0037 To, for, Sheila W.
This evening, I thought of you
after, how long, forty years:
you, sitting across the oak table
in the old forge's kitchen, that John had made
from salvaged shop fittings,
his sleeves rolled up, workmanly care
mixed on his face with amused dissatisfaction;
you, looking across at me with a girlish joy
which, daughter, wife, mother, grandmother,
was always there – a girlish joy
that could hardly believe its luck
to find its understanding in another;
enthusiastic excitement rising like a blush;
then a little check of breath, as if
in company, courtesy required
it be controlled, or else
it would flood out and fill the room,
burst open the doors, out across the fields,
to seek out every other soul that welcomed it…
in such a moment shared, (it is as if)
one knows everything one needs to know
of earth; of heaven.
poem by Michael Shepherd
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An event to recall on Mother's Day - That mother is no one other than me
Summer evening
Sun still harsh
Me, then fourteen
My mother's younger sister
Came forward to tell
A story about a mother
Mumbai, then Bombay
Highrise residential quarters
Fourth floor
Big Hall
Two big bed rooms
Two baths
Big kitchen
Grill-less windows
Free flow of air
Lot natural light
A mother in the kitchen
Preparing food
For her husband
And their three sons
The youngest about two years old
Left on the kitchen table
Mother being busy around
The child not seen now
Mother realised just then
Would have slipped
Across the open window
She was right
The child has fallen
But on the sun shade
About four feet below
Her two year old son
On an open sun shade
Not less than forty feet
Above the ground level
No time to lose
No time waiting for help
From outside
Mother too slowly
Slipped about four feet onto the
Just two feet wide sun shade
Picked up the child
Put him onto the kitchen work table
Managed to climb back to her kitchen
I was thrilled
I was to ask a number of questions
One important being
Is the mother is so courageous
My aunt finished telling
That mother is no one other than me
And that son is no one other than
My third son
Both that mother and son
Are safe, living and active
poem by Bashyam Narayanan
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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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Making a Memory
Languishing prostrate
Sultry sun melding our senses
We lay, and we talked
My daughter and I
Under a summer's evening sky.
Whispering secrets
Exchanging ludicrous viewpoints
On freedom to love.
My daughter and I
Under a waning twight sky.
Skipping out seawards
Through late lazy wavelets, swimming
midst wet girlish glee.
My daughter and I
Under that memorable sky.
Fingering hot food
Barbeque roasted and spicy
Warming the moments
My daughter and I
Shared under that magical
moonlit
mid-summer
marvellous
sky.
The Same Mother
They each shared
the same mother
shared the same loss of her
when the time came
gave the same
last wave
when she was
driven off
to crematorium
and then grave
but each had
their own mother
whom they shared
with no other
one with whom
they shared
a particular time
or place
sitting quietly
face to face
sharing a secret
or confessing
a deed done
or just
the mother to child meeting
with just the two
at some given time
at some particular place
some given year
to share a problem
or tears or anxieties
or deeper fears
and knowing
she would listen
as only mother's can
or do
sharing the time and love
with each particular
person called you
whether daughter or son
she shared
her equal love and time
and yet each knew her
each thought
they knew her best
and carried away
their own best times
in her company
without the rest
their own moments shared
but deep down
they knew
she had her love for each
and each was equal
to the rest
for she never had
a favourite
nor considered
any one the best
so they all shared
the same mother
in the end
all grieved her going
each in their own way
hoping or believing
they would share her
once again
some better place
some future day.
poem by Terry Collett
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My Grandmother
When she would talk about her mother,
it was as though there were another person in the room
She could see her mother in her mind;
It was as if my grandmother was dancing across the kitchen floor
It was as if she were talking about an imaginary person
who was not in the room
Her mother was in her mind
My mother was standing on the kitchen floor, cleaning a glass, and thinking of my grandmother
I could see it through the silence
poem by Samuel Stuart Pennell
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Everyday Life And Chocolate
Everyday life and Chocolate.
A sweet shop in the middle of nowhere, I had bought a box of chocolate,
but had no money, the owner took my sack of hay given to me by a farmer
to make a mattress, as payment. Now I sleep on top of a big kitchen table
for fear of rats. When I get up at night to drink water, I can hear them
hissing under the floor board. The candy man’s daughter is dying, she has
always been in love with her image and can’t bear the thought of parting.
from her mirror. Last night I fell off the kitchen table, dreamed I was back
at sea and my ship was pitching and rolling, bet it gave the rats a fright.
The phone rang it was my mother, couldn’t hear what she said, bad line
between heaven and earth. Went to the candy man’s daughter’s funeral
the casket was decorated with colourful sweets and expensive chocolate,
the sermon was light hearted the priest looked as he was on a high. I don’t
eat chocolate anymore, but live on raw carrots. So slim you are fat people
tell me; my diet is carrots I say and the rush to the green grocer to buy some,
but they continue to eat sweets. Things are looking up the farmer gave me
another sack of hay and a rat catching terrier, and every morning it puts
the night’s catch on the kitchen table.
poem by Oskar Hansen
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Bid Adieu to Maidenhood
Bid adieu, adieu, adieu,
Bid adieu to girlish days,
Happy Love is come to woo
Thee and woo thy girlish ways—
The zone that doth become thee fair,
The snood upon thy yellow hair,
When thou hast heard his name upon
The bugles of the cherubim
Begin thou softly to unzone
Thy girlish bosom unto him
And softly to undo the snood
That is the sign of maidenhood.
poem by James Joyce
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My Rival
I go to concert, party, ball --
What profit is in these?
I sit alone against the wall
And strive to look at ease.
The incense that is mine by right
They burn before her shrine;
And that's because I'm seventeen
And She is forty-nine.
I cannot check my girlish blush,
My color comes and goes;
I redden to my finger-tips,
And sometimes to my nose.
But She is white where white should be,
And red where red should shine.
The blush that flies at seventeen
Is fixed at forty-nine.
I wish I had Her constant cheek;
I wish that I could sing
All sorts of funny little songs,
Not quite the proper thing.
I'm very gauche and very shy,
Her jokes aren't in my line;
And, worst of all, I'm seventeen
While She is forty-nine.
The young men come, the young men go
Each pink and white and neat,
She's older than their mothers, but
They grovel at Her feet.
They walk beside Her 'rickshaw wheels --
None ever walk by mine;
And that's because I'm seventeen
And She is foty-nine.
She rides with half a dozen men,
(She calls them "boys" and "mashers")
I trot along the Mall alone;
My prettiest frocks and sashes
Don't help to fill my programme-card,
And vainly I repine
From ten to two A.M. Ah me!
Would I were forty-nine!
She calls me "darling," "pet," and "dear,"
And "sweet retiring maid."
I'm always at the back, I know,
She puts me in the shade.
She introduces me to men,
"Cast" lovers, I opine,
For sixty takes to seventeen,
Nineteen to foty-nine.
But even She must older grow
And end Her dancing days,
She can't go on forever so
At concerts, balls and plays.
One ray of priceless hope I see
Before my footsteps shine;
Just think, that She'll be eighty-one
When I am forty-nine.
poem by Rudyard Kipling
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Ireland
They say mother earth is breathing
With each wave that finds the shore
Her soul rises in the evening
For to open twilights door
Her eyes are the stars in heaven
Watching oer us all the while
And her heart it is in ireland
Deep within the emerald isle.
We are forty against hundreds
In someone elses bloody war
We know not why were fighting
Or what were dying for
They will storm us in the morning
When the sunlight turns to sky
Death is waiting for its dance now
Fate has sentenced us to die.
(chorus)
Ireland I am coming home
I can see your rolling fields of green
And fences made of stone.
I am reaching out wont you take my hand
Im coming home ireland.
Oh the captain he lay bleeding
I can hear him calling me
These men are yours now for the leading
Show them to their destiny
And as I look up all around me
I see the ragged tired and torn
I tell them to make ready
cause were not waiting for the morn.
*chorus*
Now the fog is deep and heavy
As we forge the dark and fear
We can hear their horses breathing
As in silence we draw near
There are no words to be spoken
Just a look to say good-bye
I draw a breath and night is broken
As I scream our battle cry.
*chorus*
I am home ireland
song performed by by Garth Brooks
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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A Love With No Regret
I look at the exit door and i see her,
With the mirage of her shadows from afar.
I look at the past and i see her smile,
A smile that lasted for a while.
She was once my heaven grace,
Now leaving with no trace.
She was my last solution,
But now irritate like pollution.
She once brought happiness,
Now that happiness is lost in this time of darkness.
I thought she was sent from heaven,
Made with all the beauties of heaven.
But i was so wrong of her,
Cos she was never αs amazing like the stars.
I once thought we would have a great future,
Each time i stare at her picture.
I once thought that she could be a great wife,
And that together we would have a wonderful life.
I once gave her my heart,
When we began from the start.
I wonder how it all went wrong,
That made us not to last long.
Then i realised that we were never meant for each other,
For there is no future with us together.
Now she is gone for good,
Far away from my neighbourhood.
I will cherish the moment we had,
Those moment that weren't bad.
I will never forget how happy we were,
That made us forget about our fears.
Those times that gave us joy and fulfillment,
That also brought us contemptment.
I can look back now with no regret,
That i met someone like you on earth.
For you thought me a lesson,
That will open doors to more blessing.
In spite of all that happened you will still remain in my heart,
For when you left you never tore it apart.
My door of friendship will always remain open,
Anytime you want our love story book to be reopen.
poem by Stanley Oguh
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The Swifts (1)
The swifts have no strength any more to retain,
To check the light-blue evening coolness.
It burst from their breasts, from their throats, under strain
And flows out of hand in its fullness.
There is not a thing that could stop them, up there,
From shrilly, exultedly crying,
Exclaiming: The earth has made off to nowhere,
O look! It has vanished - O triumph!
As cauldrons of water are ended in steam
When quarrelsome bubbles are rising -
Look - there is no room for the earth - from the seam
Of the gorge to the drawn-out horizon!
poem by Boris Pasternak
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My playmates
The wind comes whispering to me of the country green and cool--
Of redwing blackbirds chattering beside a reedy pool;
It brings me soothing fancies of the homestead on the hill,
And I hear the thrush's evening song and the robin's morning trill;
So I fall to thinking tenderly of those I used to know
Where the sassafras and snakeroot and checkerberries grow.
What has become of Ezra Marsh, who lived on Baker's hill?
And what's become of Noble Pratt, whose father kept the mill?
And what's become of Lizzie Crum and Anastasia Snell,
And of Roxie Root, who 'tended school in Boston for a spell?
They were the boys and they the girls who shared my youthful play--
They do not answer to my call! My playmates--where are they?
What has become of Levi and his little brother Joe,
Who lived next door to where we lived some forty years ago?
I'd like to see the Newton boys and Quincy Adams Brown,
And Hepsy Hall and Ella Cowles, who spelled the whole school down!
And Gracie Smith, the Cutler boys, Leander Snow, and all
Who I am sure would answer could they only hear my call!
I'd like to see Bill Warner and the Conkey boys again
And talk about the times we used to wish that we were men!
And one--I shall not name her--could I see her gentle face
And hear her girlish treble in this distant, lonely place!
The flowers and hopes of springtime--they perished long ago,
And the garden where they blossomed is white with winter snow.
O cottage neath the maples, have you seen those girls and boys
That but a little while ago made, oh! such pleasant noise?
O trees, and hills, and brooks, and lanes, and meadows, do you know
Where I shall find my little friends of forty years ago?
You see I'm old and weary, and I've traveled long and far;
I am looking for my playmates--I wonder where they are!
poem by Eugene Field
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I am going to be working on bathroom fittings for a company in the USA, and then I thought it was appropriate to simplify the fittings and, thus, lowering the cost.
quote by Arne Jacobsen
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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My Angel Daughter
My Angel Daughter
You came into this world
Was treasured forever.
An angel sent from heaven above
For my pride heart to embrace.
My pride heart is overflowing
With the marvel of a love like
I have never acknowledged.
When I cuddled you in my arms
It was magical! A touch no other
But my motherhood could offer.
Truly the passion required no words.
Your gorgeous face
Is something I admire to see each day?
With a single word of love to intensity
As you are so cute and amazingly lucid
Your eyes soften me with emotion
So powerful it is beyond belief.
A caring and unconditional love
That shines from them, that…
Makes me tremble with excitement
For our life to start a journey
Each day your smile seal
my heart with a happiness
To have you in my life daughter
is truly a blessing!
Whenever my cute daughter you embrace me,
I hope you by no means let go from me
I will always embrace you back,
And this I hope you know...........
How much I desire for you to be with me
You’re my angel daughter, my sweetest daughter,
Everything I desire you to be.
You’re my angel daughter sent from god,
To share my life with you.
Maybe one day we meet again,
In other circumstances and…
I promise to you yet again
My unconditional love and devotion.
For I will treasure each day
That God provide me and you,
Our own little piece of heaven on earth.
In which we can live forever
God bless you my angel daughter...
With health, wealth and happiness of peace
God bless you with all you necessitate in life.
You are my angel daughter....
I love you so.....
On summer evening a month of June,21 years ago I gave birth to a cute loving daughter, which was a very excitement day for both of us to see her softness and the way she embrace in my arms. Today she is grown up as a beautiful woman. One day she will leave my side to build her future and family like me.
Copyright; Ezna 12/Nov/ 2009
poem by Ezna Stephna
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Her Sexuality
Even her mother
never knew
how much
sexuality boiled
beneath the surface
how much
she thought of it
when sitting down
in some cafe
watching men
at some nearby table
fantasizing
about them
dreaming about
what they might do
if she allowed
or while sitting
at the office typing
her mind on things
which’d make
her mother blush
the mighty rush
of images
and desires
and old Mr Fleet
talking to her
about some work
not knowing that fires
burned beneath
her flesh and skirt
that she made love
to herself
while in bed
while others slept
and even Kennedy
the office ram
would have choked
on things she did
in dreams or wrote
in her locked up diary
and once
when some girlfriend
of her brother’s
stayed the night
and shared her room
and bed
she fantasised
of touching
and turning over
and kissing
all in the mind
she told herself
just one of those things
and even later
when she finally married
and lay beside him
at night having
sucked him dry
she’d stared
out the window
at the silver moon
in the dark sky.
poem by Terry Collett
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A Daughter
The moment she's born is a blessed thing,
Joy to the world, let us rejoice and sing;
The moment she smiles takes your breath away,
So precious is she, she's mine you say;
The moment she stands you begin to weep,
For the future is coming and soon she will leave;
The moment she speaks the world seems to stop,
Amazement and wonder as you fall back and drop;
The moment she grabs you and speaks so true,
Tears stream down your face, for she said 'I love you.'
A daughter's a gift, a reminder so clear,
Her mother she looks like, you can only cheer;
A daughter's a gift, protect her you must,
By God's mighty hand, there's no one you trust;
A daughter's a gift, and in her you'll find,
Compassion and love, a heart so kind;
A daughter's a gift from the heavens above,
For there is hope in this world now, full of love.
April
April, April,
Laugh thy girlish laughter;
Then, the moment after,
Weep thy girlish tears!
April, that mine ears
Like a lover greetest,
If I tell thee, sweetest,
All my hopes and fears,
April, April,
Laugh thy golden laughter,
But, the moment after,
Weep thy golden tears!
poem by William Watson
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Song
APRIL, April,
Laugh thy girlish laughter;
Then, the moment after,
Weep thy girlish tears!
April, that mine ears
Like a lover greetest,
If I tell thee, sweetest,
All my hopes and fears,
April, April,
Laugh thy golden laughter,
But, the moment after,
Weep thy golden tears!
poem by William Watson
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The Son Never Shines (On Closed Doors)
I saw her there from afar
Her hair grey charcoal
Takes a drag from her tar
I kissed her a smile
But her blood red shot eye
Said the son never shines on closed doors
It's been eight long years since I saw
The woman who's labored
Since the day I was born
These wrinkles now face
To that cold dark damp place
Where the son never shines on closed doors
She said the son never shines on closed doors
I open to find only hurricanes blow
Take me away back to the green fields of May
Because the son never shines on closed doors
Death comes like a theif in the night
To steal while you sleep
The soul's flickering licght
Well maybe it's then
She said
song performed by by Flogging Molly from Drunken Lullabies
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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To H.a.b. On My Forty-seventh Birthday
WHEN one is forty years and seven,
Is seven and forty sad years old,
He looks not onward for his Heaven,
The future is too blank and cold,
Its pale flowers smell of graveyard mould;
He looks back to his lifeful past;
If age is silver, youth is gold:-
Could youth but last, could youth but last!
He turns back toward his youthful past
A-throb with life and love and hope,
Whose long-dead joys in memory last,
Whose shining days had ample scope;
He turns and lingers on the slope
Whose dusk leads down to sightless death:-
The sun once crowned that darkening cope,
And song once thrilled this weary breath.
Ali, he plods wearily to death,
Adown the gloaming into night,
But other lives breathe joyous breath
In morning's boundless golden light;
Their feet are swift, their eyes are bright,
Their hearts beat rhythms of hope and love,
Their being is a pure delight
In earth below and heaven above.
And you have hope and joy and love,
And you have youth's abounding life,
Whose crystal currents flow above
The stones and sands of care and strife.
May all your years with joys be rifc,
May you grow calmly to your prime,
A maiden sweet, a cherished wife,
A happy mother in due time.
All good you wish me, past my prime,
I wish with better hope to you,
And richer blessings than old Time
And Fate or Fortune found my due:
For you are kind and good and true,
And so when you are forty-seven
May spouse and children in your view
Make Home the happiest life-long Heaven.
poem by James Thomson
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