0400 The Family
Seen from the back as
they walk along the dusty summer road, with
the sheep straying onto the verges where
a tuft of more succulent grass may linger
in the earlier shadow of
the noontime sun, under the low stone wall,
it’s difficult to see whether
the couple walking with the
gentle pace of conversation, are
son and father, or his grandfather; the man
seems older than the young fathers
around here. But from the front, when
you see their eyes, there’s no mistake –
they’re father (or stepfather?) and son all right, talking
with such attention, such respect
for one another.
They walk into the village, silently greeted, greeting,
with the gentle nodded glance of villagers
about their various tasks; and open up
the wooden door of the cool and tidy carpenters’
workshop open to the sunny air, where
a young mother gazes at the boy with
all the love in the world. It’s
in His eyes too.
poem by Michael Shepherd
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Related quotes
The Two on the Road
In later years, this day came back to you
as days of presence often do:
It’s the end of the midday break, and
the sun, already warm for Spring, is easing;
the sheep are grazing on the new grass;
two of them have jumped the low stone wall
to munch the juicier grass of the roadside ditch
which has spent the morning in dewy shadow.
Where the path to the stony fields
crosses the track back to the village,
you’ve found yourself walking just behind
a pair returning to the village,
father and son – or is it, grandfather?
You could overtake them, just to show
you mean no harm; but something about them
draws your attention; so you walk behind them
at a distance indicating that you know they know
you’re walking behind them, yet too far
to be listening to them…
which you’d dearly like to. They walk
slowly, deep in conversation,
this boy, this man; their relationship
catches your curiosity. You,
whose childhood was not always easy,
watch them with delight, a little mixed with envy;
you study their body language for some clues.
The man listens to the boy with such respect,
he could be a young grandfather,
marvelling that his son has fathered such a treasure,
quietly enjoying that unique blend
of bond and yet detachment which is grandfatherhood;
now and then, the boy touches his loose sleeve –
not in the way a child clutches, when he demands belief
in some tale of fantasy; more as if
the boy had discovered some gift
in what he says, and wants to share it with you.
And now and then,
the man touches the boy – as we do
when our child has said something so mature, so wise,
that we are speechless; and can only reach out
and touch them; as if some new relationship
had just been born; our touch
a mark of recognition beyond our words.
Just once, the boy turns his head, looks back at you,
briefly, but with that open look that village children often have,
when every stranger is a friendly curiosity;
you’re glad for him, of what that moment tells.
You follow them back to the village,
your curiosity aroused more than it should.
They open up the wooden front
of the lean-to where they ply their trade;
fascinated by their tender, deep relationship,
you’d really like to come back in an hour or so,
to look in on them, and hope to see the son
working on the wood as lovingly
as he has spoken to the man.. but
you decide against it. One day,
you might come back, request their careful skills -
perhaps a new cupboard for your house.
Their tidy, ordered workplace needs no craftsman’s signboard;
if there were, the villagers tell you when you gently ask,
it would be Joseph & Son.
poem by Michael Shepherd
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Oft saw my dad cry (to dad)
A father's love
Can never match
A mother's…
At least in
Children's eyes…
A father's love
Cannot be shown
As easily
As in
a mother's sighs
A father's love
Is of labor dear
More distant so by nature
than… in tender
nurture lies
A father's love
Is of hidden tears
And rarely
Shown raw
emotions
Held within
A rough façade
Of gentle heart…
Of kind and
Cloistered emotions
Fathers withhold
Within themselves
Caring feelings (and memories)
Of small smiles
And big wide eyes
Fathers hold back
Tears inside while…
drying other's eyes
Yet fathers weep Inside,
so deep…most children
Know not why
And more than once
I caught a peek of tears
In my dad's eyes
And on his cheek
Fathers are …
of stern stuff made
Yet fathers
…Often cry…
poem by David Whalen
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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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My Approach Comes With Much Love
Open and raise my eyes,
Dear Father.
Let me come to realize,
The magnificence of Your universe.
I thirst to be fed with Your Knowledge...
Wisdom and Compassion.
Open wide and clear my vision of this,
My Father.
And remove from me yet another veil...
On this plateau of a consciousness,
I have been made aware does, indeed, exist.
Open and raise my eyes,
Dear Father.
Let the brightness blaze upon my heart.
Let me come to realize,
The magnificence of Your universe.
So majestic...
My own existence of this,
Becomes more mysterious.
As I am here,
To do as You wish...
My Father.
And,
In the acceptance of this, My Dear Father...
Is it at all possible,
That You, Your Wonderment of Fantastic SuperSkills...
Could dropp me a couple of grants,
To cover my needs as I make attempts...
To ween myself from greed?
I'm just checking out possible options!
If You can do that for me, Dear Father...
We will remain snow-to-the-treetop tight,
Until You blow my heat away to cool off.
But,
I am hoping, Dear Father...
You will understand my approach comes,
With much love.
poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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Family Man
Written by lindsey buckingham and richard dashut.
Walk down this road
When the road gets rough
I fall down
I get up
I am what I am...
A family man
I am what I am...
A family man
Mother... father... brother...
Mother... father... brother...
Walk down this road
In the cool of the night
Dont know whats wrong
But I do know whats right
I am what I am...
A family man
I am what I am...
A family man
Mother... father... brother...
Mother... father... brother...
I am what I am...
A family man
I am what I am...
A family man
Mother... father... brother...
Mother... father... brother...
song performed by by Fleetwood Mac
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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In My Grandfather's Workshop
The stairs lead to the basement
And creaked just as they had
During the days leading to his passing
My grandfather loved woodcarving
The blessed mother smiles warmly in the kitchen
Surrounded by a halo of purple rosewood
My father and I filed silently into the old workshop
Where I had half expected all of his tools and works
To have been taken up with him
Body and soul
Every chisel remained unmoved on the great wooden bench
Every nail sat in it's cup - heads bowed in reverence
Time had stopped - all was quiet - all but the whispering furnace
The shepherd was gone - the sheep are lost
Small handwritten valentines were tacked on the wall
A reminder - that the love never left
poem by C.S. Smith
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Miasma
Eyes wide open…
But truly closed…
As to life in the…
Real world…
Seeing only that which…
Shine…
Shame on you…
You heard what your…
Mother said…
Your father and other…
Elders…
Yet…you see not…
An unwholesome atmosphere…
For which you run wild…
Looking …
Right at what is going wrong…
In your life…
Not even thinking twice…
It’s boy this…
Or boy that…
Not concerned with getting phat…
Mom is talking…
You are walking…
One foot out of the door…
Your other foot never reaching…
The floor…
Ear plugged to the phone…
It’s on…
Breathing back to back…
Talking on the fast track…
Boy this…
And boy that…
No worry of becoming phat…
Imagine that…
Some would like to lay claim., .
To the getting phat fame…
Mostly hood dames…
You know…
Those who come and go…
Like Satan in the bible…
Going to and fro…
Eyes wide open…
Hoping you have a demarcation line…
Which would surely be fine…
For you at this time…
Whisperkwane
[email protected]
poem by whisperkwane Lamb
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Father
Father I come to you with open arms, wanting to feel your spirit.
Place my feet on Holy ground, open my ears to hear your glorious sound. Open my eyes so I will see, take wasted fear away from me.
Father give me the hope I need to survive, allow me many years to stay alive. Father you are the one I truly love, please send me your blessings from above.
Father walk with me, see me through, I’ll always keep my trust in you. Forgive me Father you know I’ve sinned, a little tap perhaps
upon my chin.
Father I’ve listened to those with false charm, placing myself in the way of harm. Thank you for being in the midst, with open
arms and a Heavenly kiss.
Father when the night is lonely and the tears come through, I desperately need to think of you. Please take away all the strife, allow me to enjoy my life.
Father when I’m weak and meet many a stumbling block and can’t make sense of here nor there, then take me Father, far away, so I may start a brand new day.
Father I ask this prayer in the name of your son “Jesus Christ” our living Savior, sweet, sweet Jesus.
Written: Oct.6,2007
poem by Melvina Germain
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Save Them Father
Father you are always on my mind, I love you Father and trust
in you with all my heart. I have no questions for your decisions,
my faith is strong and true.
Father I’m in awe when I look around this world, when I stand
and take in the awesome views, I know this is the work of the
Master, and that Master for certain is you.
This morning Father I pray for those without faith, who can not
see pass their noses. They have eyes that function, but they
truly can not see.
Father give these blind people the ability to come out from their
deadened shells, touch them with your spirit, let them see the
light.
Oh Father God, drench them with your love so they make no
mistake. Take them by the hand so some day they too will
walk through Heaven’s Gate.
Father sometime young people are taken in by those who have
no interest in their soul but only in the money that they hold.
The devil’s people live among us, taking advantage of many.
Your children need your guidance Father and your continued
patience for I truly believe some day they will come out of the
darkness, walk into the light and face the truth.
Father I leave these people to you, in your caring hands. May
they make Jesus the center of their lives and join their brothers
and sisters who know the truth, save them Father.
I Love you Father and I ask this Lord in the name of your only
Son Jesus.-Amen
Written: Sept.30,2007
poem by Melvina Germain
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Male parental hierarchy.
My parents are two, grandparents four
And great grandparents, eight and so on.
I am known by my father, his father,
And his father and so on by male side.
My mother, her mother and father, their
Mother and father and so on are ignored.
My fathers’ mother and grandfather’s
Mother and so on go to oblivion.
I am known by my father, his father
And his father and so on as a family.
All women from whom I have drawn
Their genes have been shut out.
Parental hierarchy is represented
By male, women dislodged at every stage.
25.08.2009
poem by Rm. Shanmugam Chettiar
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The Question
Love, a question
has destroyed you.
I have come back to you
from thorny uncertainty.
I want you straight as
the sword or the road.
But you insist
on keeping a nook
of shadow that I do not want.
My love,
understand me,
I love all of you,
from eyes to feet, to toenails,
inside,
all the brightness, which you kept.
It is I, my love,
who knocks at your door.
It is not the ghost, it is not
the one who once stopped
at your window.
I knock down the door:
I enter your life:
I come to live in your soul:
you cannot cope with me.
You must open door to door,
you must obey me,
you must open your eyes
so that I may search in them,
you must see how I walk
with heavy steps
along all the roads
that, blind, were waiting for me.
Do not fear,
I am yours,
but
I am not the passenger or the beggar,
I am your master,
the one you were waiting for,
and now I enter
your life,
no more to leave it,
love, love, love,
but to stay.
poem by Pablo Neruda
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A conversation; or, dialectic
They walk down the passage,
enter the room,
as if called to some formal gathering
of honour to be bestowed;
humility and dignity together
make them beautiful; watchers
see this, feel this too.
Seated, they glance into each other’s eyes;
they barely know each other, yet
glance with the level, cool respect
of equality; and of precise love:
a love of what they treasure in themself
offered to another who is not other.
And they begin to talk about some mighty topic:
listen intently to the other; then
at the finish of each offering,
a pause as if the angels listen:
you can hear humility, dignity
in that sacred pause; and then
the other offers speech;
their eyes shine; the honour of this event
warms their blood almost to tears of truth.
The air around them turns to ether;
as if their very talk has purified the space;
the space where, as they talk,
it seems as though there’s one who listens..
They are explorers in an unknown land,
a new world where they listen to
their own speech as a new thing explained,
yet spoken as if always known;
nor is the air around them, private:
they could be that couple over there
in the tea-shop’s gentle buzz,
so elevated, that at other tables,
teacup poised, politely covert glance
brings all the teashop’s visitors
into that place where love and knowledge meet.
The conversation reaches its appointed end,
which both recognise; some sublime honour
has been bestowed; and from within themselves;
rapt and yet surrendering,
they walk away through crowded streets, the air
around them, should you notice, breathes
humility and dignity. As if, accosted by any stranger,
they would continue that same conversation
on mountain, woodland, beach, or busy street;
in that place where love and knowledge meet.
poem by Michael Shepherd
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Freedom, as you have others too have it
Cool moisture laden breeze
Early morning
Just brightened eastern horizon
Dispersed sunlight
Bright enough for a brisk morn walk
I was on that
When I saw a sweet little street dog
Moving in a strait close to its mother
Enjoying freedom
Zigzagging the road
Glancing front and forth
By the sides as well
Demonstrating a desire
To be noted by all that
It can walk alone
And at a speed of its mother
Mother dog keeping a watch
At all possible vulnerable locations
It looked as if
The mother dog is training her offspring
For a full time free go later
Any way, it was nice
To watch this demonstration of freedom
And a care free moving of a
Young living being
My pleasure was not to last more
As one more trainee appeared on the road
The boy was riding a gearless two wheeler
Presumably, with his dad sitting on the back
And training
The trainee on the walk
And the trainee on the wheels
Met at a point
When the former overstepped
On the route of the latter
The latter did not expect this to happen
And failed to apply brake
Injuring, luckily, only lightly our walking dog trainee
Trainee on the walk
Realized its mistake
And was now walking
As a polite soldier following the path of the captain
But slightly limping
Trainee on the wheels proceeded further
As if nothing happened
Freedom does not necessarily mean
That you are totally free
As others too have it
poem by Bashyam Narayanan
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Father Told
Father Told
i
Father told, ink filled pen causes writing
I poured ink into pen and started to write.
ii
Father told, the door if knocked
Some one or other will open that
I knocked at the door
From other side the door opened.
iii
Father advised me to walk carefully
I proceeded step by step
But I stumbled on the walking way
Father told, this is ornaments of walking path.
iv
Father asked to return back at practical world
From the world at poetic imagination
I returned back at practical world
And started to proceed
That walking path of mine followed me.
v
Father advised to read and learn
I read book and learnt
Also informed the neighbors
They learnt, taught and informed
Their surroundings.
vi
Father advised me to behave gently with all
I behaved gently with all, but
Some persons misbehaved with me
Father told me to be forgiving
So, I forgave them.
vii
Father told, open your incite, you will
Find everything is easy- straight and charming
No sooner I opened my incite
Infinite butterfly built their dwelling there.
viii
Through eye that you see
That is only present
Through mind that you see is past, present and future
I closed my eye and spread
I spread mind at wings of butterfly.
ix
Father told, every moment is under control of creature.
Even a leaf moves at his direction.
I listened, flying at sky as cloud
Falling in dropp as rain- bloomed as flower
And I extended over the air as aroma.
x
Father told, physique of creature dies, not soul
I close eye and become the king
Of far unknown kingdom.
xi
Father told, sun rises in the east
And sun sets in the west
I heard, saw and believed.
poem by Bongokobida Zakaria
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My Stepmother (for Edgar Andrade Baguio)
When my stepmother first came, her eyes were sharp and bright as little
knives. Her youth and my childhood ran into each other - she was the victor.
Although my father was still alive, I felt orphaned, depressed and alone,
crying by myself, grew up alone. In the first year of peace, everyone drifted.
My father went out - returned with gray hair. I have my father to compensate
me for the loss of my childhood. Sometimes vague envy found father sitting
in silent expectation...
A decade goes by. My stepmother is still as beautiful as at first, though older.
She returns to ask my father to forgive her mistake: My half sister has
another half sister. My heart was no longer jealous - I only felt sorry for my
half sister, who was really too young... I hoped she would not find herself
once more on a tipping wagon. My father died, rain poured down in the
courtyard. My tears gleaned some contentment: Mother and father together
now, forever.
After that she aged quickly, solitary, silent as a shadow, her eyes no longer
sharp as knives. When my son entered the world, she was the first to carry
him, she who changed him the first time, placed him in the gently rocking
hammock. My half-sister asked her mother, only half-joking, Will you favor
my first child this way? Lullabies contain no riddles and tears run down
forever. My stepmothers silent eyes smiled brightly when my son threw
himself into her arms: 'Grandma! '
- Thanh Nguyen's narrative poetry
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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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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Deadman Walking
The enemy is at the door
The enemy within.
Dressed up in the strangest clothes,
Smells of drinking Bombay gin.
There's a deadman walking
And his shadow's growing long.
There's a deadman walking
Taking it in
before his time is gone.
My father was a Russian Jew
My Irish mother crazy.
I see summer, winter, fall.
When grown men
cry like babies.
There's a deadman walking
And his shadow's growing long.
There's a deadman walking
Taking it in
before his time is gone.
Solo
Wish I never had to leave.
Wish I'd never known.
Wish I could stay here forever.
Watch my garden grow.
There's a deadman walking
And his shadow's growing long.
There's a deadman walking
Taking it in
before his time is gone.
There's a deadman talking
And his shadow's growing long.
There's a deadman talking
Taking it in
before his time is gone.
There's a deadman walking
deadman walking
deadman talking
song performed by by Ufo
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Gentle On My Mnd
It's knowin' that your door is always open
And you path is free to walk
That makes me tend to keep my sleeping bag rolled up
And stashed behind your couch
It's knowin' I'm not shackled
By forgotten words and bonds
And the heat stains that have dried up on some lovin'
That keeps you in the back roads
By the rivers of my memory
It keeps you ever gentle on my mind
It's not clinging to the rocks and ivy
Planted on their columns mellowed by me
Or something that somebody said
Because they thought we'd fit together walking
It's just knowing that the world will not be cursin'
Or forgiving when I walk along some railroad track and find
That you're moving on the back roads
By the rivers of my memory and for hours
You're just gentle on my mind
Though the wheat fields and the clothes lines
And the junk yards and the highways come between us
And some other woman's cryin' to her mother
'Cause she turned and I was gone
I still might run in silence
Till' the join might stain my face
And the summer sun might burn me 'till I'm blind
But not to where I cannot see you
Walking in the back roads
By the rivers flowing gently on my mind
I dip my cup of soup from a gurgling,
cracking cauldron in some train yard
I'm barely runnin' cold how
Have a dirty hat pulled low across my face
Who cupped hands around the tin cans
I pretend to hold you to my breast and find
That you're wavin' from the back roads
By the rivers of my memory
Ever smiling never changes on my mind
song performed by by Elvis Presley
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Time Travelers of Darkness
Outside the court house there is a photo
A picture of three only it isn't three
Outside there wakens one in the canyon
Who sees the sun in the light of your eyes
Standing in your tower you return
century after century
Time traveler from the depths of terror
Your legacy is yours alone
And when they walk to the road and see
There can't be another so beautiful
But the planned and the deemed are free
And the smirks on the faces of the wise
Will give their hollow hearts away every time
Don't tell too much or else you will be walking
Back down that devils canyon into the abyss
And that long road to nowhere is a road well traveled
For the souls of darkness of the father of the son
Of the father of the son Of the father of the son …..
The clock it is broken and so is one so lovely
Time is all wrong and can't speak for itself.
Only those who sleep will ever see how time flies
And when you have escaped the limits of time
Your soul also shall walk down that lonely canyon
Just walking, no talking, of the father and of the son…
Sleeping now their anger is no longer free to walk the earth
The girls are finally free, the girls are finally safe.
Fly free little doves of darkness, and little doves of light….
Never to return to the canyon of darkness, the canyon of light..
This verse is a bizarre one indeed
And the words of the message
are finally freed.
But the one who would revel
At the message it tells
Is wandering in the darkness of
His own personal hell..
And forever shall be...
poem by Lynne FincherSpringarden
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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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