and gone,
Some how we took care of our home,
You children have married, but still alone.
Play children play, for the day your Mother went away.
poem by Kenneth McKinley Davis
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Age Demaned
The age demanded chiefly a mould in plaster,
Made with no loss of time
No matter, never mind
Do you know
Gary Snyder's poetry as follows:
The Father is the void
The wife Waves
Their child is Matter.
Matter makes it with his mother
And their child is Life,
a daughter.
The daughter is the Great Mother
Who, with her father/brother Matter
as her lover,
Give birth to the Mind.
This is DNA poem.
Language is Foxp2
poem by Kyungdae Min
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Home, Sweet Home
The childhood home wherein children, we stayed;
The cottage old in which we ate and prayed;
The humble garden, on our own, we laid;
The roof that leaked in rain, though rent was paid!
The tranquil place where parents gave us love;
The wonderful compound, where we worked, ‘wow! ’
The trees and plants that grew by heaven’s grace;
The sun, moon, rain, at which we loved to gaze!
That was the lovely place, in which we lived;
The home we kept quite clean and chores were shared;
Our parents slogged for us and deeply cared;
We sometimes fought although amity ruled!
Our father’s strictness taught us good conduct;
Our mother’s fondness disciplined our mind;
The help we rendered, made us feel the warmth;
Home, sweet home, was great despite some faults!
Home, sweet home, brings memories evergreen;
Comfortable, our mother’s house, had been;
Those days were most pleasant, despite our toil;
We lost our hearts upon that very soil!
poem by John Celes
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R.I.P: Mom's Death Anniversary,2012
This day, my mother died, two years ago;
It was not shocking as she was too old;
Yet, we could not get over her demise;
Her life and death were holy on the whole!
She lived for Christ and did her duties well;
Her example was worth emulating;
But it was hard to know she was no more;
God gave her happy days until the end!
A mom like her is rare indeed to find;
The way she went about her chores was great;
She prayed a lot whenever she found time;
She trained her children all to be like her!
A cheerful lady always to the core;
Despite her woes, she encouraged others;
In charity, she drew a lot of bliss;
God was foremost in life on earth throughout!
A lovely mother, world could envy much;
A heart of love that swathed the neighbourhood;
A soul that did her many roles with love;
A lady with a remarkable verve!
Until her last, she was not bed-ridden;
All through her life, she tried consoling all;
She toiled incessantly for sake of Christ;
She took her cross and followed Him all life!
A glorious figure, children rarely see!
A mother unforgettable, beloved;
A friend and teacher to her children born;
A voice that guided children to heaven!
May God bless her with eternity soon!
May God reward her ably for her deeds!
May God help her children follow her ways!
May God unite us all some day again!
Fondly dedicated tribute to our beloved mother,
By all her children living today 27-04-2012
Copyright by Dr John Celes 27-04-12
poem by John Celes
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Im The Girl
Ive got a memory
A thousand years old
And I know secrets
Ive never been told
And Ive got jewels
I havent found
And theyll return me
To the ground
Im the girl, Im the girl, Im the girl
You know me
Im the girl, Im the girl, Im the girl
You know me
And Im a siren
Ill wreck you on my shores
And Im godiva
Ill call you back for more
And Im medusa
And Im your favourite doll
And Im a georgia okeefe
Hanging on your wall
Im the girl, Im the girl, Im the girl
You know me
Im the girl, Im the girl, Im the girl
You know me
Im joan of arc
Im the girl next door
Im the mother and the daughter
Of the mother and the daughter before
And I remember being born just sound and light
And sound and light and light
And I remember the first time, skin on skin in the arms
In the arms of the night
Well how many times have we looked up into the starry skies
And how many times have we felt the passion rise
Every ruby-lipped girl baby, old lady, squaw junkie, girl after girl after girl
Every muse, whore, good witch, princess, back arching, year after year after year
Im the girl, Im the girl, Im the girl
You know me
Im the girl, Im the girl, Im the girl
You know me
Im joan of arc
Im the girl next door
Im the mother and the daughter
Of the mother and the daughter
The mother and the daughter
Of the mother and the daughter
The mother and the daughter
Of the mother and the daughter
Before.
song performed by by Heather Nova
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Pro-life…
I thank my mother,
Who brought me forth
Into the world,
God made, so bold.
And my dear father,
For doing his worth,
To raise me up,
With love-filled cup.
I admire them
For such strong faith,
And duty-minds -
Both rare are finds.
I was their child eighth,
Of ten children!
God blessed them well;
Their work was swell.
But had they stopped with
Just one or two,
Like how some did:
Oh, God forbid!
What lovely parents
They turned to be,
And lived all life,
Despite much strife
If not for them both
What would I be?
-An abortus
Or dead fetus!
The love of Maker,
Good parents give
To children all,
When they are small
Such children bring them
Blessings from God,
And intense mirth,
Right here on earth.
I thank you parents;
I thank you God,
For gift of birth,
And lovely earth.
Just think of parents
Who do abort,
Against God’s will,
By their weak will.
Their life will be filled
With emptiness;
Their guilt and sins
Makes life non-sense.
Copyright by Dr John Celes 1-28-2008
poem by John Celes
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Poetry is? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ?
What is poetry is like asking,
'Why is the sky blue? '
There is no answer to What or Why?
but, in any event,
I shall try.
Poetry flows from my heart through my pen,
down through
its neb,
Like a fly struggling in the web of a spider, waiting
to be free.
What is poetry-who knows-could be as simple as the
morning dew on a rose,
children’s laughter,
a baby’s cry,
a mother crooning a lullaby,
bells chiming loud and clear,
the voices
of those that we hold dear.
Poetry is the language of the soul
It gives us the courage to afford life’s many streams
It expands our horizons to realize our dreams.
To summarize the above
Poetry is the Language of Love
Poetry is the Language of the Soul
Poetry is the Language of Life
over which we have
no control.
poem by Mahfooz Ali
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To Be Free of Not Having Children
My mother would have my sister and I...
As kids,
To go look for a nice sized switch.
Then strip it before she whipped us with it!
And then dared us to cry...
As if we weren't already hurting inside.
Then made us stand up straight,
As if at attention.
Telling us not to roll our eyes.
And not a word she wanted heard mentioned.
One day I did something...
And I chose from my mother to run.
I was stunned she was running right behind me fast.
She snatched me by the neck,
And proceeded to spank my ass!
Disciplined?
My mother played softball,
And my father had been a boxer.
Do you think I have survived all these years...
Trying to out foxed those two.
Knowing what they could do...
And convinced they did well at what they did!
Disciplined?
We were not told twice,
To do something again they said they did not like.
And my father did not have to raise a finger.
All he did was use his eyes.
'Daddy, please! Don't look at me like that! '
But my mother on the other hand,
Commanded well our ship!
Whenever she began to raise her voice...
Mimmie and I knew we were heading for something quick!
And crying we would do first...
Because we knew there was no exit!
I can hear my mother's voice today.
If I had threatened to call 911.
She would hand me the phone and tell me to dial.
And if the police should arrive...
They would discover a missing child.
Both of my parents were extremely humorous.
However...
My mama did not play,
If we did not obey!
In those days when parenting
Was out of the hands of the government!
And although we may have grown up 'slightly' dysfunctional.
Dysfunctions and all...
Today?
We are happy we grew up the way we did.
And if I had children,
Living today as these 'hardhead' children do...
I wouldn't dare them to call 911.
That option?
Not available!
Not if I'm to play poppa.
No!
They wouldn't get a chance to!
And I might be visited as I sat in prison!
But any child of mine...
Would get a rod struck to their behind.
Like lightening...hot and sizzling.
Sparing me the grief that today's parents find.
My children would pay me attention.
And we together would share respect.
Perhaps that's why I live my life blessed.
To be free of not having children!
I could not stand by as they lived lives,
Attracted to standards bathed in degradation.
I'm not 'that' patriotic!
And to live without feeling guilt...
Or in a remorse,
That leaves me in debt AND regret!
I am grateful to be that blessed...
Yes.
I know my limitations.
And I am glad I do not have children,
Insisting to see me pushed to them!
I love my life lived...
Without displaying a rage that drives me crazed,
And confined!
poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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Home is the first school and mother is the first teacher
Home is the first school and mother is the first teacher
Parents are the builder of children’s characters and minds,
The mother won’t be a fighter but should be a well preacher,
If she is an illiterate she must carry her children to tuition,
Howsoever the mother should educate their children first,
And she should send her children to school daily and regularly,
Teachers are not blamed not to fulfil children’s educational thirst,
Both the parents and teachers should make them the best citizens,
As we can’t work with one hand likewise we can’t walk with one leg,
Hence, parents and teachers are the same faces of the same coin,
If parents and teachers do them careless they suffer in life to beg,
Do well and have well it is said to see your own profit in life or ruin,
That is why parents and teachers are the best artists of the child,
If an art is spoilt the statue of the child looks like an ugly and a wild.
poem by INDIA Mazid S Kazi
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My Story
I was born in a year
Of a great depression,
.
My parents were born here
A life made of deprivation,
.
Dave, gave me my name;
By instructions of my mother
.
My mother told me all about
My runaway father,
.
My mother did her best
To bring me up better,
.
My mother told me
I would be a leader
- a speaker
- a fighter,
.
I left my mother' s home
To search for survival,
.
Sam said I have become
A great photographer,
.
I have a craving for the arts
And poems that don't rhyme.
poem by Efe Benjamin
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A Peasant Girl Who Left Poland
she was a young girl, named Louise, leaving her whole her family and many a friend
and boarded a boat in Holland
for New York
a new country, a new life for this 15-year old girl from Poland
for the European situation would be bleak
she would venture the Atlantic for almost two weeks
she would eventually meet her future husband Jozef Polaniec
they spoke the same language, shared the same faith, and customs,
she would find work in NYC as a maid/housekeeper,
she would eventually learn to make Gifelte fish for her Jewish family that she tended for
she would respond to an ad which was placed by Jozef
that she had met years prior
they were engaged and married
later this once peasant girl had two children, one died an early death; one
lived.
this once peasant girl and her husband had five living grandchildren
they all lived in a home with a single bathroom in Hamtramck
she would eventually have her daughter give her grandson some music lessons
I owe you Louise
for that farm girl from Poland had my mother who eventually had me
So Happy Birthday Louise, I will always think of you on this day.
4/1/2011
poem by Joe Rosochacki
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