En.Citatepedia^®.ro

Superior

Mother, your baby is silly! She is so absurdly childish!
She does not know the difference between the lights in the
streets and the stars.
When we play at eating with pebbles, she thinks they are real
food, and tries to put them into her mouth.
When I open a book before her and ask her to learn her a, b,
c, she tears the leaves with her hands and roars for joy at
nothing; this is your baby's way of doing her lesson.
When I shake my head at her in anger and scold her and call
her naughty, she laughs and thinks it great fun.
Everybody knows that father is away, but if in play I call
aloud "Father," she looks about her in excitement and thinks that
father is near.
When I hold my class with the donkeys that our washer man
brings to carry away the clothes and I warn her that I am the
schoolmaster, she will scream for no reason and call me dada.
Your baby wants to catch the moon. She is so funny; she calls
Ganesh Ganush.
Mother, your baby is silly! She is so absurdly childish!

poem by Rabindranath Tagore
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!

The Astronomer

I only said, "When in the evening the round full moon gets
entangled among the beaches of that Dadam tree, couldn't somebody
catch it?"
But dada laughed at me and said, "Baby, you are the silliest
child I have ever known. The moon is ever so far from us, how could
anybody catch it?"
I said, "Dada, how foolish you are! When mother looks out of
her window and smiles down at us playing, would you call her far
away?"
Still dada said, "You are a stupid child! But, baby where
could you find a net big enough to catch the moon with?"
I said, "Surely you could catch it with your hands."
But dada laughed and said, "You are the silliest child I have
known. If it came nearer, you would see how big the moon is."
I said, "Dada, what nonsense they teach at your school! When
mother bends her face down to kiss us, does her face look very
big?"
But still dada says, "You are a stupid child."

poem by Rabindranath Tagore
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!

The Little Big Man

I am small because I am a little child. I shall be big when I am
as old as my father is.
My teacher will come and say, "It is late, bring your slate
and your books."
I shall tell him, " Do you not know I am as big as father? And
I must not have lessons any more."
My master will wonder and say, "He can leave his books if he
likes, for he is grown up."
I shall dress myself and walk to the fair where the crowd is
thick.
My uncle will come rushing up to me and say, "You will get
lost, my boy; let me carry you."
I shall answer, "Can't you see, uncle, I am as big as father?
I must go to the fair alone."
Uncle will say, "Yes, he can go wherever he likes, for he is
grown up."
Mother will come from her bath when I am giving money to my
nurse, for I shall know how to open the box with my key.
Mother will say, "What are you about, naughty child?"
I shall tell her, "Mother, don't you know, I am as big as
father, and I must give silver to my nurse."
Mother will say to herself, "He can give money to whom he
likes, for he is grown up."
In the holiday time in October father will come home and,
thinking that I am still a baby, will bring for me from the town
little shoes and small silken frocks.
I shall say, "Father, give them to my data, for I am as big
as you are."
Father will think and say, "He can buy his own clothes if he
likes, for he is grown up."

poem by Rabindranath Tagore
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!

Authorship

You say that father write a lot of books, but what he write I don't
understand.
He was reading to you all the evening, but could you really
make out what he meant?
What nice stores, mother, you can tell us! Why can't father
write like that, I wonder?
Did he never hear from his own mother stories of giants and
fairies and princesses?
Has he forgotten them all?
Often when he gets late for his bath you have to and call him
an hundred times.
You wait and keep his dishes warm for him, but he goes on
writing and forgets.
Father always plays at making books.
If ever I go to play in father's room, you come and call me,
"What a naughty child!"
If I make the slightest noise you say, "Don't you see that
father's at his work?"
What's the fun of always writing and writing?
When I take up father's pen or pencil and write upon his book
just as he does,-a,b,c,d,e,f,g,h,i,-why do you get cross with me
then, mother?
You never say a word when father writes.
When my father wastes such heaps of paper, mother, you don't
seem to mind at all.
But if I take only one sheet to take a boat with, you say,
"Child, how troublesome you are!"
What do you think of father's spoiling sheets and sheets of
paper with black marks all over both sides?

poem by Rabindranath Tagore
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!

Sympathy

If I were only a little puppy, not your baby, mother dear, would
you say "No" to me if I tried to eat from your dish?
Would you drive me off, saying to me, "Get away, you naughty
little puppy?"
Then go, mother, go! I will never come to you when you call
me, and never let you feed me any more.
If I were only a little green parrot, and not your baby,
mother dear, would you keep me chained lest I should fly away?
Would you shake your finger at me and say, "What an ungrateful
wretch of a bird! It is gnawing at its chain day and night?"
The go, mother, go! I will run away into the woods; I will
never let you take me in your arms again.

poem by Rabindranath Tagore
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!

Ooohhh Baby

Youre the kind of girl that
Everybodys warned me about
Youre the kind of person that
Everybodys here staring at
But now you are a topless dancer
Working out of a bar on times spuare
And everybody wishes you were back down in some corner
Only baby know, you make me go
Ooohhh baby, ooohhh baby, ooohhh baby
Ooohhh-ooohhh-ooohhh
Ooohhh baby, ooohhh baby, ooohhh baby
Ooohhh-ooohhh-ooohhh
Your old man was the best p and e man
Down on the streets
And all the guy in the precinct
Always was watching for him on the beat
But when he ripped off seymour
He was really not a doing so fine
And everything is knots, well except -
- his hands and legs and maybe even mime
He see they just make them strip off, they say
Ooohhh baby, ooohhh baby, ooohhh
Ooohhh baby, ooohhh
Ooohhh baby, ooohhh baby, ooohhh
Hey, baby, ooohhh-ooohhh
Its very funny asking me
Why they keep the lights on down so low
Well, yesterdays chases todays competition
Or didnt you know
And all the fluorescent lighting make so your wrinkles
They dont show
And its very funny the way that
20 bucks an hour cannot go
If you dont make em go, now, now, now
Ooohhh baby, ooohhh baby, ooohhh
Ooohhh baby, ooohhh
Ooohhh baby, ooohhh baby, ooohhh baby
Ooohhh-ooohhh-ooohhh
Everybody wondered bout you when you was seen
In drinking some beer
You got here from ohio and your mother said
You hooked her in the real near
Thats the way it goes now
Ooohhh baby, ooohhh baby, ooohhh baby
Ooohhh-ooohhh-ooohhh
Hey, shake your bones now, mama
Ooohhh baby, ooohhh baby, ah
Hey, ooohhh baby, ooohhh
Walk it, now
(ooohhh baby, ooohhh, ooohhh baby, ooohhh) get down
(ooohhh baby, ooohhh, ooohhh baby, ooohhh)
(ooohhh baby, ooohhh, ooohhh baby, ooohhh)
(ooohhh baby, ooohhh, ooohhh baby, ooohhh)
(ooohhh baby, ooohhh, ooohhh baby, ooohhh)
(ooohhh baby, ooohhh, ooohhh baby, ooohhh)
(ooohhh baby, ooohhh, ooohhh baby, ooohhh)
(ooohhh baby, ooohhh, ooohhh baby, ooohhh)
...

song performed by by Lou Reed
Submitted by Lucian Velea
Vote! | Copy!

The Father, The Son And The Gun

The sky was burning by the window pane
And a shadow lurked proceeding to the woods
And a little boy behind the frame
Stood monitoring the steps of his father's boots

A possessed shot gun in his father's hand
And stepped out close before his eyes
Before a bird could realize its dream
A shot was fired in the sky

Down the bird fell rustling the leaves
Stooping through the trees till it met the ground
And the father he walks into the green
Towards the loud thud of the sound

And the boy he ask "mother why is it
That father he carries a gun around with him
And shoots out at the cloudless open sky
And murders and ends a voice that sings"

"It's alright dear, there's no need to worry
Your father is a brave man and you must learn
He is not a murderer for killing a bird
Come on you silly, there's no harm in it son"

And the boy inquires his father "father why it is
That you shoot a bird without distress
Don't your hands tremble, father?
Don't you think twice before your finger press? "

"My boy can't you see, its bloody destiny
That brought the chirping birds to a still
I gave it many a chance to run and hide
But it kept appearing ‘fore me to kill"

And so the boy takes the shotgun from his hands
And says run father run, and you better hide
The father laughs with a big cigar in his hand
A shot was fired, a BANG! ! echoes in the night

poem by Dipti Gurung
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!

My Baby Loves Me

(gretchen peters)
Dont need no copy of vogue magazine
Dont need to dress like no
Beauty queen
High heels or sneakers, he dont
Give a damn
My baby loves me just the way that I am
My baby loves me just the way that I am
He never tells me Im not good enough
Just give me unconditional love
He loves me tender and he loves me mad
He loves me silly and he loves me sad
Chorus:
He thinks Im pretty, he thinks Im smart
He likes my nerve and he loves my heart
Hes always sayin hes my biggest fan
My baby loves me just the way that I am
My baby loves me just the way that I am
And when theres dark clouds in my eyes
He just sits back and lets em roll on by
I come in like a lion go out like a lamb
My baby loves me just the way I am
My baby loves me just the way I am
Repeat chorus
He thinks Im pretty, he thinks Im smart
He likes my nerve and he loves my heart
Dont see no reason to change my plan
My baby loves me just the way I am
My baby loves me just the way I am

song performed by by Martina Mcbride
Submitted by Lucian Velea
Vote! | Copy!

Phantom Footsteps

Childish foosteps, just behind her,
Softly patter on the green.
Back she glances; tears may blind her,
But no little one is seen.
Blanched, as by an ill appalling,
Home in terror hastens she,
While a baby voice is calling,
"Mother! mother! wait for me."

Phantom footsteps! hear them
falling (falling, falling),
falling (falling, falling)
Now, wherever she may be!
(hear footsteps falling!)
While a baby voice is
call- (calling, calling,)
-ing, (calling, calling,)
"Mother! mother! wait for me."

Sobbing still, but never lagging,
Soon she enters the gate,
And before her, on the flagging,
Sees the symbols of her fate:
Tiny shoeprints, plainly speaking
Of the salt and foamy sea.
Hark! was that the doorhinge creaking?
"Mother! mother! wait for me."

Half her night is spent in weeping,
Ere she can forget her cares:
Is there not an infant creeping--
Creeping slowly up the stairs?
Venturing thither in her yearning,
Only shadows can she see;
But she hears the cry while turning,
"Mother! mother! wait for me."

poem by Henry Clay Work
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!

The End

It is time for me to go, mother; I am going.
When in the paling darkness of the lonely dawn you stretch out
your arms for your baby in the bed, I shall say, "Baby is not
here!"-mother, I am going.
I shall become a delicate draught of air and caress you and
I shall be ripples in the water when you bathe, and kiss you and
kiss you again.
In the gusty night when the rain patters on the leaves you
will hear my whisper in your bed, and my laughter will flash with
the lightning through the open window into your room.
If you lie awake, thinking of your baby till late into the
night, I shall sing to you from the stars, "Sleep, mother, sleep."
One the straying moonbeams I shall steal over your bed, and
lie upon your bosom while you sleep.
I shall become a dream, and through the little opening of your
eyelids I shall slip into the depths of your sleep; and when you
wake up and look round startled, like a twinkling firefly I shall
flit out into the darkness.
When, on the great festival of puja, the neighbours' children
come and play about the house, I shall melt into the music of the
flute and throb in your heart all day.
Dear auntie will come with puja-presents and will ask,"Where
is our baby, sister?" Mother, you will tell her softly, "He is in
the pupils of my eyes, he is in my body and in my soul."

poem by Rabindranath Tagore
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!

The Chanpa Flower

Supposing I became a chanpa flower, just for fun, and grew on a
branch high up that tree, and shook in the wind with laughter and
danced upon the newly budded leaves, would you know me, mother?
You would call, "Baby, where are you?" and I should laugh to
myself and keep quite quiet.
I should slyly open my petals and watch you at your work.
When after your bath, with wet hair spread on your shoulders,
you walked through the shadow of the champ tree to the little court
where you say your prayers, you would notice the scent of the
flower, but not know that it cane from me.
When after the midday meal you sat at the window reading
ramayana, and the tree's shadow fell over your hair and your lap,
I should fling my wee little shadow on to the page of your book,
just where you were reading.
But would you guess that it was the tiny shadow of your
little child?
When in the evening you went to the cow shed with the lighted
lamp in your hand I should suddenly drop on to the earth again and
be your own baby once more, and beg you to tell me a story.
"Where have you been, you naughty child?"
"I won't tell you, mother." That's what you and I would say
then.

poem by Rabindranath Tagore
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!

Fairweather Father

(carly simon)
Fairweather father
Fairweather father
Doesnt like to hear the baby cry
Doesnt like to about the aches and pains
Of the day gone by
Of the day gone by
But the mother advertised as a bargain wife
Shed make things easy for the rest of his life
And to make herself more appealing
Shed think only of him and forget her own feelings
Fairweather father
Fairweather father
Wants his wife to be the truckdriver
Wants his wife to be the gardener
And still look like a hollywood starlet
And still look like a hollywood starlet
So the mother gets mad and she leaves town
That brings the father and the baby down
She wants the father to find her
Drinkin orange pop in the seedy greek diner
Fairweather father
Fairweather father
Gets her back and gets up in the night
Loves her so much and holds the baby tight
Aint that enough to make you cry
Aint that enough to make you cry
Fairweather father
Fairweather father
Doesnt like to hear the baby cry
Doesnt like to know about the aches and pains
Of the day gone by
Of the day gone by

song performed by by Carly Simon
Submitted by Lucian Velea
Vote! | Copy!

Clouds and Waves

Mother, the folk who live up in the clouds call out to me-
"We play from the time we wake till the day ends.
We play with the golden dawn, we play with the silver moon."
I ask, "But how am I to get up to you ?"
They answer, "Come to the edge of the earth, lift up your
hands to the sky, and you will be taken up into the clouds."
"My mother is waiting for me at home, "I say, "How can I leave
her and come?"
Then they smile and float away.
But I know a nicer game than that, mother.
I shall be the cloud and you the moon.
I shall cover you with both my hands, and our house-top will
be the blue sky.
The folk who live in the waves call out to me-
"We sing from morning till night; on and on we travel and know
not where we pass."
I ask, "But how am I to join you?"
They tell me, "Come to the edge of the shore and stand with
your eyes tight shut, and you will be carried out upon the waves."
I say, "My mother always wants me at home in the everything-
how can I leave her and go?"
They smile, dance and pass by.
But I know a better game than that.
I will be the waves and you will be a strange shore.
I shall roll on and on and on, and break upon your lap with
laughter.
And no one in the world will know where we both are.

poem by Rabindranath Tagore
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!

To Frinton-on-Sea by Train - The Annual Pilgrimage,1910

When in the large compartment,
Everyone was seated.
And all the luggage loaded,
The family group completed.

Excitement as the train now
Leaves the local station.
Everyone perceiving
A feeling of elation.

The Servants in the Third Class
All with faces radiant,
The train now fairly straining
Up it's first steep gradient.

Smoke rising from the engine,
Through the countryside it races,
Such a rattling and a clattering,
Rhythmic chugging as it paces.

Nurse is quietly rocking baby,
Mother dozing, Father reading.
Children gazing through the window,
Trees and streams seem to be speeding.

Realisation, train is stopping,
Doors are opening, whistles blare,
All alighting from the carriage,
Platforms busy. Great sea air!

Call the porter for the luggage,
What! No luggage, this can't be,
'Did you tip the porter Father? '
Mother calls out nervously.

Father fuming calls the Driver,
Calls ths Station Master too,
Sorry Sir, it's not our doing
We will send it on to you.

Father marching to the taxi,
Mother fretting following along,
Nurse with baby shrieking loudly
Children calling, 'What is wrong? '.

Father should have tipped the porter,
Much more than a farthing's worth,
So he didn't load the luggage,
In the 'First Class' luggage berth.

It arrived early next morning,
By the first train down the track,
So as to the moral of this story,
If you're too mean, watch out Jack!

© Ernestine Northover

This poem was written from a story handed down through the family, and the 'Father' was my husband's Great Grandfather, and it is absolutely true, he was a very mean man. A Farthing being the lowest coinage of that time. We have photos of them all sitting on the sand, in full dress with the ladies in huge feathered hats. A wonderful sight! ! ! !

poem by Ernestine Northover
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!

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
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!

At San Sebastian

The Countess sprawled beside the sea
As naked a she well could be;
Indeed her only garments were
A "G" string and a brassière
Her washerwoman was amazed,
And at the lady gazed and gazed, -
From billowy-bosom swell
To navel like a pink sea shell.

The Countess has of robes three score,
She doffs and leaves them on the floor;
She changes gowns ten times a ay,
Her chambermaid puts them away.
"How funny!" thinks the washer-wife;
"I've toiled and toiled throughout my life,
And only have, to hide my skin,
This old rag that I'm standing in."

The Countess never toiled at all;
She begged for coin when she was small,
And later, in the ancient fashion,
In gay resorts she peddled passion.|
But now to noble rank arrived,
(Tom wed the old Count she contrived)
Her youthful lover, lounging there,
Is hirsute as a teddy-bear.

The Countess will be honoured when
She dies past three-score years and ten.
The washer-women will wear out
With labour fifty years about . . .
Yet as the two look at each other
The Countess thinks: "So was my mother;
And washer-wife to live and die,
But for God's grace so would be I."

poem by Robert William Service
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!

My Future

"Let's make him a sailor," said Father,
"And he will adventure the sea."
"A soldier," said Mother, "is rather
What I would prefer him to be."
"A lawyer," said Father, "would please me,
For then he could draw up my will."
"A doctor," said Mother, "would ease me;
Maybe he could give me a pill."

Said Father: "Lt's make him a curate,
A Bishop in gaiters to be."
Said Mother: "I couldn't endure it
To have Willie preaching to me."
Said Father: ""Let him be a poet;
So often he's gathering wool."
Said Mother with temper: "Oh stow it!
You know it, a poet's a fool."

Said Farther: "Your son is a duffer,
A stupid and mischievous elf."
Said Mother, who's rather a huffer:
"That's right - he takes after yourself."
Controlling parental emotion
They turned to me, seeking a cue,
And sudden conceived the bright notion
To ask what I wanted to do.

Said I: "my ambition is modest:
A clown in a circus I'd be,
And turn somersaults in the sawdust
With audience laughing at me."
. . . Poor parents! they're dead and decaying,
But I am a clown as you see;
And though in no circus I'm playing,
How people are laughing at me!

poem by Robert William Service
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!

What's Going On

Mother, mother
There's too many of you crying
Brother, brother, brother
There's far too many of you dying
You know we've got to find a way
To bring some lovin' here today - Ya
Father, father
We don't need to escalate
You see, war is not the answer
For only love can conquer hate
You know we've got to find a way
To bring some lovin' here today
Picket lines and picket signs
Don't punish me with brutality
Talk to me, so you can see
Oh, what's going on
What's going on
Ya, what's going on
Ah, what's going on
In the mean time
Right on, baby
Right on
Right on
Father, father, everybody thinks we're wrong
Oh, but who are they to judge us
Simply because our hair is long
Oh, you know we've got to find a way
To bring some understanding here today
Oh
Picket lines and picket signs
Don't punish me with brutality
Talk to me
So you can see
What's going on
Ya, what's going on
Tell me what's going on
I'll tell you what's going on - Uh
Right on baby
Right on baby

song performed by by Michael Mcdonald
Submitted by Lucian Velea
Vote! | Copy!

Baby, Lets Play House

(words & music by arthur gunter)
Oh, baby, baby, baby, baby baby.
Baby, baby baby, b-b-b-b-b-b baby baby, baby.
Baby baby baby
Come back, baby, I wanna play house with you.
Well, you may go to college,
You may go to school.
You may have a pink cadillac,
But dont you be nobodys fool.
Now baby,
Come back, baby, come.
Come back, baby, come.
Come back, baby,
I wanna play house with you.
Now listen and Ill tell you baby
What Im talking about.
Come on back to me, little girl,
So we can play some house.
Now baby,
Come back, baby, come.
Come back, baby, come.
Come back, baby,
I wanna play house with you.
Oh lets play house, baby.
Now this is one thing, baby
That I want you to know.
Come on back and lets play a little house,
And we can act like we did before.
Well, baby,
Come back, baby, come.
Come back, baby, come.
Come back, baby,
I wanna play house with you.
Yeah.
Now listen to me, baby
Try to understand.
Id rather see you dead, little girl,
Than to be with another man.
Now baby,
Come back, baby, come.
Come back, baby, come.
Come back, baby, I wanna play house with you.
Oh, baby baby baby.
Baby baby baby b-b-b-b-b-b baby baby baby.
Baby baby baby.
Come back, baby, I wanna play house with you.

song performed by by Elvis Presley
Submitted by Lucian Velea
Vote! | Copy!

The Wreck of the Golfer

It was the Bondi golfing man
Drove off from the golf house tee,
And he had taken his little daughter
To bear him company.
"Oh, Father, why do you swing the club
And flourish it such a lot?"
"You watch it fly o'er the fences high!"
And he tried with a brassey shot.

"Oh, Father, why did you hit the fence
Just there where the brambles twine?"
And the father he answered never a word,
But he got on the green in nine.

"Oh, Father, hark from behind those trees,
What dismal yells arrive!"
"'Tis a man I ween on the second green,
And I've landed him with my drive."

"Oh, Father, why does the poor Chinee
Fall down on his knees and cry?"
"He taketh me for his Excellency,
And he thinks once hit twice shy."

So on they fared to the waterhole,
And he drove with a lot of dash,
But his balls full soon in the dread lagoon
Fell down with a woeful splash.

"Oh, Father, why do you beat the sand
Till it flies like the carded wool?"
And the father he answered never a word,
For his heart was much too full.

"Oh, Father, why are they shouting 'fore'
And screaming so lustily?"
But the father he answered never a word,
A pallid corpse was he.

For a well-swung drive on the back of his head
Had landed and laid him low.
Lord save us all from a fate like this
When next to the links we go.

poem by Andrew Barton Paterson
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!

At the door

I thought myself indeed secure,
So fast the door, so firm the lock;
But, lo! he toddling comes to lure
My parent ear with timorous knock.

My heart were stone could it withstand
The sweetness of my baby's plea,--
That timorous, baby knocking and
"Please let me in,--it's only me."

I threw aside the unfinished book,
Regardless of its tempting charms,
And opening wide the door, I took
My laughing darling in my arms.

Who knows but in Eternity,
I, like a truant child, shall wait
The glories of a life to be,
Beyond the Heavenly Father's gate?

And will that Heavenly Father heed
The truant's supplicating cry,
As at the outer door I plead,
"'T is I, O Father! only I"?

poem by Eugene Field
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!