En.Citatepedia^®.ro

Aproaching The New...the Unknown

it is not easy to save
or spare the years
itiis a tough business
though
ı have spared and saved so many years
once ı was a baby in a cradle
crying and seeking a refuge
in my mother bosom
then she was in flesh and blood
living beloved
now she is gone and left me alone
fed up with me
resting in her grave
may be a skeleton ı fear and salute
ı have never known father too
thoughmy mother...my father
my sisters and my big brother
always meet
ı n a photocopy
of an ancient..old and faded photograph
my wife put in my sleeping room
my father was a veteran soldier
of our liberatı on war
now ı am grown up
really
becomı ng an old man
a ping pong ball
walking in stalk
sometimes with a walking stick
lost one of my hip
no bosom to cry
with nowhere to shelter
just me and myself
approaching where ı never know
never guess
cause ı have enough of years
when ı remember them each
comes from my heart and eyes
the tears
fearing the new of everything
it is 20 of december
no snow this year
even the season is faking
may be the end we are approaching
for the word
for the universe
or rather for me
never the less
life living worth
some say it is fall
some say it is spring
some say it is the end
but ı have enough of spared years
let the rest be yours

poem by Metin Sahin
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Father I Still Love You

I tried so hard to love you
But you never really cared
I tried so hard to trust you
But you were never really there

I wanted you to love me
But your heart had grown so cold
I wanted you to play with me
But money was your only goal

And now that I've grown older
And I look back on the years
I remember all the anger
The hurt the pain the tears

Father I forgive you
For all those wasted years
And I try not to remember
All the hurt the pain the tears

But father just please tell me
Did you ever love me once
Or was I just like leftovers
That you throw out after lunch

Father I still love you
And I'll never let that die
But father just please look at me
Say you love me to my eye

Father I must be honest
When you left I found another
My Father up in Heaven
And Jesus my loving Brother

They were the ones who loved me
When you had never cared
They were the ones who saved me
From a life of hate and despair

Father I still love you
And that will always stay true
But father will you love me
Because your child still needs you.

poem by Daniel Sweetnam
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My Mother

Every one gives praise about their mothers
But none can give as much praise as me.
She brought me from a country
Where most lived in poverty.

She worked hard and saved her money
So that I may have a better life
She is an excellent mother
And to my father a good wife.

She has been there every step of my life
She turned bad things into right.
She has given me the strength to pursue my dream
For in me, there is something that she has seen.

She taught me how to love and respect
All that GOD has given
and to make life worth living.

Through her pregnancy and through my birth
She has given all her worth.
Then through my childhood years
To my teenage years, she was with me
To shed her tears.

when I was feeling down and out
And I wanted to scream and shout
She was there to wipe my tears
And put to rest, all my fears.

Even now that I am grown
all her love is still shown.
No one can love you more than a mother
And in my life there is no other.
So to my mother this is for you
You are my life, my love, my dream come true
And I am so thankful to you.

poem by Louis Rams
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Father there you Are(For my dad)

Father it's been a long time,
Since I was baby which I cannot count on my ten fingers,
Cradle my mother's arms,
My eyes closed yet to see my father,
Father running around,
Now I can talk and walk,
Those years later,
Father where are you?
Seeing my mother,
Saying I love thy father,
Which I do,
My love will forever be true,
Now as I grow older once again,
I ask myself,
Father where are you?
Inside my life I see a tunnel,
Running through that tunnel I hear a voice,
Do I go or should I stay?
Trusting my gut I do,
A smile on my face,
Father there you are!

poem by Qeeony Luv
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The Prisoner Of War

he waited from night to night
he waited till the son started peeling over the horizon
he waited till he heard the morning birds chirp
he waited for a long time
he waited for his father
his father lost at war
his father he knew since he was born
but as time grew
the boy felt so weary
the boy waited and waited and waited
his mother giving him the same face
the same face when his father left
and the same face when he didn't comeback
but the boy did not notice this
the boy never knew his dad has been lost
but until
until he strayed up one night
a night he would never forget
he saw his father walking about in the streets
his uniform on but he noticed something else
his father had many medals
but he knew nothing of them
all that he cared about was his father was home

the boy waited 10 years
his mother fell asleep in tears
for all those years
but then he finally came home

this poem is dedicated to all POW

poem by Montana Hohensee
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My Father's Persistence

Was there rain coming down that day?
I really can't remember.
My mother says it was cold and dreary
on that day in December.
Was I welcomed onto this earth
as I took my first breath in?
My father wanted a boy to raise.
Should I have stayed where I had been?

Gradually he accepted a little girl
and held me on his knee.
He played LP records for hours
and I inhaled the harmony.
My mother says he was obsessed with this
and thought I should be left alone.
But his persistence through my first two years
paid off with each new tone.

By age four I was playing the piano
and my father praised God.
My mother was surprised I guess.
But she thought me rather odd.
My happiest childhood memories
was playing whatever I'd heard.
My father was deliriously happy.
My mother thought it absurd.

Most of my youth went so fast.
Most of it I can't remember,
just like the part about rain coming down
on that cold dreary day in December.
But the thing I remember the most now
was my father's pride and joy
that I was born a girl instead of a baby boy.

poem by Edwina Reizer
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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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Father & Son

There is the family photograph
That is your father’s face,
There is your father’s father
Grey-gathering years apace;
The son, bright-eyed in the morning,
The father, lined and drawn,
The son became the father
On the day that you were born.

We’ve all set out on the highway
Our fathers wished us well,
The sons became the fathers
In the same distinctive spell;
The road of all beginnings
Is all there is to lend,
But many a twist, and many a turn
Has marred us at the end.

He was my father’s father,
I am my father’s son,
We’ve travelled as far, and farther
Than our father’s years have run;
The twists and turns of fortune
Mean nothing, lost or won,
But the love of a father’s father,
And the love of a father’s son.

3 September 1977

poem by David Lewis Paget
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It takes three to make a family

(The Mistress or mother)
My son was a gift,
But his father didn't think so,
He left me alone,
With his son I mind you,
I was just a girl,
And he a man,
He did not care,
He left me bowed eyes and broken,
A Lord was he and I Mistress was I,
We were in two different worlds,
Seperated by our familes,
But our son not like us,
A son forced to see his parents like this,
I can still do te best for him,
His father is a monster not a man,
I am scared for my son,
What of his life?
No, I must do my best for him,
If I don't I'll let both of us down,
Years have past and now my son is a man,
I'm dying slowly,
I don't want my son to worry,
I know that I'm on my deathbed,
And I'm as king forJesus.
(Lord or father)
I did not leave her,
She left me,
I couldn't find her,
I wanted my son,
She didn't give him,
Now she's gone and my son with me,
My son's mother was my late wife,
I wanted them both,
But she sought me to be a demon,
Lies upon lies,
I was persuaded from my mother,
My wife listened to our converesation,
Many years later my son is married,
Now I'm going to meet my wife,
Together in heaven,
We have all eternity,
Jesus please keep our son.
(Son)
I am a man who loves,
Mom and dad didn't know,
I am the birth of their future,
They died without knowing me,
I am their son,
But all their time was fighting,
Mentally and emotional,
I spent my childhood afraid of them,
On a nevering chase against time,
My family will teach and give me love,
Years, many, many, years later,
I am a great grandfather,
Now and finally I am on my deathbed,
And I'm happy,
A tear has fallen out my eye,
I am now ready to reunite with,
Both my mother and father,
Jesus thank you for bringing,
The family together at last.

poem by Qeeony Luv
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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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I'm My Own Grandpa

It was many many years ago when I was twenty-three,
I was married to a widow, she's as pretty as can be.
This widow had a grown-up daughter who had hair of red,
my father fell in lover with her, and soon these two were wed.

I'm my own grandpa, I'm my own grandpa.
It sounds silly, I know, but it really is so, oh
I'm my own grandpa.

This made my dad my son-in-law and changed my very life:
My daughter was my mother 'cause she was my father's wife.
And then to complicate the matter, though it brought me joy,
I soon became the father of a bouncing baby boy.

This bouncing baby then became a brother-in-law to dad,
and so became my uncle, though it made me very sad,
for if he was my uncle then he also was the brother
of the widow's grown-up daughter, who, of course, was my step-mother.

I'm my own grandpa, I'm my own grandpa.
It sounds silly, I know, but it really is so, oh
I'm my own grandpa.

Father's wife then had a son who kept them on the run.
And he became my grandchild, for he was my daughter's son.
My wife is now my mother's mother, and it makes me blue,
because although she is my wife, she's my grandmother, too.

Now if my wife is my grandmother, then I am her grandchild.
And every time I think of it, it nearly drives me wild.
For now I have become the strangest case you ever saw.
Husband of my grandmother, I am my own grandpa.

I'm my own grandpa, I'm my own grandpa.
It sounds silly, I know, but it really is so, oh
I'm my own grandpa.

poem by Sheldon Allan Silverstein
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Hiram Helsel

Air -- "Three Grains of Corn"

Once was a boy, age fifteen years,
Hiram Helsel was his name,
And he was sick two years or so;
He has left this world of pain;
His friends they miss this lovely boy,
That was patient, kind and brave.
He left them all for him to mourn --
He is sleeping in his grave.

He was a small boy of his age,
When he was five years or so
Was shocked by lightning while to play
And it caused him not to grow,
He was called little Hi. Helsel
By all friends that knew him well --
His life was sad, as you shall hear,
And the truth to you I'll tell.

His parents parted when he was small,
And both are married again.
How sad it was for them to meet
And view his last remains.
He was living with his father then,
As many a friend can tell;
'Tis said his father's second wife
That she did not use him well.

Just before little Hiram died --
His uncle and aunt were there --
He kissed them both -- bid them farewell,
They left him with a prayer.
Now he is gone, Oh! let him rest;
His soul has found a haven,
For grief and woe ne'er enters there,
In that place called heaven.

poem by Julia A Moore
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Snow Sweet

the woman was walking
perhaps she was a grand mother
very old and old old old and ancient
like a walking monument
there left a bit of her femininity
her breasts
like long flat oven loaves of bread
towards the gravity
she tries to be ottoman
as she could be
and the years
nestled in her whitening hair
very difficult to weave or plait
a rough walking stick in her hand
hatred tapping on the ground
was shr walking
or the walking stick
one of her eyes
covered with a white stain
seeing clearly is in vain
a present from her mother in law
jealous of her son
when weaving a carpet
she was remembering her days
on horse ride
told a love story
her grand daughters gigled and laughed
never understood
sometimes she us of the
hard and harsh days
during the liberation battle against the greeks
invading our country
and of my father asa a veteran officer
returning from a long war
arabs killing turks
evoked by lawrence of arabia
who reached every area
she said
the trains whistled strangely and prosperously
when greeks retreated and defeated in our country
who were swept to the mediterranean sea
ytes those were the harsh and hard days
she had ever seen
she was very old
was it a garment
or an old and torn cloth she wore
nobody could guess any more
eas she walking
or the walking stick nobody understood
years on her piled
she was at the edge of death
her only last wish
toı taste the snow sweet
she loved the best
but nobody bothered to mix the snow
and the teacle for her
she had also small jack knife
just to peel the apples
she liked the apples too
but her teeth cannot bite
one evening
on a cold very cold winter day
she left this world
in a cold and desolate room
swearing everthing to all
shivering and alone
with white snow in her hands
and mouth
near the window pane
and in vain
they told me that
what a pity she was my auntie
I could notf appreciate and knew value
unless she died
she used to call my mother
our bride
honest to say
our bride looked after her very well
sometimes jealousy covered my soul
what a pity
one day
our bride too fled to infinity
like a bridal falling on trees on a cold winter day
both of them are I think now in heaven really
our bride mother and my old auntie
where who knows
looking well after each other
I wish I were there
who will look after me when I die
I wonder
If there were snow sweet there
If there is
I tooo wonder
who will
mix the snow and the treacle
to make snow sweet there

poem by Metin Sahin
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The man called My Father

My sister pointed a man on the road calling him our father
She had a faint smile hoping he would turn and smile back
I saw him walking away in a busy market wearing a suit
Perhaps a man on business while we stood like a failed investments

I asked my mother about the man called My father
She weakly smiled and kissed my chubby childhood cheeks
Years went by and that man often crossed my way, often smiled too
And i smiled back to the stranger who everyone called my father

We met once a while at his place greeting his new family
A mandatory yearly visits like paying homage to gods for life living
The man called my father looking at me with his guilty eyes
And i smiling at the stranger to the man who called himself my father

poem by Dechen Doma Sherpa
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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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A Song Of Joy And Sorrow

The literary critics tend to ignore me and my verses they don't even rate
I'm seen as lacking in inspiration without the genius to create
What one would call something of literary value something that would live on in time
I am one of the last poetasters to dabble in old fashioned rhyme.

When I am in the mood for singing songs of joy and sorrow I sing
The sorrow of the jilted lover, the joy of the lark on the wing
The babe he knows of joy and sorrow months before he learns to crawl
With such feelings we are familiar they are part of life after all.

The old bloke immersed in sorrow feels maudlin after a few beers
He thinks of the great love of his life a woman he's not seen for years,
She left him back in the late fifties when he was approaching his prime
It's not always true time is the healer, love's hurt doesn't always heal in time.

The happy face of the young mother as she holds her new born baby boy
A sibling for her year old daughter for her a moment of great joy
Her husband is only too happy to share in the joy with his wife,
A moment for them to remember and a memory to cherish for life.

So sing songs of joy and of sorrow if you feel like singing a song
They are such familiar emotions to living and life they belong,
Joy the happy mother of laughter and sorrow the father of tears
And they have been living together for millions and millions
of years.

poem by Francis Duggan
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I'm OK

Once upon a time there was a girl
In her early years she had to learn
How to grow up living in a war that she called home
Never know just where to turn for shelter from the storm
Hurt me to see the pain across my mother's face
Everytime my father's fist would put her in her place
Hearing all the yelling I would cry up in my room
Hoping it would be over soon

Bruises fade father

song performed by by Christina Aguilera from Stripped
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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That child

Eight years old and already hate life
Abused by her adopted mother
Raped by her adopted brother
She is just a child and she cant be more.

The bruises on her back keeps her silent
She cries at night till the pain is numb
And when he is on top of her she drifts away
Away from body away from spirit.

Nine years old and it continues
To protect her blood brother from the same
She pretends nothing is wrong
For him, trying so hard to be strong.

She cared so much for her blood brother
She took his bruises upon her self
And he was only a year younger
And they both were just kids.

Ten years old and he still knows nothing
She must be the best secret keeper
Or just a scarred girl who doesnt want her brother to know
Either way she is just a child.

Eleven years old nothing changes
Twelve years old she is getting fed up
The nights when he would come in and do what ever
Forced to mature before her time.

Fourteen she tells her adopted mother
And adopted mother beats her and the girl knows not why
Is it because the mother doesn't believe her
Or does not care enough for her feelings

Sixteen she tries to runaway
Her aunt talks to her so she goes back
Seventeen she moves out and graduate high school
What do you know she graduate with honors.

Eighteen she joins the military
Her blood brother still knows nothing
He see her for her success and not her struggle
That is how she want to keep it.

Her childhood was taking
She just met her birth father
Knows not her birth mother
Her biological brother is all she has

At Nineteen she wrote this poem.
And still remembers that child.

poem by Tressa Carliss
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First Teacher

First teacher is Mother
Next comes father
Mother gives birth
Mother is the earth
After five years
Father takes care
No substitute of
Father and mother
And they are ours
Life's newspaper.

poem by Gajanan Mishra
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The Bowl and The Spoon

i hear the sound of humanity's voices,
the sound of suffering and need.
i smell the fear, and i feel the anger,
of those left alone, the victims of greed.
i feel the hate of the guns and the bombing,
the terror of women and children.
i cry the tears and shed blood with them,
i hear the prayers of the dead for the living.
i feel the hunger of children left starving,
i am the anger of the unemployed in line.
i breathe the despair of those left homeless,
i am the hope of those looking for a sign.
i am the body that somehow god needed,
i am the ears the lonely pray for.
i am the eyes that see through the heart,
the prisoner walking through the last door.
i hear the sound of the baby crying,
i feel the mother walking across the room.
i am the father praying for work,
i am the bowl and i am the spoon.

poem by Eric Cockrell
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A photograph never grows old. You and I change, people change all through the months and years, but a photograph always remains the same. How nice to look at a photograph of mother or father taken many years ago. You see them as you remember them. But as people live on, they change completely. That is why I think a photograph can be kind.

quote by Albert Einstein
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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