Nithari Killings
The inhuman heinous crime,
Took lives of so many who had not reached their prime.
One man’s perverted mind and lust
Filled me with horror and disgust.
Is it really true
That the law had no clue?
Despite the parents doubts and fears,
Whose life went out of gear,
Running from pillar to post
To get someone to see what they had lost.
it makes me nauseous.
How can any one be so self righteous?
the poor lost the light of their day and night
who can empathize with their plight?
No guilt, shame or remorse,
What if someone gave him a fatal dose
Of his own lethal medicine
And killed his loved ones and kin?
He should be hanged in full public view
In lieu
Of life imprisonment.
That’s the least of his punishment.
Lord, did you look away
When so many innocent became his prey?
The shock and helpless cries
Of the children loom before my eyes.
The bewildered faces full of fright
Haunt me day and night.
There has been no public outcry.
How can we lie
In our warm, cosy beds,
When so many innocent are dead?
Do we expect a fairy to twirl her magic wand
To make us safe in our land?
The law will take its own course
While the parents stoically bear their loss.
It’s of little comfort to hand them a cheque
When their lives have been wrecked.
And their children hacked
Today Nithari is a tourist site
I no longer know what is right.
I wish I could find a way to wipe their tears
And take them to a place where there was nothing to fear.
poem by Mamta Agarwal
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Tourtured Child
Tortured child sitting on the window pane
Innocent boy, hurt through inner pain
Bleeding arms cut by serrated knives
Ends in the loss of more innocent lives
Bruised little girl sleeping in her little bed
While she lies she wonders in her head
“Why did he touch me? Why all the lies? ”
Ends in the loss of more innocent lives
Young lonely girl sitting in her chair
All alone crying in her lair
Hanging from the rope as her friend cries
Ends in the loss of more innocent lives
Beautiful little girl covered with tears
Down the stairs lie all her fears
Though she cries she sits alone
Her beatings sting, straight to the bone
She refuses to scream and yet she cries
Ends in the loss of more innocent lives
Black crows sitting on the branches crying out
Dark clouds hovering about like the veins of God
Children screaming like
There is no hope of salvation
Trees swaying in the breeze like life
It keeps going without a care
poem by Melanie Hannon
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For My Sake
(Written in aid of the Children's Hospital.)
MATTHEW XXV. 40.
“Inasmuch as ye gave ear unto the sighing
Of the least of these the children of my care,—
Of your love from death redeemed them, or in dying
Stood between them and the shadow of despair;—
“Inasmuch as when the little ones did languish,
Ye put forth the hand to make their burdens light;—
Inasmuch as when they lay on beds of anguish,
Ye were with them in the watches of the night;—
“All the joy ye brought to light when sorrow hid it
Now awaits you, an exceeding great reward.
As ye did it unto these, to ME ye did it;
Enter ye into the joy of your Lord.”
“Lord, when sought we out the children that did languish?
When put forth the hand to make their burdens light?
Lord, we wist not when they lay on beds of anguish,
And we slept throughout the watches of the night.
“For our lives were full of trouble and of labour,
And the night followed hard upon the day:
Had we lingered with the children of our neighbour,
Our own little ones had perished by the way.”
“Inasmuch as though ye might not touch or tend them,
Ye were with them in your love to heal and save,
And were hands and feet to those who did befriend them,
By the gold and by the silver that ye gave.
“Find your treasure where your ransomed ones have hid it;
Take it back a thousandfold for your reward.
As you did it unto these, to ME ye did it;
Enter ye into the joy of your Lord.”
poem by James Brunton Stephens
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The Sunderland Calamity
'Twas in the town of Sunderland, and in the year of 1883,
That about 200 children were launch'd into eternity
While witnessing an entertainment in Victoria Hall,
While they, poor little innocents, to God for help did call.
The entertainment consisted of conjuring, and the ghost illusion play,
Also talking waxworks, and living marionettes, and given by Mr. Fay;
And on this occasion, presents were to be given away,
But in their anxiety of getting presents they wouldn't brook delay,
And that is the reason why so many lives have been taken away;
But I hope their precious souls are in heaven to-day.
As soon as the children began to suspect
That they would lose their presents by neglect,
They rush'd from the gallery, and ran down the stairs pell-mell,
And trampled one another to death, according as they fell.
As soon as the catastrophe became known throughout the boro'
The people's hearts were brim-full of sorrow,
And parents rush'd to the Hall terror-stricken and wild,
And each one was anxious to find their own child.
Oh! it must have been a most horrible sight
To see the dear little children struggling with all their might
To get out at the door at the foot of the stair,
While one brave little boy did repeat the Lord's Prayer.
The innocent children were buried seven or eight layers deep,
The sight was heart-rending and enough to make one weep;
It was a most affecting spectacle and frightful to behold
The corpse of a little boy not above four years old,
Who had on a top-coat much too big for him,
And his little innocent face was white and grim,
And appearing to be simply in a calm sleep-
The sight was enough to make one's flesh to creep.
The scene in the Hall was heart-sickening to behold,
And enough to make one's blood run cold.
To see the children's faces, blackened, that were trampled to death,
And their parents lamenting o'er them with bated breath.
Oh! it was most lamentable for to hear
The cries of the mothers for their children dear;
And many mothers swooned in grief away
At the sight of their dead children in grim array.
There was a parent took home a boy by mistake,
And after arriving there his heart was like to break
When it was found to be the body of a neighbour's child;
The parent stood aghast and was like to go wild.
A man and his wife rush'd madly in the Hall,
And loudly in grief on their children they did call,
And the man searched for his children among the dead
Seemingly without the least fear or dread.
And with his finger pointing he cried. "That's one! two!
Oh! heaven above, what shall I do;"
And still he kept walking on and murmuring very low.
Until he came to the last child in the row;
Then he cried, "Good God! all my family gone
And now I am left to mourn alone;"
And staggering back he cried, "Give me water, give me water!"
While his heart was like to break and his teeth seem'd to chatter.
Oh, heaven! it must have been most pitiful to see
Fathers with their dead children upon their knee
While the blood ran copiously from their mouths and ears
And their parents shedding o'er them hot burning tears.
I hope the Lord will comfort their parents by night and by day,
For He gives us life and He takes it away,
Therefore I hope their parents will put their trust in Him,
Because to weep for the dead it is a sin.
Her Majesty's grief for the bereaved parents has been profound,
And I'm glad to see that she has sent them £50;
And I hope from all parts of the world will flow relief
To aid and comfort the bereaved parents in their grief.
poem by William Topaz McGonagall
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Broken children
I've come across many neglected children
They carry a pain
Thats left a mark
An uncured wound
A broken heart
A broken home
Due to parents disappearing
Or out there searching
Always there children they are hurting
Why! ....
Because of greed
Because of need
Because of temptation
Or because of drugs!
These children never did ask to be born
And find there status torn
Ripped apart and shredded!
How selfish can those parents be
All for want and for themselves to repair
The only place they have come to tear
Are the roots of those children
Who live there lives searching for there souls
Life becomes a riddle
When only themselves they muddle
Walking down those empty streets
Meeting up with others who swollowed the same
Now they've decided to create a new game
Let it be violence!
And push those parents into shame
Yet it is always
Those poor children who live with blame!
If this is freedom of choice!
Then let those poor children
Make a voice!
poem by Suzan Gumush
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It Is Wonderful That There Are So Many Small Children In Israel
IT IS WONDERFUL THAT THERE ARE SO MANY SMALL CHILDREN IN ISRAEL
It is wonderful that there are so many small children in Israel
I see them everywhere and am happy when I see them.
Do they make up or compensate in some way for the million and one half Jewish children murdered a generation or two ago?
Nothing makes up for even one life lost
That we know.
But still seeing these children one invariably thinks of those other Jewish children-
I don't understand it at all-
It is wonderful that there are so many small children in Israel
Children are a great blessing and the hope of their parents and grandparents lives-
God Bless and protect these children
And let them never know the hatred the suffering the cruelty
Children no less innocent than them knew
A generation or two ago.
poem by Shalom Freedman
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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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Between Life And War
Stood there alone between life and war
What can more destroy more than the fear of war
The ability of realization is lost behind the woes of war
Unbearable aches the sounds of guns and else....
Just we were never have been there
The peace was our country's name
What have happened to us
Who did all these deadlines
Lies melted with abject plans
Destroyed our lives
We were happy family before beginning the games of the guns
I can't name those things which are made by the man to kill his fellow man
I don't want to die
I still have dreams
I don't want my fellow man to be killed
I deny to see more and more tears
Happiness deserted our lives
Heart destroying things old man's tears
Children's hunger and their innocent glances filled with fear
The miserable war is running like a devil all around swiftly rending vows of death,
poem by Sossi Khachadourian
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Driven into Fits as Unrestless Misfits Twitch
I've noticed children that lack discipline,
Are accustomed to their parents or guardians...
Shouting out demands to them.
With cussing heard that eventually is returned,
To the same people to have their ears burn.
For the most part children learn by example.
Not from samples taught by teachers in classrooms...
Driven into fits as unrestless misfits twitch unable to sit.
To have parents defend their children looking innocent,
In front of a judge delivering limited sentences.
To nip that disrespect in the bud,
With a punishment suitable is no longer legit.
Instead what children do today is tolerated...
And out of control they are,
As everyone seems to make excuses for it!
poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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Lost Tears (an ode to children of alcoholics)
LOST TEARS
To all the boys who never cried
My heart it weeps for you
Longing for a fathers touch
Slipping slowly out of view
A hand it reached within my chest
And entwined around my heart
With every beat the fingers grew
Until they covered every part
And keys would fumble in the door
What would this dark night bring
And in from the night the tyrant came
The beggars received their king
To bow and scrape, perhaps defuse
To laugh at every joke
Perhaps the tyrant king would sleep
Perhaps we would provoke
With every night the fire dies
Embers of the heart recede
The king is god, he rules supreme
Don't hurt our mum the children plead
And darkness overcomes the soul
Into the night the children flee
And all around the curtains fall
And when they fall you cannot see
Who will rid us of this endless night
The blackness and the shades of gray
For beneath the pillow held so tight
Is not a place where children play
Why do these tears that belong to you
Fall down from upon my face
For once I dwelt in shadowland
Its now your dwelling place
So if you wander in the night
A night within your heart
The true King sees behind your veil
He sees you play the part
Oh wont you come on bended knee
And find the tears you lost
The true King longs to set you free
And that at any cost
Don't you long to see the sun
And feel its warm embrace
A heart of flesh and not of steel
And tears upon your face
My God He is the tears you lost
Living waters from above
He restores the broken and the crushed
With Godly tears of love
The true King wept when you could not
He wept to see His Son
And with those tears on Calvary fought
And now the work is done
Come out from amongst the dead He cries
And He will deal with all your fears
For every time you could not cry
My God He shed your tears
And all these tears He's gathered
And they flow from Heavens throne
And when your swept up in this tide
You'll know you were not alone
poem by Frank McEleny
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Last Sunset
The old man staring out a frosted window.
Watching life his go by.
Wondering what could have been.
Had he only tried.
Things could have been so different.
He thinks with such regret.
His end is coming closer.
This is his last sunset.
He thinks of the love that he lost.
And how he let her go.
If he could turn back the hands of time,
His love for her he'd show.
Success it was his idol.
Money, work and fame.
His work's what he took serious.
His life was but a game.
A game he played against the odds.
He thought that he would win.
But money wasn't everything.
Much to his chagrin.
He remembered a story he heard one day,
About a man named Christ.
And all the lives this man had changed.
And changed without a price.
Their lives were complete and full of peace.
And all their dreams came true.
Not with money, work and fame.
But with how their spirits grew.
The old man knowing his end was near.
Called out to The One.
“Help me know just what I missed”
He cried out to God's son.
The man with tears now in his eyes.
Looked up to heaven above.
And felt a hand upon his arm.
That filled the man with love.
And then a hug, a warm embrace.
He held the man so tight.
He vowed to not let that man go.
Alone into the night.
The man he spoke to Jesus.
And repented all his sin.
Jesus spoke with a gentle voice,
“I know just where you've been.”
“That's why I came to save you,
and I hung upon my cross.
Even though your end is near.
Son, you're no longer lost.”
The man he then closed his eyes.
With a smile upon his face.
Knowing the home going to,
Was a much more loving place.
The Savior then he took his hand,
And led the old man's soul.
To an eternity full of peace.
From a life with no control.
The old man now young and looking down.
Wondering why did he wait,
To feel the joy that Jesus brought.
But at least it wasn't too late.
The Father will come running.
To his children when they cry.
For you only have one life to live.
So don't wait until your last goodbye.
poem by Ryan Lee Morris
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The War Of The Children
The child abuse has been the war of the children
It is going on for too long in a world like this
The children is the victim of it
It is the children who suffers more each day
Stop the child abuse now
We want to put an end to this war
Make the public aware that this exists
Love the children with all your heart
Make the children feel worth
Make them feel special
Show them respect and let them respect you
Because respect and love is a two way thing
Respect the children wishes
Make this world a safe place for our children
Teach them to listened
Let them feel welcome in this world
Let the children live there lives
When you abuse the children
You break there hearts, you are destroying there dreams
And the respect they have for you is lost
What do you get when you abuse the children?
You get no satisfaction
The children have lost there sense of worth
They don’t feel special anymore
And they don’t feel safe anymore
The children know whom they can trust and whom they can’t
Help the children to grow in a safe environment
Feel there hearts with laughter and take there sadness away
Give them the support they need each day as they live there lives
poem by Aldo Kraas
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A Wish
A friend
Stoically said,
I wish
My son would die
While I am alive.
I looked at her
in disbelief,
And saw the anguish
And grief in her eyes.
I lie,
Sleepless at night
In torment and fright.
How will he cope
When I am no more
And
He is all alone?
I sensed her pain
And reached out for her hand.
No mother,
Who loves her child,
Would make such a wish.
Both of us silently cried.
I find it odd
That he is called,
A child of lesser God
He was born
Less than perfect.
Is it some
Kind of punishment
For misdeeds
In the past life?
I was taught,
We are all equal
In the eyes of God
I saw
Love, fear, anxiety
And unshed
Tears in her eyes.
Whose life
Has been more tragic
His or hers,
Is beyond my logic.
poem by Mamta Agarwal
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When the Parents Refuse to Come Home
When the parents refuse to come home
The children sleep beneath the babysitter’s skirt.
She will eat you out of house and home.
When the parents refuse to come home
The children shall set the house on fire,
And the babysitter shall save the family pet
That is content to be hand fed at the breast.
This night the parents are outside the loop,
They are out for a night on the town to renew their bound without the incessant want of children who shall burn the house down for attention.
The babysitter is watching TV under the blaze of the burning house where the family pet snicks beneath the smoke colleted by the ceiling.
When the parents stay out all night the children are discontented with the babysitter who have no time for children, she rather babysat the TV.
The babysitter refuse to pay taxes on her earning, she have parked the children in their beds where they learn the art of conversation from the TV.
The parents are having fun while the children are safe in the dream shatter of the right brain telling midnight stories of the day’s doings and the babysitter has invited her boy friend over for the night and he will eat you out of house and home while in their dream the children are buring the house down.
When the parents dance the night away in the night club the children are dreaming of the violent of the babysitter who eat the last of the pot roast left over from dinner.
When the parents refuse to come home the babysitter is contemplating the meaning of death and dying in the burning house.
The babysitter will grow up to become a parent and she will hire a babysitter when she go out to dance the night away as her children burn the house down.
poem by David E. Patton
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Memorial Day
Memories of those who are no longer here
are shared by millions who hold them dear.
Their faces so young that stay in the mind
of parents and wives and husbands that find
their loved ones were taken so young in their years.
Their children were left too young to cry tears,
never knowing their fathers or seeing their smile
or having them there as they walk down the aisle.
No war's ever worth their great sacrifice,
fought with their lives, they paid the great price.
And now we take time just one day a year
and pray somehow, somewhere they can hear
we miss them and honor them in memory
and hope their children's lives will turn out to be
ones that are filled with love and with peace.
So in their futures 'Memorial Days' will cease.
poem by Edwina Reizer
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Who Must Take Care of Old-aged Parents?
Which child will care for parents when old-aged?
Which child will show compassion and respect?
Which child will find the time to talk kind words?
Which child reciprocates their affection?
Gone are the days of joint family system!
Gone is the sense of values in people!
Gone are the times when blood was quite thicker!
Gone with the wind is honouring parents!
Have parents not showered love on children?
Have they not slogged to give them life's comforts?
Have they not nursed them whenev'r they fell ill?
Have they not done their duties to their kids?
The world today is selfish to the core;
Children just want the wealth of parents old;
None volunteer to tend to old parents;
Children show scarce love to their parents dear!
What has then come upon children today?
Who should take care of parents, elderly?
Should not one's children take care of parents?
Much love seems lost in families these days!
poem by John Celes
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In Praise of Ego
In carefree, laughing, joyful mood –
let’s praise the ego, to its face!
Our most faithful mate throughout our life;
with us longer than our parents or our children are;
at our heels at all times, proud of head and tail,
saying to the world that ‘I belong to him! ’;
faithful as a dog; and cunning as a cat;
between them, running our un-mastered lives;
(and like the cosy purring cat you stroke upon your lap,
ego's the secret dark night-hunter, out to kill all life..)
ego, more awake than we ourselves,
never missing a living moment;
every heart-beat an opportunity;
sharper entrepreneur than any city slicker:
‘what’s in it for me? ’; there is no trick,
no turn, no market swing, that ego can’t exploit and profit from;
so let’s praise ego to its face; see the Creator’s own full force,
brilliant and magnificent, manifested, used, in ego’s skills…
but know, and know we know, its lifetime’s bitter secret:
for all its skills, its energies are stolen fuel…:
moment by moment sapping secretly,
the consciousness, the wisdom, happiness,
that seem just out of our elusive reach..
So – as we watch a child, so innocent,
playing its merry games of fantasy,
running round itself in playground and in park,
we laughing in parental love, sing out those magic words:
‘I’m watching you…! ’
poem by Michael Shepherd
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Sonnet: Our Children Is Our True Wealth
How nice to see one's children win applause?
What joy when children perform truly great?
How lovely seeing them live for a cause!
What thrill to see them get rewards till date.
The joy of parents is really more,
When children win a trophy, shield in race;
When people clap their hands and them adore;
And laughter, smiles adorn their weary face.
Yes, children are the apple of their eyes;
To see them well is parents' only aim;
So, parents slog all life to make them wise;
Their minds are filled with joy when they get fame.
Is there a better wealth than children's feat?
A plant is proud to bear its golden wheat.
poem by John Celes
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Bible Stories: Job (Chapter XXVII)
Job Speaks On:
The ways of God, I will reveal;
His dealings, I will not conceal;
Embittered has the Lord, my soul;
Yet, I won’t speak anything foul.
My lips shall speak only the truth;
My tongue shall not tell things uncouth;
I stand by what I say till death;
Injustice, I will not bequeath.
My heart reproaches not my days;
O let my foes have unjust ways;
Wickedness, I’m ready to face;
I’ll maintain my innocent gaze.
What can the impious expect,
When lying on the verge of death?
Will God hear his cry with respect,
When peril strikes before last breath?
Will impious for help ask God?
Will he implore upon the Lord?
Have you not seen the wicked talk?
Without their God, all life, they walk!
Although, he has children many,
The sword becomes their destiny;
His offspring shall not receive bread,
No one will bury them, when dead!
His silver-dust though be a mound,
And garments can the world confound,
The innocent, his wealth begets,
Enjoying clothes and all his debts.
His house like cobwebs disappears,
He lives forever with his fears;
All that he has is lost o’er-night;
He opens eyes but can’t see light!
The Tempest puts him off his base;
The storm sweeps him out of his place!
Copyright by Dr John Celes 5-8-2007
poem by John Celes
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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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Very hard
Very hard
Parents expressed helplessness
Worry lines could be seen on their face
Further study was beyond their control to afford
I was full of tears and prayed lord
I begged to friends for old books to read
They merely showed scant respect and shook head
It was not only the problem with books but with uniform too
Night had descended on earth only for me and it was true
I saw dark clouds hovering over head
Complete future looked bleak and dead
No help was to come from any corner
Those days were really unforgettable and grimmer
I used to cry in one corner
Curse the luck and saw it as eye opener
One must work very hard for children
Not a little hardship should be faced by them even
I could understand the agony and pain
Parents were helpless to ask me again
I was not blaming them either
I was dear flower to them and brought me up as Gardner
Even though very poor they cared me at every stage
Now it was my turn to change the history and write new page
At whatever consequence I might have to face future course
It must be done bravely to augment some income in their purse
Life mission had become now so important to me
I was to take decision very fairly and free
Parents were now my first priority
They were to me very dear and next to almighty
I preferred service to mother land
Lovely chance to lay down life for holy land
What else can be a chance to be considered as honorable?
Rich or poor can have the same opportunity on table
Uniform gave me sense of pride
There was visible comforts and nothing to hide
World had become large and very wide
I was no poor boy now felt no divide
poem by Hasmukh Amathalal
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