Farmer's unlettered wife laments
She lives in a remote village with her one and only daughter.
Her epileptic husband died a long ago,
Then the child was just completed five years.
'Oh! The University, it seems close to universe.
I have never seen such a place even in my faded dreams.
So my darling daughter you have already packed everything and leaves soon.
I am not worried about me.
While you learn many things of the cruel World, I am sure there won't be a single blank page in your heavy books for the orphan shepherd boy to make a pastel drawing.
He too run away like your kind father.
Though I am a simpleton my dear, that I could predict well.'
* To my loving deceased mother, her unaccomplished dream is that one of her children would be enrolled to an university some day. Mom! I am sorry but I learned to draw a black face with white paint and vice versa in the life-school.
poem by Nimal Dunuhinga
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Related quotes
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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Father –in-law’s and mother-in- law’s daughter is a daughter-in-law
Father –in-law’s and mother-in- law’s daughter is a daughter-in-law
In the long and short journey of life one has to read the same law,
Even the daughter-in-law should not treat with them just like a saw,
She must think that her husband’s parents are like her own parents,
Action and reaction we can see soon infront of our eyes and mind,
And every one has his or her law and so let us always live by a law,
A good son-in-law does not deserve for any kind of dowry to find,
He too considers that his wife’s parents are just like his own parents,
A daughter is born in her own family and lives in the another family,
All will weep to see the changes of her life from the starting to an end,
If that new family members are good for her she lives very happily,
Otherwise in every walk of her life she suffers and herself will tend,
All daughters have to face and face to cross the same path of life,
The Nature itself will pity on them to see their difficulty of life’s strife.
poem by INDIA Mazid S Kazi
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Agrarian Unrest....
my father is a landlord.
He sent me to a big university in the city.
I studied philosophy.
The university taught me about equality.
Compassion. We studied existentialism
The poverty of the masses.
The agrarian unrest.
The essence of man
The quality of life
Justifications of living
Explanations of death
After life.
I wrote a class report about a child who ate
only a handful of rice for breakfast
plus brown sugar as viand
and then a glass of water for his thirst
from the nearby river
and then he was left in the house
as his father works in the field
and his mother
sells vegetables in the market.
When i left the child, The
heavy silence of the world fell upon my shoulder.
One day father took me for a vacation in our land.
There are mountains. Lots of trees.
A beautiful place.
There is a house there
Dilapidated. A tenant lives there
There is a hungry child.
Drought. Long hot days.
I pity the poor condition. But i no longer ask for the cause.
Then the tenant asks me if i can give him land.
Or a part of father's land.
I have no answer.
I could have told him, I do not own anything,
I do not live here
and father is still alive...
And wants me to be firm and cruel.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Mothers And Their Daughters
they struck him down hard early in life
he slaps me around plenty
i cannot leave
my daughter never cries
to feed my daughter
i will take on the whole lot of you
the young men howl
i am a mother in time of famine
my daughter dying at my breast
my husband wants a son
my first child a love child a daughter
a wedding to make it right
a family joke to keep me honest
they have a one child policy here
he took my first child my daughter
sold her to the americans
as a child they mutilated me
for fear i might become the woman i am
they will never get to my daughter
I am told to hate my burqa
it keeps my secret from him
my daughter will wear the burqa
poem by Paul Bamberger
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The Shadow-Child
Why do the wheels go whirring round,
Mother, mother?
Oh, mother, are they giants bound,
And will they growl forever?
Yes, fiery giants underground,
Daughter, little daughter,
Forever turn the wheels around,
And rumble-grumble ever.
Why do I pick the threads all day,
Mother, mother,
While sunshine children are at play?
And must I work forever?
Yes, shadow-child; the live-long day,
Daughter, little daughter,
Your hands must pick the threads away,
And feel the sunshine never.
Why do the birds sing in the sun,
Mother, mother,
If all day long I run and run,
Run with the wheels forever?
The birds may sing till day is done,
Daughter, little daughter,
But with the- wheels your feet must run—
Run with the wheels forever.
Why do I feel so tired each night,
Mother, mother?
The wheels are always buzzing bright;
Do they grow sleepy never?
Oh, baby thing, so soft and white,
Daughter, little daughter,
The big wheels grind us in their might,
And they will grind forever.
And is the white thread never spun,
Mother, mother?
And is the white cloth never done,
For you and me done never?
Oh yes, our thread will all be spun,
Daughter, little daughter,
When we lie down out in the sun,
And work no more forever.
And when will come that happy day,
Mother, mother?
Oh, shall we laugh and sing and play
Out in the sun forever?
Nay, shadow-child, we'll rest all day,
Daughter, little daughter,
Where green grass grows and roses gay,
There in the sun forever.
poem by Harriet Monroe
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The Heart, The Child, The World
Out in the world, the child
cries for the mother
as the wound cries for salt
as the lover cries
for her unrequited lover
as the ice cries out
for melting in the spring.
My heart is a spring
that pumps red blood.
I would give my child,
my girl child, my daughter
the vision of a mother
who does not flinch
when the heavy heel of man
comes down,
who loves the penis
when it pumps rich red blood
but values the wholeness
of her heart
above that battering organ,
that dumb implement,
which can so easily turn
from kind to cruel.
My heart is out in the world
like an orphan howling
on a street corner.
I want a warm, safe place
to hide my books, my child,
my heart
that is scarred,
seamed like a belly
which has given birth
to an imperious baby Caesar
but still,
despite its bursting fullness,
poem by Erica Jong
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Father You a Daughter
Sweetie, you know you are all I want in a mate,
Every time that I had ever needed in a lady;
No other can compare to your mystique so great,
So I want you to have my very next baby.
Bear my child, sweetheart...
Your beauty, strength, your grace, and intellect,
Brilliance beyond anyone I have ever known;
The spirit you have inspires me to pay respect
Every good woman and I want raise one of my own.
Bear my child, sweetheart...
Let me father you a daughter,
Knock you up and make us a baby girl;
Let me father you a daughter,
Go every night to bring her to the world.
I cannot resist you,
So bear my daughter, boo.
This child will be our legacy, but another you,
With your very enticing smile, sexy eyes;
I cannot wait to go all night making love to you
For a baby, sharing your joy between your thighs.
Carry my seed, baby...
Never will I part from you, keep it in overnight,
Ready to accept the amazing paternity of two;
A daughter with your way of thinking and life,
If tomorrow ends tonight, I must impregnate you.
Carry my seed, baby...
Let me father you a daughter,
Knock you up and make us a baby girl;
Let me father you a daughter,
Go every night to bring her to the world.
I cannot resist you,
So bear my daughter, boo.
They say the man must do all the work
If we really want to have a pretty little princess;
Baby, just lay back and let me work
Starting with your mind to all five senses.
Knock you up, sweetie...
Passion marks over spots I already licked,
Kisses trace each place my fingertips ran;
Battlefield Bedroom is the place to get some...
If love is war, then I will declare it much as I can.
Knock you up, sweetie...
Let me father you a daughter,
Knock you up and make us a baby girl;
Let me father you a daughter,
Go every night to bring her to the world.
I cannot resist you,
So bear my daughter, boo.
Bear my child, carry my seed, baby
To not knock you up would be crazy;
Such a dream of mine come true,
And I long to savor moments with you.
By far the finest from sole to crown,
I truly love to please you up and down;
To have you walking around with my child,
Makes the obstacles we faced worthwhile.
Let me father you a daughter,
Knock you up and make us a baby girl;
Let me father you a daughter,
Go every night to bring her to the world.
I cannot resist you,
So bear my daughter, boo.
poem by Sr. Lamar Ingraham
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Transformation
To my noble parents sterling,
, I was their Daughter darling;
;
To my affable siblings, three,
I was their elder Sister, in glee.
To my beloved husband, in life,
I'm his devoted, fond Wife.
To my endearing children, four,
I'm their doting Mother spore;
To my nephews and nieces, reasoning,
I'm their dear Auntie, loving.
Alas! The label of daughter, nice,
Vanished with my parents' demise! .
My children, one by one, in course of time,
Were married, in their youth prime.
I begot sons-in-law and a daughter-in-law,
And am their affectionate Mother-in-law.
Ah! My siblings three, passed away—
The call of Sister, with them went away!
Now, when my sweet grand-children seven,
With love and care, me, they smother,
Calling me ‘Paatti'(Granny) 'Paatti'(Granny)
,
I the proud Grandmother
Am in rapture, transported to Heaven.!
poem by Chandra Thiagarajan
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A Mother Does Not
A mother does not raise her child for to fight and die in war
Or to kill another Human Being in a Country from home far
That her son or her daughter should at someone else shoot to kill
A person they have never known or who have never bore them ill.
Picasso's 'Screaming Woman' is for all woman kind
The mother weeps for her dead child with grief 'out of her mind'
Mothers do not raise their children for to be remembered on War Memorial Day
For to fight in war for war mongering non combatants and throw their lives away
A mother raises her son or daughter so her seed of life will live on
That her genes will still be around when she herself has gone
From the World of the living to be numbered amongst the dead
I wish for my children to outlive me that's what the mother said.
A mother does not raise her child for to meet with an early death
Not for her War Memorial Day or the words 'Lest we forget'
She wants her son and daughter for to grow old and gray
And she does not wish to hear of War and War Memorial Day.
poem by Francis Duggan
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The Sleep-Walkers
In the town where I was born lived a woman and her daughter, who
walked in their sleep.
One night, while silence enfolded the world, the woman and her
daughter, walking, yet asleep, met in their mist-veiled garden.
And the mother spoke, and she said: 'At last, at last, my enemy!
You by whom my youth was destroyed--who have built up your life
upon the ruins of mine! Would I could kill you!'
And the daughter spoke, and she said: 'O hateful woman, selfish
and old! Who stand between my freer self and me! Who would have
my life an echo of your own faded life! Would you were dead!'
At that moment a cock crew, and both women awoke. The mother said
gently, 'Is that you, darling?' And the daughter answered gently,
'Yes, dear.'
poem by Khalil Gibran
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Song: XI
Mother, mother, do you not hear?
Mother, they come; there is news to tell!
– Give me your hands, my daughter dear:
'Tis but a ship that saileth well.
Mother dear, have a care, give heed!
–They go, my daughter, away they speed.
Mother, the danger is sore, alas!
– Child, my child, it will quickly pass.
Mother, mother, She draweth near!
– It is down in the harbour, daughter dear.
Mother, mother, She opens the door!
– Child, they go, to return no more.
Mother, She enters! I am afraid!
– Child, they now have the anchor weighed.
Mother, I hear Her speaking low.
– Child, my child, it is they that go.
Mother, She makes the stars go dark!
– Child, 'tis the sails of a shadowy bark.
Mother, She knocks at the casement still!
– Child, maybe it is fastened ill. . . .
Mother, mother, my sight grows dim. . . .
– Child, they sail for the open sea.
On every hand I can hear but Him. . . .
– O child, what is it, and who is He?
poem by Maurice Polydore-Marie-Bernard Maeterlinck
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Hello My Daughter Song
Hello my daughter
You have grown so fast
And you will always be daddy's girl
Yes I know still living at home for now
Until you finish you university
And have a job
But then you will have your own place
Hello mydaughter
You have my eyes
And you look more like your mother than me
Believe me there is nothing wrong with it
Hello my daughter
And always remember that I love you very much
poem by Aldo Kraas
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William Upson
Air -- "The Major's Only Son"
Come all good people, far and near,
Oh, come and see what you can hear,
It's of a young man, true and brave,
Who is now sleeping in his grave.
Now, William Upson was his name --
If it's not that it's all the same --
He did enlist in the cruel strife,
And it caused him to lose his life.
He was Jesse Upson's eldest son,
His father loved his noble son;
This son was nineteen years of age,
In the rebellion he engaged.
His father said that he might go,
But his dear mother she said no.
"Stay at home, dear Billy," she said,
But oh, she could not turn his head.
For go he would, and go he did --
He would not do as his mother bid,
For he went away down South, there
Where he could not have his mother's care.
He went to Nashville, Tennessee,
There his kind friends he could not see;
He died among strangers, far away,
They knew not where his body lay.
He was taken sick and lived four weeks,
And oh, how his parents weep,
But now they must in sorrow mourn,
Billy has gone to his heaven home.
If his mother could have seen her son,
For she loved him, her darling one,
If she could heard his dying prayer,
It would ease her heart till she met him there.
It would relieved his mother's heart,
To have seen her son from this world depart,
And hear his noble words of love,
As he left this world for that above.
It will relieve his mother's heart,
That her son is laid in our grave yard;
Now she knows that his grave is near,
She will not shed so many tears.
She knows not that it was her son,
His coffin could not be opened --
It might be some one in his place,
For she could not see his noble face.
He enrolled in eighteen sixty-three,
The next day after Christmas eve;
He died in eighteen sixty-four,
Twenty-third of March, as I was told.
poem by Julia A Moore
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What Kind Of Father Are You?
Do a father leave his three daughter down and dry
Do a father come only three times out of a year
What kind of father are you?
Should a father leave his daughters just to take care of an other women son and daughter...
What kind of father are you?
Can a father broke a promise that he promise 10 years ago
Should a father be ashame of his three daughter looks or weight
If so what kind of father are you?
poem by Valentine White
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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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My Father Departed
My father breathed his last on April 7,2012
He was well beyond fair old age but
He had ever dreamt of living further.
He lived like an overgrown child
And an unschooled rustic gentleman.
He could have lived a little more.
My father was a tyrant, an octogenarian of all odds.
He was more of voice and less of size, he was 86.
He is not any more there.
He loved us less in terms of what the world thinks,
He rather owned us in terms of what we children feel.
He has left a world of his possessions!
But he wasn`t again married despite losing
His wife when was barely 44 yrs young.
I still feel he was great that way and I salute him.
But the pain in my heart is stubborn
And it refuses to leave me for just one reason -
Why do I not feel missing my father?
You may just tell me why it is a cold finding
That I did not weep when my father died…
Even after weeks together I feel sorry.
As he was seen lying within the small depth of the coffin-a freezer and later
As the flames of the pyre licked away that frame of many bones and shrunk frozen flesh,
I remained with a feeling writ large on the heart unknown to myself.
A few days of hectic rites and isolation followed.
The rites were performed and the remains were immersed in the dying river Perar
But I didn`t weep… sorry, I must have wept - my daughter said later.
She thinks I might not have loved him much or vice versa it is…
The kids are so… let her keep her tears in stock
And weep enough when I am gone perhaps
Sorry, he is a cold leveler.
But the fact is strangely different.
I have forgotten to weep…
These days I don`t weep at all.
With my mother gone when I was barely four
And now with my father following the suit
I know I am an orphan indeed.
But my wife and daughter say - never say such things.
It is what the world around us has to be..
One with freaks of love and care.
When I think about my father,
I look for and find a small star in the sky,
If it twinkles well, I feel he is smiling at me
And I don`t mind being near it later, much later.
poem by M.d Dinesh Nair
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So Called Story
Harsh words,
spillling over,
warning the loving daughter.
Hurtful words,
telling the daughter
a one-sided story,
of a tale of deception.
Mother did wrong,
by blaming the father.
By pinning it all on
the new victim of his love.
Choosing to leave the daughter,
Choosing to leave the mother,
Choosing to leave the dear family behind him.
Moving on with a new life
to start again.
Forgetting all that was
Such a sad story to tell the daughter
who never wanted to know.
The secrets behind the new loving family.
Never knowing the truth.
This so called story
is all she now knows.
of the ending of times
between mother and father.
poem by Nicole Gehrman
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I
I am the son of my village, ,
I am born in the dreams of my father
and my childhood is his craft,
and the blossoming of my mother's garden.
So, often in my journey the fragrances of my village soil nourish me,
the messages of my mother hug me
and I draw warmth.....
I am the definition of my dreams, , ,
dreams those are birth less, ,
dreams ageless, ,
dreams those are indifferent to failure and success..
dreams those can decorate each of life's blank page, , ,
I am my best companion, , ,
Though I cannot hold my own hands, ,
I am my only guide, ,
In each of my failure and victory, ,
I have taken guard and declared to them they
aren't important to me more than myself...
I have invited myself to newness and gifted myself a new quest,
I am my best friend, ,
I am my strongest critic
and I am my deepest lover, , ,
drinking my own blood, sweat and tears, , ,
believe me, I have nullified the chances of betrayal....
I am a lover, , ,
though I have never met love...
for love is a statue and so it stays,
I am son of my village
On the palms of infinite I travel from nowhere to nowhere..
I am the song of the sky, , ,
and my pain is deeper than blue, ,
I have been friend of my father, , ,
and lover of my mother.
I am the son of my village..
So often in the journey
the fragrances of village soil nourish me,
and I draw warmth
Half my father
Half my father
Half my mother
My mother white as a ghost
My father black as coal
In my face the mixture glows
My skin is white
Still I am a black man
By the make of my nose
My hair is curly
My eyes are gray
Within me both if them lives
My mother’s race
Did enslave
My father’s race
Was never paid.
Still within I bare the two
Am O the new American?
My father is white
My mother is Korean
They met during the war
And I was born
Their only son
By my tone of skin
And by my eyes
You can tell
That there is a divide
And by my blonde hair
It is there for you to spy
Am I the new American?
My mother is German
My father polish
I learned three languages
As I grew older
Both of them
Did love me well
And of each country did tell
That I could draw
From each well
Am I the new American?
My father is Chinese
My mother Spanish
Both crossed over the Rio Grand
I am in the make of my father
But I have my mother’s brown skin
Am I the new American?
poem by David E. Patton
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At The Time When Mother Left For Ozamis
i remember now
it was at that time when mother packed her clothes
and left my father for good
back in the little village where mother
was raised by grandmother
as a naive girl
keeping things to herself.
she dwells in a house of silence.
it was at that time when father said
that he loves her very much
that losing her would mean his death
but mother was no longer in the house
where we grew.
and of course, mother did not really believe him.
she died ahead of him, and he got drunk everyday, and
he put her picture on top of his chest and he cried all night long
staring at her face, black and white, her hair her mouth.
he died a year after and he was buried just beside her pantheon.
i still wonder if mother would believe him.
the silence is overwhelming. no one sweeps the heaps of leaves
and no wind is strong enough to clean the mounds filled with thick grass.
come summer time, i see white daisies blooming, and a black butterfly
hovers to stop a while. I watch closely this new turn of events.
it is like poetry. Some metaphors. Symbols, and hints. Love's mouth
wanting to say all over again, what the heart has constantly hidden.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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