Crime
It must be midnight; no idea
Anyhow the darkness is horrible
And not a single star remains in the sky.
An infant's cry very loud; non stop
Deaf father still not sleep and mother is dead already
Nobody knows.
There isn't a single meal in her stomach.
Infant's cry continues.
A retired and a senile magistrate who never sleeps lives at the next door raided the cottage.
Does he strangle the child?
*I dedicate this poem to street children of the World who doesn't have an identity.
poem by Nimal Dunuhinga
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Related quotes
THIS IS OUR WORLD! ! (SHOCKING n EXPLICIT)
Where a child lives in a warm mother's cocoon
Where a child is sold to the prostitutes, her life doomed
Where a father fiercely protects his child
Yet another father enters another's child
Where children play without any fear
Where men enter boys through the rear
Where a child gets a new toy every day
Where a child becomes a toy near the bay
Where a child is whooped up and twirled
Where a child is forced down and hurled
Where they go to fancy schools, sing and play
Where for a single meal, they sweat and labour all day
poem by Renu Rakheja
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From the diary of a Dowager
She is still smart in her forties and lives in her manor childless.
The land, poultry, vineyard and the whole wealth,
She holds from her deceased husband.
The old parents and the servants lived together.
Her brother-in-law, husband's elder brother
Who was a retired war veteran a senile lives behind the manor in the old haystack.
She doesn't like to marry again and refused all the proposals the parents brought.
'I live my entire life in single' She grumbled.
The classical music gives her courage to pass the time.
Her senile brother-in-law who died in sleep and they buried him near by the haystack.
Exactly after a fortnight of the funeral the complaint was made by a servant that she was pregnant by the deceased Master.
The lady was shocked and she is very kind and promised the servant to adopt the child after the birth.
She adopts the servant's beautiful daughter.
And the servant took hands the old Gardner?
poem by Nimal Dunuhinga
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Mom Said 'Remember Them
The childless, Father remember them
they are termed barren
the subject-matter of in-laws
the meal of their evil tongues
remember them.
The single ladies, Oh Father
it's their will to have family
a husband and children
but it ain't their wish to be single
remember them.
The widow, My Father
give them love they miss
their integrity is questioned
their cries, watch it father
remember them.
Those your daughters, Father
facing intimidation
them: street's laughingstock
they have no peace in heart
shame on them can't be bore
remember them FATHER.
poem by Fate Mcfate
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Missing Link
A sickly child lie
frail on the sofa in the living room.
A knock on the door,
His mother opened.
The man who entered the child knew it was his father.
Whose child is this?
“It is your youngest son” his mother said.
The children in the street
all had a father; the child had waited for him.
But his father ignored him,
gave chocolate to his sister and brother,
then he drank from a bottle,
his mother threw him out.
Next day asked his mother, ” are you sure he is my father? ”
She slapped her son’s face and cried.
poem by Oskar Hansen
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The mother and the artist
A mother might bear just a single child in 9 months; but an artist blossoms
into an infinite children of wonderfully emollient freshness; every
unfurling instant of impregnably magnificent existence,
A mother might bear just a single child in 9 months; but an artist blossoms
into an infinite children of spellbindingly undefeated innocence; every
unfurling instant of symbiotically pristine existence,
A mother might bear just a single child in 9 months; but an artist blossoms
into an infinite children of timelessly unconquerable truth; every unfurling
instant of bounteously magnanimous existence,
A mother might bear just a single child in 9 months; but an artist blossoms
into an infinite children of unfathomably unfettered creativity; every
unfurling instant of timelessly burgeoning existence,
A mother might bear just a single child in 9 months; but an artist blossoms
into an infinite children of royally triumphant resplendence; every
unfurling instant of unconquerably majestic existence,
A mother might bear just a single child in 9 months; but an artist blossoms
into an infinite children of eternally exhilarating vivaciousness; every
unfurling instant of redolently insuperable existence,
A mother might bear just a single child in 9 months; but an artist blossoms
into an infinite children of unbelievably ameliorating optimism; every
unfurling instant of marvelously benign existence,
A mother might bear just a single child in 9 months; but an artist blossoms
into an infinite children of brilliantly liberated camaraderie; every
unfurling instant of iridescently inscrutable existence,
A mother might bear just a single child in 9 months; but an artist blossoms
into an infinite children of unshakably virgin righteousness; every
unfurling instant of beautifully untainted existence,
A mother might bear just a single child in 9 months; but an artist blossoms
into an infinite children of uninhibitedly heavenly frolic; every unfurling
instant of tantalizingly sensuous existence,
A mother might bear just a single child in 9 months; but an artist blossoms
into an infinite children of compassionately humanitarian friendship; every
unfurling instant of magically mitigating existence,
A mother might bear just a single child in 9 months; but an artist blossoms
into an infinite children of miraculously everlasting freshness; every
unfurling instant of invincibly coalescing existence,
A mother might bear just a single child in 9 months; but an artist blossoms
into an infinite children of pricelessly ubiquitous oneness; every unfurling
instant of robustly blessed existence,
A mother might bear just a single child in 9 months; but an artist blossoms
into an infinite children of unbreakably Omnipotent desire; every unfurling
instant of victoriously effulgent existence,
A mother might bear just a single child in 9 months; but an artist blossoms
into an infinite children of unceasingly reinvigorating fantasy; every
unfurling minute of poignantly charismatic existence,
A mother might bear just a single child in 9 months; but an artist blossoms
into an infinite children of insurmountably intrepid enchantment; every
unfurling minute of rhapsodically unhindered existence,
A mother might bear just a single child in 9 months; but an artist blossoms
into an infinite children of Omnisciently tranquil serenity; every unfurling
instant of endlessly bestowing existence,
A mother might bear just a single child in 9 months; but an artist blossoms
into an infinite children of perpetually fragrant breath; every unfurling
instant of Omnipresently benevolent existence,
A mother might bear just a single child in 9 months; but an artist blossoms
into an infinite children of Immortally ardent love; every unfurling instant
of limitlessly fructifying existence,
A mother might bear just a single child in 9 months; but an artist blossoms
into an infinite children of fantastically alleviating poetry; every
unfurling instant of boundlessly splendid existence,
A mother might bear just a single child in 9 months; but an artist blossoms
into an infinite children of fabulously effervescent tanginess; every
unfurling instant of spiritually uplifting existence,
A mother might bear just a single child in 9 months; but an artist blossoms
into an infinite children of unlimitedly enlightening Sunshine; every
unfurling instant of infallibly luminescent existence,
A mother might bear just a single child in 9 months; but an artist blossoms
into an infinite children of immaculately godly melody; every unfurling
instant of amiably melanging existence,
Because. And Only Because. A Mother is; has and shall for times immemorial
remain the Greatest Sculptor of every organism on this astoundingly
multiplying Universe; A Mother is the Greatest Artist….
poem by Nikhil Parekh
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A Cradle Song
Sweet dreams, form a shade
O’er my lovely infant’s head;
Sweet dreams of pleasant streams
By happy, silent, moony beams.
Sweet Sleep, with soft down
Weave thy brows an infant crown.
Sweet Sleep, Angel mild,
Hover o’er my happy child.
Sweet smiles, in the night
Hover over my delight;
Sweet smiles, mother’s smiles,
All the livelong night beguiles.
Sweet moans, dovelike sighs,
Chase not slumber from thy eyes.
Sweet moans, sweeter smiles,
All the dovelike moans beguiles.
Sleep, sleep, happy child,
All creation slept and smil'd;
Sleep, sleep, happy sleep,
While o’er thee thy mother weep.
Sweet babe, in thy face
Holy image I can trace.
Sweet babe, once like thee,
Thy Maker lay and wept for me,
Wept for me, for thee, for all,
When He was an infant small.
Thou His image ever see,
Heavenly face that smiles on thee
Smiles on thee, on me, on all;
Who became an infant small.
Infant smiles are His own smiles;
Heaven and earth to peace beguiles.
poem by William Blake from Songs of Innocence (1789)
Submitted by Veronica Serbanoiu
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Children In Africa (c.i.a) .
Every single day in Africa
There's a child out there
Who's hungry and sick without meds.
And also without shelter and clothing
Needing for your love and succor
Every single day in Africa
A child goes hungry to bed
Looking badly malnourished and ill-fed
Not sure where and when the next meal comes
Lives in slums in unhygienic conditions
In a bid to break barriers and above par
Every single day in Africa
A child drops out of school
Due to Abject poverty and starvation
And an inability to pay school fees
Which results to disillusionment
Every single day in Africa
A child is psychologically abused
Sent out on the cold streets
To eke out out a living for his family
Inspite of very imminent dangers on his way
Every single day in Africa
A child wakes up to harsh realities
Sold into prostitution, slavery and crime
Against their own very wishes
To a world of hate and bestiality
Every single day in Africa
A child is faced with humiliation
Despair and suppression of own voices
He cant be heard and he's preyed upon
In a world where he seeks protection and love
So many have lost hope.
Some have had their trust damaged
Some are living for the day
Waiting for what tomorrow brings
In a cruel world that care less
About the future of the Africa Child...
poem by Olumide Familusi
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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A Song
Sweet dreams, form a shade
O'er my lovely infant's head!
Sweet dreams of pleasant streams
By happy, silent, moony beams!
Sweet Sleep, with soft down
Weave thy brows an infant crown
Sweet Sleep, angel mild,
Hover o'er my happy child!
Sweet smiles, in the night
Hover over my delight!
Sweet smiles, mother's smile,
All the livelong night beguile.
Sweet moans, dovelike sighs,
Chase not slumber from thine eyes!
Sweet moan, sweeter smile,
All the dovelike moans beguile.
Sleep, sleep, happy child!
All creation slept and smiled.
Sleep, sleep, happy sleep,
While o'er thee doth mother weep.
Sweet babe, in thy face
Holy image I can trace;
Sweet babe, once like thee
Thy Maker lay, and wept for me:
Wept for me, for thee, for all,
When He was an infant small.
Thou His image ever see,
Heavenly face that smiles on thee!
Smiles on thee, on me, on all,
Who became an infant small;
Infant smiles are his own smiles;
Heaven and earth to peace beguiles.
poem by William Blake
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Single Is Fair
Single
I am single
Question of double
Does not arise.
I am single
Only single.
Single sun
Single moon
Single earth
Single air
Single sky
Sngle water
Single fire
Single soul
Single body
All are there
All are fair.
Single is single
Single is beautiful
Single is fair.
poem by Gajanan Mishra
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Freedom For Palestine! ...
My country, my people, my land
Oh do I wish to be with my people hand in hand
With all wars abolished and all pain gone
With death and pain vanished that has been accepted for very long
Oh do I hope for my country’s independence and self-rule
Oh do I wish to destroy my enemies that have been and are still cruel
With all this evil destroyed and finally stopped
Then no more dreadful missiles could be dropped
Where finally a child can sleep silently in his bed
Not worrying about the next day if he’ll be dead
Where children are happy and finally sense the feeling of fun
Where a father could finally live in peace with his son
Yes, it’s my country Palestine
A country that will always stay mine
Oh do I wish the world could just for once say no and mean it
Oh do I wish the people in this universe could just admit
That what’s going on in Palestine is totally wrong
Then the war that’s still happening would’ve not stayed for so long
I don’t see the reason on why an innocent child deserves to die
I don’t see why a mother should look at her dead children and cry
We are all people...Our differences doesn’t matter anymore
Freedom and peace is what we all should be looking for
May the Palestinian pain and misery just fade away
That’s all I pray for every single day.
poem by Marria Attar
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A Single Child I Am...
A single child i am,
in my lovely nest,
with my loving dad and mom.
A single child i am,
flowing in the oceans of love
with loneliness all around.
My ways are haunted,
My talks are monologues,
My dreams are aimless,
A single child i am.
No hands to hold me,
No chocolates to share with,
No toys to fight for,
A single child i am.
A single child i am,
with sacks of love to give,
with lots of care to express,
with more of happiness to share,
A single child i am.
poem by Ann Mary Thomas
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Silent Night
Silent night, holy night
All is calm, all is bright
round your virgin, mother and child
Holy infant so tender and mild
Sleep in heavenly peace
Sleep in heavenly peace
Silent night, holy night
Shepherds, quake at the sight
Glory streams from heaven afar
Heavenly hosts sing allehujah
Christ the savior is born
Christ the savior is born
Recitation
Silent night, holy night
All is calm, all is bright
round yon virgin, mother and child
Holy infant so infant and mild
Sleep in heavenly peace
Sleep in heavenly peace
song performed by by Garth Brooks
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Her Open Relationship
You sleep with her.
She sleeps with him.
Together you live.
With a child bared.
Fight about what each other did.
Only to make it up at night.
You won't even take care of your own kid.
Not a single once of trust left alone with him.
Yet she doesn't care.
She works and sends the kid to family.
Thinking your crazy.
I know something she does not.
Another lie.
You never worked a day in you life.
Yet she doesn't care.
You blame it on a criminal record.
Yet she doesn't care.
Like a mother she needs someone to take care of.
You do drugs, and steal her savings for the child to pay for it.
Her revenge is humiliation of it in public.
Bare no false witness some would say.
Still together as you always were
Still together as you always will be.
No matter what she still loves you.
This is her open relationship.
I know this personally, for I told her the truth and she hated me for it.
I pulled her wool off her eyes as he was trying to get with three girls at the same time.
Still she doesn't care.
One was at my house waiting for him.
Such is the power of love so blind.
poem by Ace Of Black Hearts
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An Aboriginal Mothers's Lament
An Aboriginal Mother’s Lament
Charles Harpur
------------------------------------- -------------------------------------------
[About the year 1842 a party of stockmen, several of whom were afterwards hanged for the crime, made a wholesale slaughter of a small tribe of defenceless blacks; one woman only, with her infant, escaped from the murderers.]
Still farther would I fly, my child,
To make thee safer yet,
From the unsparing white man,
With his dread hand murder-wet!
I’ll bear thee on as I have borne
With stealthy steps wind-fleet,
But the dark night shrouds the forest,
And thorns are in my feet.
O moan not! I would give this braid—
Thy father’s gift to me—
But for a single palmful
Of water now for thee.
Ah! Spring not to his name—no more
To glad us may he come!
He is smouldering into ashes
Beneath the blasted gum!
All charred and blasted by the fire
The white man kindled there,
And fed with our slaughtered kindred
Till heaven-high went its glare!
O moan not! I would give this braid—
Thy father’s gift to me—
For but a single palmful
Of water now for thee.
And but for thee, I would their fire
Had eaten me as fast!
Hark! Hark! I hear his death-cry
Yet lengthening up the blast!
But no—when that we should fly,
On the roaring pyre flung bleeding—
I saw thy father die!
O moan not! I would give this braid—
Thy father’s gift to me—
For but a single palmful
Of water now for thee.
No more shall his loud tomahawk
Be plied to win our cheer,
Or the shining fish-pools darken
Beneath his shadowing spear;
The fading tracks of his fleet foot
Shall guide not as before,
And the mountain-spirits mimic
His hunting call no more!
O moan not! I would give this braid—
Thy father’s gift to me—
For but a single palmful
Of water now for thee.
poem by Charles Harpur
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Repose in Egypt
O happy mother! while the man wayworn
Sleeps by his ass and dreams of daily bread,
Wakeful and heedful for thy infant care,
O happy mother! while thy husband sleeps,
Art privileged, O blessed one, to see
Celestial strangers sharing in thy task,
And visible angels waiting on thy child.
Take, O young soul, O infant heaven-desired,
Take and fear not the cates, although of earth,
Which to thy hands celestial hands extend,
Take and fear not: such vulgar meats of life
Thy spirit lips no more must scorn to pass;
The seeming ill, contaminating joys,
Thy sense divine no more be loth to allow;
The pleasures as the pains of our strange life
Thou art engaged, self-compromised, to share.
Look up, upon thy mother’s face there sits
No sad suspicion of a lurking ill,
No shamed confession of a needful sin;
Mistrust her not, although of earth she too:
Look up! the bright-eyed cherubs overhead
Strew from mid air fresh flowers to crown the just.
Look! thy own father’s servants these, and thine,
Who at his bidding and at thine are here.
In thine own word was it not said long since
Butter and honey shall he eat, and learn
The evil to refuse and choose the good:
Fear not, O babe divine, fear not, accept;
O happy mother, privileged to see,
While the man sleeps, the sacred mystery.
poem by Arthur Hugh Clough
Submitted by Veronica Serbanoiu
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Happy Birthday to you.
Christmas mass at twelve,
To mark the birth of a kid,
When Mary bore her son,
Joseph was so gracious.
Took her son in his hand,
Wiped out the body fluid,
Cleaned Him, not bathed,
The arrival of a messiah untied.
Calves and the cows looked after Him,
Chirping birds and insects made the lullaby,
Mary, the mother, was too tired,
While the cute infant was taken care.
Let the baby boy has his good sleep,
He has a duty to do on his Father’s Instruction,
Let the infant feels the warmth of His mummy,
He needs to endure the shocking reality.
An infant who has been adored since young,
He has a crown and a cloak of white and red,
He stands on the globe with His kind look,
Happy Birthday to you., Jesus of Nazareth.
poem by Veeraiyah Subbulakshmi
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Necessities
My life is almost a poem
and she grumbles' you quit your bounden duties'
Then I say ' I am a river please do not try to stop my constant flow'
She cries 'you praised other women at least a single line of me'
'I am sorry I feel your pain and I know that you are burning in the kitchen
in lifetime.
I am sure that I can sell this poem and bring you a chinese meal, do not cook tonight, will buy something for our children too.
Believe me I love you so much and never betray you.'
poem by Nimal Dunuhinga
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Lullaby
My mother's an expert in one thing:
sending people she loves into the other world.
The little ones, the babies--these
she rocks, whispering or singing quietly. I can't say
what she did for my father;
whatever it was, I'm sure it was right.
It's the same thing, really, preparing a person
for sleep, for death. The lullabies--they all say
don't be afraid, that's how they paraphrase
the heartbeat of the mother.
So the living grow slowly calm; it's only
the dying who can't, who refuse.
The dying are like tops, like gyroscopes--
they spin so rapidly they seem to be still.
Then they fly apart: in my mother's arms,
my sister was a cloud of atoms, of particles--that's the difference.
When a child's asleep, it's still whole.
My mother's seen death; she doesn't talk about the soul's integrity.
She's held an infant, an old man, as by comparison the dark grew
solid around them, finally changing to earth.
The soul's like all matter:
why would it stay intact, stay faithful to its one form,
when it could be free?
poem by Louise Gluck
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A Single Black Rose
A single Black Rose to turn the tide
A single Black Rose to make one die
A single Black Rose to ensnare the soul
A single Black Rose to widen that hole
A single Black Rose to melt the heart
A single Black Rose to force a start
A single Black Rose to entwine the bodies
A single Black Rose to dictate the deaths of these
A single Black Rose to lie upon her breast
A single Black Rose to stop the tears from soaking his vest
A single Black Rose to mourn this memory
A single Black Rose to become a plot in this cemetery
A single Black Rose to take a life
A single Black Rose to end his strife.
(8/21/2007)
poem by Michael Koelliker
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Fullfilling Metamorphosis
Amongst the millions
slithering spermatozoa
meets the romantic egg
at the climactic mating
Bonding together
both fertilizing
through love
lit a new life
An infant grows
in the darkest womb
of a mother in waiting
while the father working
In timely birth
bare and innocent
the infant boy crying
confirmation of a wonder
Soon the boy reaches teen
explores an adventurous life
becomes a man of ambitions
success he shares with his wife
At adulthood he is fulfilling
being a husband and father
though not a perfect individual
yet lives an exemplary existence
Old yet a happy man
he sets as an ideal epitome
as good and productive citizen
and in his death many pay respect
poem by Marvin Brato Sr
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