We should weep in turn
My only daughter brought forth
a silent babe dead,
from her abortive, quaking womb,
at an early month of seven.
I was wet with sweat and fainted;
but got up soon to see my daughter.
Forgetting the vacant chairs,
saying prayers to all the gods,
I was walking here and there
till the nurses brought her out safe.
Our trust on a specialist
with scans from all the private centres,
failed to help me see the smiles
and hear the mumblings of my grandbabe.
My dreams to have it on my lap
and watch the dance of computer babes
ended with enormous grief.
Early wedding in her teens
has led me to this ordeal,
that my poor father-in-law
would have felt some years back,
walking on the portals of the hospital,
when my wife was crying from morn to late noon
before delivering my first son,
on a Sabbath day which keeps the doctors away.
I was then roaming somewhere,
Being careless with ease in mind.
God makes us all to cry in turns.
-------
poem by Rajendran Muthiah
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A Very Strange Tale
An unexpected and unknown pregnancy
That ushered a series of events
Brought Susan in a state of emergency
Confused in her predicament.
The doctor said she had miscarried
And the bleeding she had was not usual
Her fiance, they were to be married
But now they ended at the hospital.
So they brought her there for surgery
With only her boyfriend now in tow
She called up her mother and said briefly:
'Mom, they're operating on me, you must know.'
When the frantic mother had arrived
Poor Susan was covered in a white sheet.
The mother was told she did not survive
While on surgery, her Death she did meet.
Her sister said she could not believe it -
She had seen Susan in their room weeping,
She was on the bed, dressed in hospital sheets
Crying 'What have they done? I'm aching! '
The sister then asked her. 'How are you?
Are you alright? ' In a flash she had quickly gone
The strangest and weirdest thing came true -
That was the death time of a departed Susan.
Now at night at the hospital corridors
Night shift nurses hear someone weeping
Though dismissed as some silly horrors
Some still see a sad Susan there walking.
poem by Cynthia Buhain-Baello
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I Am Not Sorry No She Said
I am not sorry no she said
That my ex son in law is dead
He gave to my daughter a hard life
And she to him was a good wife.
It may seem a callous thing of me to say
That I'm not sorry he's out of the way
For without him my daughter will survive
And in fact I'd like to think she'll thrive.
And though I feel her years with him were wasted years
My daughter sheds her grief in tears
To him she was a good wife and a good friend
And she stayed with him right to the end.
Whatever in him did she see
I find it way far beyond me
For to understand the workings of humanity
For they were different as can be.
She said as for myself I've been lucky in life
Lucky to be a good man's wife
But our daughter good of heart and kind
In love and marriage happiness failed to find.
Her feelings she is not afraid to own
When she said the rudest man that I've ever known
And I am not sorry no she said
That my ex son in law is dead.
poem by Francis Duggan
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If a Daughter You Have
If a daughter you have, she's the plague of your life,
No peace shall you know, tho' you've buried your wife,
At twenty she mocks at the duty you taught her,
O, what a plague is an obstinate daughter.
Sighing and whining,
Dying and pining,
O, what a plague is an obstinate daughter.
When scarce in their teens, they have wit to perplex us,
With letters and lovers for ever they vex us,
While each still rejects the fair suitor you've brought her,
O, what a plague is an obstinate daughter.
Wrangling and jangling,
Flouting and pouting,
O, what a plague is an obstinate daughter.
poem by Richard Brinsley Sheridan
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The Free-Selector's Daughter
I met her on the Lachlan Side --
A darling girl I thought her,
And ere I left I swore I'd win
The free-selector's daughter.
I milked her father's cows a month,
I brought the wood and water,
I mended all the broken fence,
Before I won the daughter.
I listened to her father's yarns,
I did just what I `oughter',
And what you'll have to do to win
A free-selector's daughter.
I broke my pipe and burnt my twist,
And washed my mouth with water;
I had a shave before I kissed
The free-selector's daughter.
Then, rising in the frosty morn,
I brought the cows for Mary,
And when I'd milked a bucketful
I took it to the dairy.
I poured the milk into the dish
While Mary held the strainer,
I summoned heart to speak my wish,
And, oh! her blush grew plainer.
I told her I must leave the place,
I said that I would miss her;
At first she turned away her face,
And then she let me kiss her.
I put the bucket on the ground,
And in my arms I caught her:
I'd give the world to hold again
That free-selector's daughter!
poem by Henry Lawson
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Redemption
He thought that he would die alone
when he entered hospice care.
Folks wind up in Calvary
who haven’t got a prayer.
Long estranged from his first wife
And the two children that she bore him.
He only sought a refuge
from pain and death before him.
The nurse on duty saw his name
And hope combined with fear.
Could this be her father that was lost?
Could fate have brought him here?
She asked the patient if he had
some family about.
He mentioned his two daughters’ names
“-but they must be grown up now.”
“I’m Wanda, I’m your daughter.”
She said, choking back her tears.
He begged for her forgiveness
For being gone for all those years.
Of course he’d missed her wedding day
and never held her child.
He’d missed so many Father’s Days.
Still, she made him proud.
Perhaps it was a twist of fate
Perhaps the Angels’ plan
That when this man had breathed his last
He held his daughter’s hand.
.
The story of the reunion of Wanda Rodriquez, hospice nurse with her estranged father, Victor Peraza, at Calvary Hospital in the Bronx.
poem by John F. McCullagh
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The Moonlight in Early Morning
I saw the moon in early morning
At five o’clock
Parikesit and Dananjaya
Are riding cycle
To their school building, Pasirlaja
While rentals are gathering
in the corner of my house
Sit for waiting a customer
At that time both of my daughter are sleeping well
make a circle their back on the bed
dreaming a nice day in their school day
till six o’clock they didn’t wake up from their bad
and Parikesit and Danajaya went to school
After while Windy, my youngest daughter wake up and watch the “DORA”, her lovely cartoon in the television show programs,
After walking around, I saw the moonlight in early morning
gradually changed with sunrise moment
I haven’t yet writing down this poetry
To the young generation
poem by Prasetya Utama
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I'm My Own Grandpa
It was many many years ago when I was twenty-three,
I was married to a widow, she's as pretty as can be.
This widow had a grown-up daughter who had hair of red,
my father fell in lover with her, and soon these two were wed.
I'm my own grandpa, I'm my own grandpa.
It sounds silly, I know, but it really is so, oh
I'm my own grandpa.
This made my dad my son-in-law and changed my very life:
My daughter was my mother 'cause she was my father's wife.
And then to complicate the matter, though it brought me joy,
I soon became the father of a bouncing baby boy.
This bouncing baby then became a brother-in-law to dad,
and so became my uncle, though it made me very sad,
for if he was my uncle then he also was the brother
of the widow's grown-up daughter, who, of course, was my step-mother.
I'm my own grandpa, I'm my own grandpa.
It sounds silly, I know, but it really is so, oh
I'm my own grandpa.
Father's wife then had a son who kept them on the run.
And he became my grandchild, for he was my daughter's son.
My wife is now my mother's mother, and it makes me blue,
because although she is my wife, she's my grandmother, too.
Now if my wife is my grandmother, then I am her grandchild.
And every time I think of it, it nearly drives me wild.
For now I have become the strangest case you ever saw.
Husband of my grandmother, I am my own grandpa.
I'm my own grandpa, I'm my own grandpa.
It sounds silly, I know, but it really is so, oh
I'm my own grandpa.
poem by Sheldon Allan Silverstein
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Autobiography
My father made the walls resound,
He wore his collar the wrong way round.
When I was five the black dreamscame;
Nothing after was quite the same.
When I woke they did not care;
Nobody, nobody was there.
In my childhood trees were green
And there was plenty to be seen.
When my silent terror cried,
Nobody, nobody replied.
I got up; the chilly sun
Saw me walk away alone.
My mother wore a yellow dress;
Gentle, gently, gentleness.
The dark was talking to the dead;
The lamp was dark beside my bed.
Come back early or never come.
Come back early or never come.
Come back early or never come.
Come back early or never come.
Come back early or never come.
Come back early or never come.
Come back early or never come.
Come back early or never come.
poem by Louis Macneice
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To Unborn Son And Daughter
Love not the son less
But he loved the son
Not to be born and burned
In the turbulence
And pathos and chaos
Of the barren earthly bond.
He loved to sleep
With his unborn son
He loved to talk and play
With the yet not born son
As none could enslave
As none could persecute
As none could chain
His yet to be born son!
She loved her daughter
To be in the womb
And not to advance
From embryo to fetus
As she never longed
Her daughter to fly
Like a butterfly
Loitering the flowery garden!
She talked to her daughter
Whose tickling heart
In the womb stuttered
And yearned for a lullaby
To sleep in dreams!
Her humming of lullaby
Was like a wailing
That made her daughter
Lose the sleep and the balm!
She faced the vultures
With shocking flutter of wings
That hook her daughter
In its sharp nails!
She talked to her
Not born daughter
Not to take birth
As birth is burden
And an unending ordeal!
He and she decided
To perish the love flowering
And to part to embrace
The pain of love broken
For not to father a son!
For not to mother a daughter!
poem by Vadakkumpurath Ramesan
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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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Daughter of my womb
Daughter of my womb
You've stabbed my heart so bad
You've killed the bearer of your life
Daughter of my womb am dying
My smile is but a frown
I have no idea whom I will crown
As the daughter of your womb
For you've sent them all to the tomb
My wrinkled hands needed a tender one
My closing eye libs needed to see before they are gone
The seed of the seed of my womb are no more
Daughter of my womb, you've killed the daughters of your womb
The medicine man in his robes
Administered the wrong root for a drug
Your womb is empty I have nothing to wait for
Why didn't you tell me of your planned atrocities before?
Daughter of my womb
Daughter of my womb
You've stabbed my heart so bad
You've killed the bearer of your womb
You've sent your seed to the tomb
You've dragged the generation of your womb
Daughter of my womb, you've killed us.
poem by Robert Abok
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A Flashback Reaction
When father and daughter had words
contracting muscles in my face
felt like worms crawling
under my skin
Daughter conceded, father was right,
muscles relaxed, back to normal,
a flashback reaction
to early youth
When I held my fingers in my ears
as mother and father conversed
in angry words, grating
on my nerves…
poem by Margaret Alice
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IN THE MOON LIGHT.....by Talile Ali
COME ON BABY
DANCE IN THE MOON LIGHT
MAKE YOU ALL MINE
LOVE WITH ME BABY
EARLY IN THE MORNING
LATE AGAIN AT NIGHT
BE WITH ME WOMAN
NEVER LET ME LEAVE YOU
AND JUST KEEP DOING ME RIGHT
I DON'T GIVE A DAMN ABOUT
NO ANDS, IF'S, AND BUT'S
I WANNA LOVE YOU TONIGHT
COME ON BABE AND DO ME TONIGHT
I WANT LOVIN EVERY MORNIN, NOON, AND NIGHT
YOU ARE ALWAYS DANCING IN MY DREAMS
WORKIN IT SO HARD YOU MAKE ME CREAM
COME ON AND WALK WITH ME BABE
AND TALK UNTIL THE NIGHT TURNS INTO DAY
WHILE I SIT AND LISTEN CAREFULLY
WHILE MAKING DEEP SWEET LOVE IN EVERY WAY
COME ON BABY
DANCE IN THE MOON LIGHT
MAKE YOU ALL MINE
LOVE WITH ME BABY
EARLY IN THE MORNING
LATE AGAIN AT NIGHT
poem by Talile Ali
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Morning in our Family
Morning in our Family
“Ok, bye Daddy, I’m going”
Floats across the drawing room
From my daughter, dressed in sari.
Blue and greed are SCB colours,
Where she works for last 12 years,
Now looks like a walking Bank!
Very few MBAs stick to same job
Greed impels them, and fear of stagnating,
She is of a different breed!
Money doesn’t matter much to her
She spends freely; gives generously;
Saves minimum; behaves like a non-MBA.
My wife is on the other sofa,
Talking to Zorro and the other cats
By turn, but fond and proud of her daughter.
Joti leaves early in the morning to Bank
Via Gym in Churchgate, and she and wife
Reach back home only after 9 o’clock.
I go to office in the morning, in past
After going to gym or swim or both,
But not now for I seem to overexercise.
poem by Daniel Trevelyn Joseph
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Ravi Shankar’s Daughter
Ooh – I am in love with Ravi Shankar’s daughter
And she doesn’t even know
Do you think her mother knows what she brought us
Do you think her father shouts from the hilltops?
Ooh – I am love with Ravi Shankar’s daughter
And she really should know
My sweet love – Alleluia
I really want to see you - My sweet lord
I really want to be with you
So I can always hear you play
Hare Krishna
I am in love with Ravi Shankar’s daughter
The spirit in her fingers makes my body quiver
Ravi Shankar’s daughter
Rave Shankar’s daughter
Conduct your life like an Indian Master
The best is still to come in the ever after
Love and space dust inside each and all of us
The coiled serpent – the all Seeing Eye
poem by Michael WheelerWyatt
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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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Shotgun Wedding
(roy hammond)
People were standing, all around
At a shot gun wedding, here in this town
And Im a victim oh yea
Of a shotgun wedding
Cause your fathers got a gun
And there aint no place to run
Shotgun wedding and oh listen to me
Well I got to find a job
You, me, baby makes three
Shotgun, shotgun, shotgun, wedding oh yea
Cause your fathers got a gun
And there aint no place to run
Shotgun wedding
And all I could hear that day was
Do you take this woman
To be your lawful wedded wife
My my my my shotgun, shotgun, shotgun, shotgun wedding
I looked around
I looked around
And all I could see was a shotgun wedding....listen
But I tried to run from town
But her mother tracked me down
She said before I meet my maker,
Some mans gonna make an honest woman of my daughter
So it might as well be you
Oh daddy may be poor
But he owns a forty forty
Shotgun wedding
And oh Im walking up the aisle right now
Here comes the bride singing
Shotgun, shotgun, shotgun, shotgun, shotgun.....yea yeaaaa
I could of run away oh no I could be living high
Nobody could stop me now oh shotgun, shotgun
Just give me one more chance
Let me hear that bass boys that bass boys
Breaking my heart
Breaking my heart
Breaking my heart........
song performed by by Rod Stewart
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Who I Am! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! !
I am My Father's Daughter
I am Torn Between Being Your Perfect Daughter or Letting You Go Forever
I am Finally Seeing Why I made All My Countless Mistakes They Were All Because Of You
I Am Turning Into The Person Who I never wanted To Be But Its In My Blood& Can't Change Who We really are
I Am Touching My Cold Heartless Heart That You Finally Broke & Destroyed That Not Even I can Fix
I Am Hoping & Praying My Future Never Ever Turns Into My Past Again
I Am Trying To See The Good Bout You & Yet None Come To My Mind
I Am Seeing The Monster I've Become, Yet I Won't Cry nor Scream
I Am Understanding Why I Won't or Can't Get Rid Of all This Bad Horrible Blood
I Am A Daddy's Girl till The End OF Time Whether I Accept IT Or Not
I Am Always & Forever Gonna Be My Father's Daughter Like Father Like Daughter.......................
poem by Hadyn Rodriguez
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Nineteen-Sixty-Five
What a year,
seems lke yesterday,
March 29,1965
is a day not
to forget.
My Wife Diana
and I had went
out to eat that night
awaken to a fire.
it was across
the alley from us
flames 100 feet high
fire trucks, oh so many.
We went back to
bed, but not for
long I'm afraid.
She went into labor
oh so much yelling
she did that night.
Diana's parents
lived downstairs,
they rushed us
to the hospital,
as we drove up
i looked up and
said this is
wrong hospital.
So he drove few
more blocks
we made it in time.
Placed her in wheel chair,
and into E.R.
I waited and paced
the floor, so many
smokes i had.
sometime later
in early AM doctor came and
told me it was
a girl.
Her dad said we
should call her
Christine, since
we could thank
Christ for getting
there safe.
So her name became
Christine Lynn Foulk
and I was so proud
to be a father
for first time.
Today March 29,2007,
Christine you are 42,
but will always
remember that
special day
so many years ago,
Happy birthday daughter.
Grandma's Wedding Shoes
I’m getting ready
For the garage sale tomorrow.
My grandma passed away
A few weeks ago.
She was a collector of things
You would never know.
I am thinking to sell.
Her pair of wedding shoes
She wore one morning
Sixty years ago
Walking slowly
In a long tailed wedding gown,
Holding a bouquet of flowers in her one hand
While her father held her other hand,
Soon to be given away to her beaux,
Walking beside her, proud, smiling,
In a wedding tuxedo.
Could she have wildly imagined then,
Thirty years later,
Her unwed daughter
Would give me up for adoption
Shortly after I was born?
My mom, a poor mother,
Could not face rasing me up.
I look at the pair of shoes,
They still look new to me.
She saved them as a treasure
In the original box, tucked
Under her wedding grown,
In her old leather suitcase
Made in some small,
Now a non-existent Texas’ town.
The shoes are high heeled,
Light brown, each with two leather straps
To go around ankles,
Some sort of a hybrid
Of dress shoes and sandals,
High fashion luxury of grandma’s days.
I look at them again
And I change my mind.
I will not sell them,
They are worth a fortune to me.
Sixty years ago,
After, “ I do, I do”,
The choir boy rang
the wedding bells
On top of the steeple.
That moment, my grandma
Was wearing these shoes.
poem by Ravi Kopra
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