What was she doing, there?
What was she doing, there?
Like some old bag lady.
Another displaced foreigner...
Sitting in Piccadilly, gardens
Manchester, today...
“With a toy pram
and 2 clothed dollies”
“One dressed in green,
a much larger in reddish brown”.
Simply put on the fountains cobbles...
Dressed in these old linens
Her dollies lying face down.
How odd? No one is looking...?
Not one sees the child’s pram.
Only big enough for a small, cat.
How odd these two babies,
look—displaced on the ground.
One displaced to her left.
Another to her right…
It’s the 9th of October—2011
the time tomorrows date 10.10am
on a grey, wet Sunday, morning.
And, her presence questions me?
Quietly, disturbs me.
Before I catch my 101 bus…
Lord what is real…?
What is sequential in a world of madness…?
poem by Mark Heathcote
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Related quotes
Like Mother Like Daughter
When I was a child had dollies and teddies
I played tea party and bookstore,
And followed mum around the shopping centre with my dolly in her pram
I had my pretend credit cards and they were the coolest thing ever.
Now the dolly in her pram has turned in to a real child,
And my pretend credit cards are real
I don’t play tea party but make dinner every night
And a bookstore is a place where I buy text books and parenting books,
Not comics and novels
Soon again it will be time for tea parties and teddies,
And going shopping with dolly in tow
But now it is my little girl who has grand dreams of being just like her mum
Of having credit cards and a daughter of her own.
But for now as I watch her sleep I pray she does not repeat my mistakes
poem by Kayla Lines
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I can remember being in my pram: children stayed in their prams much longer then than they do now. A big bouncy pram with black covers and a hood with metal clips that could trap your fingers. I was looking up at my sister who was sitting on the pram seat, with her back to me.
quote by Helen Dunmore
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Flotsam
After the First World War
there floated a sea of stateless people
who drifted from border to border,
flotsam of the war, each reaching out
to find somewhere to call their own;
displaced by everyone as they tried
to adopt a homeland,
a place they could call their own.
Etched on each face was the agony
they felt being turned away
everywhere they went.
This flotsam of war.
10 November 2010
Author’s Note:
It is hard to believe that millions of people were displaced and wandered the borders of Europe for years after the First World War. However, it is true and history does record it.
DVH
November 2010
poem by David Harris
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The Night: Nights In White Satin
Balloons flying, children sighing,
What a day to go kite flying.
Breeze's cool, away from school,
Cowboys fighting out a duel.
Time seems to stand quite still,
In a child's world it always will.
Fishes biting, so exciting,
Lunchtime sounds so inviting.
Angler Bill, he gets a thrill,
Sitting, watching Bobby quill.
Time seems to stand quite still,
In a child's world it always will.
Yesterday's dreams are tomorrow's sighs,
Watch children play, they seem so wise.
Mary Green, today's a queen,
While thousand dollies are a dreaming.
Cotton frocks and golden locks,
Her palace is an orange box.
Time seems to stand quite still,
In a child's world it always will.
song performed by by Moody Blues
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The Closer They Get to Madness
The closer they get to madness,
The more they realize they are not alone.
The more common they become,
To those they thought lazy and dumb.
Now they find themselves...
Displaced and disgraced,
Like everyone else.
How sudden can a kindredness get?
How quick can those who 'had'
Find themselves among those
They chose once to disrespect.
The closer they get to madness,
They will receive the full affect!
Closer and closer to rub shoulders...
With an acceptance and much regret!
The closer they get to madness,
A perfected lifestyle behind them is left!
The closer and closer...
And closer,
They get!
poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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Another Morning
Balloons flying,
Children sighing,
What a day to go kite flying.
Breeze is cool, [or "Breezes cool"]
Away from school
Cowboys fighting out a duel.
Time seems to stand quite still,
In a child's world it always will.
Fish is biting, [or Fishes biting]
So exciting!
Lunchtime sounds so inviting.
At the bill [bill = a narrow promontory]
He gets a thrill
Sitting, watching bobbing quill. [quill = feather used as a fishing bait float]
Time seems to stand quite still,
In a child's world it always will.
Yesterday's dreams
Are tomorrow's sighs.
Watch children playing,
They seem so wise.
Mary Green
Today's a queen
One thousand dollies are her dream.
In cotton frocks
And golden locks,
Her palace is an orange box
Time seems to stand quite still,
In a child's world it always will.
song performed by by Moody Blues
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Showing Dolls
And Mrs Clark said
why doesn’t your son
come to tea
I’m sure Helen
would like that
she can show him
her collection of dolls
and your mother said
yes that would be nice
I’m sure he’d like that
and Helen peered at you
through her spectacles
her pupils like
two brown fish
in a glass bowl
and she smiled
one of those smiles
which frighten small boys
and Mrs Clark said
yes and you can come too
and your mother nodded
and off they went
into one of their
long conversations
and as they talked
Mrs Clark rocked the pram
with her youngest kid
wrapped up inside
and your mother stood
with you by her side
with the creeping dread
riding up in you
of tea looming
and Helen standing there
her plaits on either side
of her head
going back and forth
as she moved her head
and Mrs. Clark laughed
and the pram shook
and the kid cried
and she rocked the pram
backward and forward
and all you
could think about
was the dolls
and the baked beans
on toast
and Helen showing you
her dolls
as she had before
and taking
a secret kiss
behind a closed door.
poem by Terry Collett
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The Morning: Another Morning
Balloons flying
Children sighing
What a day to go kite flying
Breezy school
Away from school
Cowboys fighting out a duel
Time seems to stand quite still
In a childs world it always will
Fishes biting
So exciting
Lunchtime sounds so inviting
At the bill
He gets a thrill
Sitting, watching bobby quill
Time seems to stand quite still
In a childs world it always will
Yesterdays dreams
Are tomorrows sighs
Watch children playing
They seem so wise
Mary green
Todays a queen
One thousand dollies are her dream
In cotton frocks
And golden locks
Her palace is an orange box
Time seems to stand quite still
In a childs world it always will
song performed by by Moody Blues
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The Lady in Grey
On this road, I did meet,
In the wee hours, a lady,
frail and petit.
I spoke to her softly,
and bid her good day.
This little old lady,
all dressed in grey.
Just a slight nod, was her
greeting you see,
as she continued her walk,
up the hill past me.
I had to know, on this very night,
why this lady in grey, gave me
such a fright.
I turned my head quickly,
to ask her, her name
but gone was the lady,
I had met in the rain.
This story you see, really is
true.
fore I met her that morning,
around the hour of two.
The lady in grey, was Mrs.
Metler, you see,
a lady from a time, long
before you and me.
Dec.01 2012
poem by Earl Spencer
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That Millions Do Live In Poverty
That millions do live in poverty should never be seen as okay
The gap between the haves and the have nots keeps getting bigger by the day
Everyone should have the chance to live happy a home to live in and enough for to eat
There never should be slums and ghettos and never a poverty street,
That millions are born to live in poverty and to end their hard lives in despair
Only tells us if there's a god that god favours the wealthy and that god is not very fair
To leave millions homeless and dying of malnutrition the people condemned to die poor and young
In the refugee camps of the World live the displaced, the poor and unsung,
In the age of celebrity worship the poor in millions multiply
Why millions are destined to be poor don't ask me I wouldn't know why
Even in the World's wealthiest Countries poor people are no longer rare
And millions and millions of have nots in the bigger World out there
And millions are dying of hunger and millions are doing it tough
And millions are displaced and homeless and as refugees living it rough.
poem by Francis Duggan
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What, other than injustice, could be the reason that the displaced citizens of New Orleans cannot be accommodated by the richest nation in the world?
quote by Wynton Marsalis
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Death is a displaced name for a linguistic predicament.
quote by Paul de Man
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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I've always been an outsider; a displaced person.
quote by Siobhan Fahey
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Praying hands
When the whole church kneels to pray
- though some of us just pretend to kneel:
leaning forward uncomfortably,
our ungainly bums only observed
by the row in the pew behind –
the lady next to me does it in style,
yet with observable humility:
she was taught to kneel, I guess, in
Sunday School when she was five or less,
and about seventy years later,
here’s devotion's lifetime posture still:
erect, elbows on the pew’s bookshelf,
so that her hands together point straight,
let’s say, to heaven; counterpointed
by the head a little lowered in humility;
and I study, discreetly, these praying hands,
subtly shaded by a lifetime
in rose, white, grey, yellow, brown, red, blue;
here smooth, here barely covering bone,
here worn, here wrinkled;
the rest of her, devout; an innerness
which I can only guess at
in her lifetime stance; but these hands
with their lifetime of a woman’s work
have, this Sunday morning, offered up
their mighty selves unto their maker God..
When my mother’s dressed for Sunday
she’s a stranger to the child in me:
dressed in matching hat, gloves, handbag, shoes;
not for the public eye or anyone’s approval,
but as the public dresses for its God;
and I glance at these hands, which speak to me
of prayer, of life, that's way beyond my childish mind;
these stranger hands, with more things yet untold
than I would know or dare to ask of her.
poem by Michael Shepherd
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Crescent Noon
Green september
Burned to october brown
Bare november
Led to decembers frozen ground
The seasons stumbled round
Our drifting lives are bound
To a falling crescent noon
Feather clouds cry
A vale of tears to earth
Morning breaks and
No one sees the quiet mountain birth
Dressed in a brand new day
The sun is on its way
To a falling crescent noon
Somewhere in
A fairytale forest lies one
Answer that is waiting to be heard
You and I were
Born like the breaking day
All our seasons
All our green septembers
Burn away
Slowly well fade into
A sea of midnight blue
And a falling crescent noon
song performed by by Carpenters
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Sex Dwarf
Isn't it nice
Sugar and spice
Luring disco dollies to a life of vice
I could make a film and make you my star
You'd be a natural the way you are
I would like you on a long black leash
I would parade you down the high street
You've got the attraction, you've got the pulling power
Walk my little doggy, walk my little sex dwarf
we could make a scene
We'd be a team
Making the headlines sound like a dream
When we hit the floor you just watch them move aside
We will take them for a ride of rides
They all love your minature ways
You know what they say about small boys
Yeah
Sex dwarf
Sex dwarf
Aaah...
I'm in my jaguar
Look it's so huge
It's big and gold with my dumb chauffeur
Looking to procure
Run little doggy, lure a disco dolly
Run my little sex dwarf, I feel so lonely
Get my little camera, take a pretty picture
Sex dwarf
In a gold rolls
Making it with the dumb chauffeur
Isn't it nice
Sugar and spice
Luring disco dollies to a life of vice
Sex dwarf
Isn't it nice
Luring disco dollies to a life of vice
Sex dwarf
Ah ah
Sex dwarf
Ah ah
Yeah
Mmmmm... aah...
We could make an outfit for my little sex dwarf
To match my gold rolls and my dumb chauffeur
We look so good, we'll knock 'em cold
Knocking 'em cold, in black and gold
We can have playtime in my playroom
Disco dollies, my sex dwarf
And my dumb chauffeur
Yeah
I would like you on a long black leash
You can bring me all the things I need
Sex dwarf
Isn't it nice
Luring disco dollies to a life of vice
Yes!
Sex dwarf
Sex dwarf
Ah ah
Sex dwarf
Oohh... sex dwarf
Hahahaha
song performed by by Scooter
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Americas Presidential Race
America! America!
The presidential race is on
America! America!
History is made when the race is won
The President is about to be displaced
These words are spoken with a lightface
In this little head, thoughts fight for space
Looking for evidence and clues to trace
Who can outpace?
Who can outrace?
Who can deliver not grass but grace?
As the president is about to be replaced
The agenda could be gender
In a political race of all races
The winner could be older and bolder
In this political footrace
Who does America embrace?
Which candidates do the people erase?
Who cares?
Who fears?
This change is about to and will take place
As the president is about to be replaced
No one cares if he is black or white
Or if the other man is too old to fight
No one cares if she is a woman
It is either the democrats or the republicans
Anyone can emerge as that political face
As the president is about to be displaced
America! America!
The presidential race is on
America! America!
History is made when the race is won
Copyright 2008 - Sylvia Chidi
poem by Sylvia Chidi
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The Fall's Arrival
Between the muted walls
Of my small space I call my own,
I displaced all my belongings
And changed the picture of my home
To resemble the now colored World...
Like an artist's palette:
Green, Yellow, Redd and Sky's Blue,
All those magical colors,
Each playing an important role
In my everyday mood,
In New York City...
Even the shiny reflection of copper,
Touches my inner self,
When totally secluded in my fortress
While awaiting patiently and motionless
For the arrival of the Fall...
I have learned that the human's heart
Was carefully designed by the Lord
Beyond heaven's gate,
Interior-like the soul
But made separate
By self-possession and regret
Of beauty less than infinite...
Now, alone and thoughtful,
I can feel and clearly see
Through the windows
Of my colorful fortress,
The Arrival of the Fall,
Thanks again to the Lord! ...
poem by Romeo Della Valle
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Internally Displaced Persons (IDPs)
They leave their homes
Unwillingly forced
And follow their fate
Through fields and trails
Massifs and woods
With all their goods
Love and hate
Mores and tales
All in bales
Carrying their own
Flesh and bones
Feet like stones
Their bodies and souls
Kids and crones
Torn by storms,
Rains and gales
Attacked by guns,
Helis and drones
No role to play
In games of peace
And deadly war
Not a word they say
But a question,
Why? What for?
While we yawn
Sitting at ease
In our climes
They leave their homes
And reside in camps
Strive for a living
Internally displaced and dead
Beg for a dropp of water
And a piece of bread!
(May 12,2009)
(*) Internally Displaced Persons (IDPs) is a neoteric terminology used in reference to those people who adopt refuge in their own countries due to any life threatening disturbance like fight between the extremists and security agencies or fight between the local millitant groups that results in catastrophic changes in their lives and they leave their homes due to anarchy in their respective area. (NAN)
poem by Naseer Ahmed Nasir
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I Will Wait
Behind the tomato fence
I sit as quietly as Sunday
waiting for her to come
and hum me Camelot,
where I have won a showdown
with the red wasps that stole
her ruby nectar.
But the only sound I hear
are the flirty chirps of sparrows,
and the only thing I feel
is air.
Still, I will wait
behind the tomato fence,
sitting as quietly as Sunday
for her to come
and hum me Camelot.
And when I catch sight of her
I know I'll gasp just like I always do.
She steals my heart away in chunks you see,
but she will blow me off
not even noticing I am here
worshiping her shimmer.
Still, I will wait
behind the tomato fence,
sitting as quietly as Sunday
for her to come
and hum me Camelot.
Meanwhile fragrant basil
smiles my mood,
and rosemary is drying.
There is an eye full of brightest brilliant blue,
and a crescent of white moon dying.
Here I will wait
behind the tomato fence,
sitting as quietly as Sunday
for her to come
and hum me Camelot.
poem by Sara Fielder
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